The next morning dawned with a sky the color of old pewter.
Mira woke before the servants. Habit, now. Grief had taught her to wake early, to steal moments of quiet before the world’s demands crowded in.
She wrapped herself in a shawl and padded barefoot across the carpet to the trunk.
The pages waited.
She lifted them out and carried them to the writing desk by the window. The light was thin but sufficient. The coals in the grate glowed sullenly; she stirred them, added a little coal, and watched the flames lick up, low and orange.
Fitting, she thought, that she would decide the fate of words by fire and dawn.
She spread the pages out, weighting their corners with whatever came to hand: a brass paperweight, a candlestick, a chipped saucer. Thomas’s handwriting sprawled across them in loops and slashes, impatient, alive.
*January 3rd – Pell proposes new arrangement with Harcourt. Promises higher returns. Ferris wary. Need to examine figures.*
*January 10th – Shipment from Antigua short by two casks. Harcourt shrugs. Pell says lost to leakage. Ferris unconvinced.*
*February 2nd – Meeting with H. at tavern by the river. Smell dreadful. Men worse. Do not like the look of certain associates. Pell calls them “friends of friends.” Must not let Mira near such company. (Ha.)*
*March 15th – C. appears. Pell calls him “Cain” with odd emphasis. Does not write name in ledger. Insists on speaking always in person. Dislike him. Mira would see through him. Glad she does not know of him.*
Her throat ached.
“Oh, Thomas,” she whispered. “You idiot. You should have told me.”
She turned the page.
*March 29th – Ferris refuses to sign certain papers. Says conscience itches. Pell laughs. Harcourt impatient. Torn between safety and profit. Mira would say “what is profit without safety?” Don’t want to be a coward. Don’t want to be a fool.*
*April 10th – Cough worse. Doctor says “must rest.” How? Ships do not rest. Neither do debts. Told Pell we must slow. He scoffed. Spoke of opportunity lost. Fear he is right. Fear more that he is not and I will not see Mira comfortable if I choose wrong.*
She swallowed against the lump in her throat.
Some entries were shorter. Some were only lists of numbers, columns marching like soldiers.
But interspersed throughout were more:
*May 7th – Ferris came by. Argued again about C. Says he smells rot. I smell money. Both may be right.*
*June 2nd – Woke coughing blood. Hid handkerchief from Mira. She worries enough. Pell says “think of her comfort” as he pushes for more risk. Ferris says “think of her comfort” as he urges less. Both think of her. Strange comfort.*
The ink blurred briefly as a tear dropped.
She sniffed, angry at herself, and blotted it.
*June 20th – Another visit to tavern. C. there. Smiles too much. Eyes too pale. Spoke of “terms” and “adjustments.” Felt like making pact with devil in prayerbook. Pell charmed. Ferris glowered. Must decide soon.*
He had decided.
He had decided wrong.
Or perhaps there had been no right decision, only two different shapes of ruin.
She stacked the pages, palms flat on their tops.
Caine wanted to see.
Ferris wanted to protect.
She wanted…too many things.
Answers. Revenge. Peace. All pulling in different directions.
Gilbert would say *burn them.* Ellison would say *bring them to me; we will let the law decide.* The law, slow and toothless, would gnaw at the edges until there was nothing left but gossip.
She picked up the bottom-most page.
The last entry he had written.
*September 12th – Woke in night. Could not breathe. Thought of Mira alone in this bed. Thought of her in country, in town, in rooms I will never see. Pell came by. Spoke of “opportunities missed.” Tried to speak, lungs full of mud. Ferris sent flowers. No card. Knew it was him. Mira thinks I am sleeping. I am writing. If anyone finds this: tell her I meant well. Even when I chose poorly.*
Her vision swam.
“You were a fool,” she whispered. “But you were my fool.”
She pressed the page to her lips.
Then, with hands that no longer shook, she set it aside.
Some pages, she would never give to Caine.
Those that spoke of her. Those that bared Thomas’s softness. Those were hers. Their marriage, their private shorthand, their tangle of jokes and irritations—that was not for smuggling lords or hungry second sons. That was for her memory alone.
She sorted swiftly.
A pile that held the meat Caine wanted: dates of meetings, references to “C.,” mentions of missing shipments, of Harcourt’s evasions, of Pell’s urgings. These she stacked neatly.
Another pile, thinner, containing only her. Only Thomas’s affection and frustration and fear. These she bound with a ribbon and slipped back into the trunk.
A third, very small heap, she fed to the fire.
Pages half-handwritten, half-scribbled over. Incoherent lists of numbers. Jottings he had made when the fever had been worst. Words she could barely make out, names repeated with question marks.
They were dangerous without being useful. They painted no clear picture, offered no firm footing. They were tinder.
As the flames curled around them, she whispered an apology.
“Forgive me,” she said. “For choosing which parts of you to keep and which to feed to strangers.”
The fire did not answer.
The ink blackened, curled, turned to ash.
When she was done, she wrapped the Caine pile in plain brown paper, tied it with twine, and slipped it into her reticule.
The weight pulled at the delicate silk.
It would leave a mark on her shoulder.
Good, she thought. Let it.
***
Ferris was waiting in the square when she and Sally emerged later that morning.
He leaned against a lamppost, coat collar up against the chill, hat pulled low. He had the air of a man who had been there longer than was strictly necessary and did not wish to admit it.
“Mrs. Godwin,” he said, straightening. “Miss Sally.”
Sally bobbed, eyes wide. “Mornin’, sir.”
“You are early,” Mira observed.
“You are late,” he countered.
“I told you I would be ready by ten,” she said. “It is five minutes to.”
“I told you I would be here at nine,” he said. “It is ten.”
Sally’s head swiveled between them like that of an overexcited bird.
Mira’s lips twitched. “Do you intend to quarrel with me all the way to Wapping?”
“If it keeps you from worrying, yes,” he said. “Do you have them?”
“Yes,” she said.
He held out his hand.
She hesitated, then passed him the reticule.
He opened it, glanced at the parcel, prodded it gently.
“You burned some,” he said quietly.
“Yes,” she said. “The parts that were mine.”
He nodded once. “Good.”
“You approve?” she asked.
“I approve of anything that reminds Caine you are not his to catalog,” he said.
She swallowed.
“You are bringing Sally?” he added.
“No,” Mira said. “She is going to visit her cousin in Holborn.”
Sally looked torn between relief and indignation. “I could come, ma’am,” she said. “I don’t mind. I could poke any bad men with my knitting needle.”
Mira smiled. “I know, Sally. But this is not an expedition for extra eyes or sharp needles. Go see your cousin. Tell her elaborate lies about how dull London society is, so she does not pine for it.”
Sally sniffed. “Yes, ma’am. But if you don’t come back by supper, I’m tellin’ Mr. Gilbert on you.”
Mira sighed. “That is a last resort, Sally.”
Ferris coughed to hide a laugh.
They set off down the street. The air bit at their faces. The city’s noise swelled around them, then thinned as they left the more respectable squares behind.
“Do you often walk so far?” Mira asked after a while, as the paving stones grew more uneven and the houses narrower.
“Often enough,” Ferris said. “I have no carriage. My boots resent it, but my conscience appreciates the exercise.”
“Your conscience seems very active,” she said.
“It is tedious,” he agreed. “I keep hoping it will tire and lie down.”
“And yet you feed it,” she said. “With tavern trips and smuggling lords.”
“And widows,” he said. “Mustn’t forget those.”
Something in his tone made her glance at him.
“Do you regret agreeing to this?” she asked. “You could turn back now. No one would fault you.”
“You might,” he said.
“I would not,” she said. “I would understand.”
“You would,” he said. “And you would go on without me. That is why I am not turning back.”
She frowned. “You think I am incapable of caution.”
“I think,” he said, “that your caution and your fury are currently at war, and fury is ahead by a length.”
“Do you not feel fury?” she asked.
“Oh, constantly,” he said. “At Pell. At Harcourt. At myself. At Godwin for being so damned trusting. But I have had longer to sit with it. It has cooled. It simmers. Yours is still boiling.”
“You speak as if that were a flaw,” she said.
“It is an energy,” he said. “Untamed energy shakes houses down. Harnessed, it can power mills.”
“You intend to harness me?” she asked archly.
He choked. “God forbid. I have no wish to lose my hands.”
She felt the smile tugging at her mouth before she could stop it.
“Mrs. Willoughby says I frighten you,” she said.
He glanced sideways. “She talks too much.”
“Is it true?” she pressed.
“Yes,” he said simply. “You terrify me.”
The admission stole her breath more effectively than any flattery.
“Why?” she asked, quietly.
“Because you are everything I have been trying not to be,” he said. “Honest about what you want. Unapologetic about wanting it. Willing to walk into danger with your eyes open. I have spent years pretending none of that matters. You make it obvious that it does.”
“And that terrifies you,” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “Because it means I have no excuse left for skulking in coffee-houses and muttering about fate.”
She looked ahead, to where the street dipped, revealing a distant glimmer of grey water.
“Thomas would say you are being melodramatic,” she said.
“Thomas is dead,” he said. “I am free to be as melodramatic as I like.”
She laughed, weakly.
The smell of the river grew stronger.
They fell silent as they approached the Mariner’s Rest.
Bess eyed them as they entered, her brows rising higher when she saw the reticule in Ferris’s hand.
“Back so soon?” she drawled. “You must like my ale.”
“We like your discretion,” Ferris said.
She snorted. “Discretion doesn’t keep the lamps burning.”
Ferris slid a coin across the bar. “This might.”
She bit it, nodded, and jerked her chin toward the back. “He’s expecting you.”
“How comforting,” Mira murmured.
They crossed the common room, ignoring the speculative looks. The same narrow passage, the same damp smell. The same door.
Ferris paused with his hand on the latch.
“Last chance,” he said softly.
“You keep saying that,” she said. “As if it will work eventually.”
“One never knows,” he said.
He opened the door.
***
Caine sat alone at the table this time.
No Pell. No Harcourt. No anonymous hard-eyed men.
Just him, and two mugs of ale.
“Punctual,” he said as they entered. “I approve.”
“You did not think we would come,” Mira said.
“I thought you might,” he said. “Curiosity is a stronger rope than fear, for some.”
“I brought what you asked,” she said, holding out the reticule before Ferris could.
Caine’s eyes flicked to Ferris, then back to her. “And you allowed him to carry it part of the way,” he observed. “Interesting.”
Mira resisted the urge to snatch it back. “He is less likely to be searched in the street,” she said.
“True,” Caine said. “Men like you, Ferris, are assumed to have nothing worth stealing.”
Ferris’s mouth twitched. “It is refreshing, in a way.”
Caine took the reticule, untied the parcel, and spread the pages on the table with an almost reverent touch.
Mira’s chest squeezed.
“You will not keep them,” she said. “I want your word.”
“My word,” Caine said, “is worth exactly as much as you believe it is.”
“I believe,” she said, “that you do not like to owe.”
He considered. “Fair. Very well. You have my word: I will not keep these. I may, however, remember them.”
“Memory cannot be burned,” she said.
“It can be…overwritten,” he said. “With new information. Let us see what your husband has given us.”
He read faster than she expected, eyes scanning, lips moving faintly as he took in each line.
Ferris shifted beside her, hands shoved into his pockets, jaw tight.
Mira stood very still, watching.
At certain entries—references to “C.,” notes on meetings, comments about missing shipments—Caine’s expression did not change. But his fingers tapped once on the table.
At others—mentions of Ferris’s dissent, of Harcourt’s impatience—his mouth curved in an appreciative, bitter smile.
“Your husband was not a fool,” he said at last, looking up. “He saw more than most. Unfortunately, he saw it too late.”
“He trusted the wrong people,” she said.
“Everyone does,” Caine said. “Once. Or twice. The trick is surviving the lesson.”
He lifted a page. “Here,” he said, tilting it so Ferris could see. “‘Ferris says conscience itches. Pell laughs.’”
Ferris’s throat worked. “Yes,” he said. “That sounds like us.”
“And here,” Caine said, tapping another line, “‘Harcourt insists new arrangement necessary to remain competitive. Says everyone does it. Ferris unconvinced. Pell persuasive. Must decide where line lies.’”
He looked up. “This is what I needed.”
“What, precisely?” Mira asked.
“Proof that Harcourt knew,” Caine said. “He has been playing innocent. Pretending Pell went behind his back. This shows otherwise. He urged. He pressed. He knew.”
“And that helps you how?” Ferris asked, arms folding.
“It tells me where the cracks are,” Caine said. “Harcourt is more exposed than he admits. He will scramble to cover himself. That scramble will reveal other things. Other men. Other debts.”
“And in the meantime?” Mira said. “What of my husband’s name?”
Caine folded the pages, stacking them neatly. “Your husband’s name stays out of my mouth,” he said. “And out of the mouths of the men who owe me obedience.”
“You can ensure that,” she said skeptically.
“I can,” he said. “Fear is very efficient. No one will attach Godwin’s name to certain shipments. Or to certain warehouses. Pell will take that weight. Harcourt will bear some. Others—that merchant in Queenhithe, that clerk in Rotherhithe—they will feel it too. Godwin will not.”
“You intend to shift their sins onto Pell,” Ferris said.
“Partly,” Caine said. “He has broad shoulders. He can carry a great deal. For as long as he remains alive.”
“And if he fails to carry it?” Mira asked.
“Then he will be crushed,” Caine said. “And the pieces will serve as a warning to others. Either way, he is useful.”
Mira’s stomach churned. “You talk of men as if they are crates.”
“They are,” Caine said. “Crates of appetites and lies. Some are sturdier than others. All rot eventually. The trick is to know when to stack them and when to burn them.”
“And me?” she asked. “What am I, in your accounting?”
He regarded her. “You,” he said slowly, “are something else. You are not a crate. You are…fire.”
The word sent a shiver through her.
“Fire spreads,” she said. “It consumes beyond what one intends.”
“Yes,” he said. “Which is why one must be careful where one strikes the match.”
He nudged the stack of pages back toward her. “Take them.”
She stared. “You are done already.”
“For now,” he said. “I have read what I need. I will remember. You may keep the paper. Perhaps you will want to show it to someone else. A magistrate. A bishop. Your brother-in-law. It will make them choke.”
She snatched the pages back, more for the comfort of their weight than any trust in his magnanimity.
“What do you want from me now?” she asked.
“Patience,” he said. “Do not confront Harcourt yet. Do not accuse Pell in any room where his patrons might hear. Let him stew. Let Harcourt’s nerves fray. Speak instead to…smaller men. Clerks. Porters. Ask them about missing casks. About who signed for them. About whose wagons carried them away.”
“You think they will tell me,” she said.
“They will tell you more than they tell each other,” he said. “They will want to impress you. A widow in blue is a novelty. Use it.”
She thought of Mrs. Willoughby’s lessons. Of Lady Bennett’s advice.
“Very well,” she said. “And you?”
“I will speak to Harcourt,” he said. “And to Pell. Separately. I will not mention you. I will see how they dance.”
“And then?” Ferris asked.
“And then we will adjust,” Caine said. “You seem intelligent, Mrs. Godwin. Quick. You will see opportunities. Take them. But do not imagine you control the river. You merely splash in it.”
“You do not control it either,” she said.
“No,” he said. “But I know where the currents are strongest.”
He rose.
The movement signaled the end of the audience as clearly as any bell.
Mira tucked the pages into her reticule, fingers brushing the twine.
“Do not die,” Caine said suddenly.
She blinked. “That is…unexpectedly kind.”
“It is not kindness,” he said. “It is curiosity. I want to see what you do next.”
Ferris made a derisive sound. “How sentimental.”
Caine smiled. “You are free to leave, Mr. Ferris. At any time.”
“I keep meaning to,” Ferris said. “You have an uncanny talent for making me stay.”
“Guilt,” Caine said. “It is a strong glue.”
He moved toward the door.
Ferris stepped aside to let him pass. For a moment, their shoulders brushed.
“Take care,” Caine murmured, too low for Mira to catch.
Ferris’s jaw flexed. “You too,” he said, just as quietly. “If your empire cracks, you will not like what falls on you.”
“Oh, I never do,” Caine said. “That is half the fun.”
The door shut behind him.
Silence settled, thick as dust.
Ferris let out a long breath. “Well,” he said. “That was…less homicidal than expected.”
“High praise,” Mira said, the adrenalin beginning to ebb, leaving her oddly hollow.
“You gave him what he wanted,” Ferris said. “He has no immediate reason to harm you. For now.”
“For now,” she echoed. “That seems to be the refrain of my life.”
“It is the refrain of everyone’s,” he said. “We just prefer not to hear it.”
She sank into the nearest chair, her hand pressed to her middle.
“You all right?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said. “No. I don’t know. I feel as if I have handed a wolf a map to my husband’s heart and asked him to use it kindly.”
“Wolves do not use things kindly,” he said. “But they do use them predictably. He will go after Harcourt now. And Pell. Harder. That may make them sweat. It may also make them desperate. Desperate men do stupid, dangerous things.”
“Such as?” she asked.
“Such as trying to silence inconvenient widows,” he said.
She shut her eyes briefly. “You are determined to ruin any small comfort I might glean.”
“I am determined to keep you alive,” he said.
She sighed. “I suppose that is…admirable, in its way.”
“Do not be too effusive,” he said. “It will go to my head.”
She laughed, weak but real.
He watched her, something like relief easing the lines around his mouth.
“Come,” he said. “Let us get you back to Hanover Square before Mrs. Willoughby sends a mob.”
***
They did not take a coach immediately.
Perhaps because the air outside the tavern felt less suffocating than the idea of being boxed in again. Perhaps because Ferris’s long strides seemed restless, needing to burn off the tension.
They walked along the river for a stretch, keeping to the slightly higher path where the mud did not quite reach their boots.
Barges moved sluggishly, low in the water. Men shouted. A gull wheeled overhead, its cry harsh.
Mira glanced sideways.
“You grew up near here?” she asked.
“Not far,” he said. “Our house backed onto a smaller dock. My father’s idea of character-building was making his sons watch the unloading at dawn. He thought it would teach us gratitude. My elder brother learned to count crates. I learned to steal apples.”
“From the crates?” she asked.
“From the men,” he said. “The crates were watched too closely.”
“Did you get caught?” she asked.
“Once,” he said. “Cobb boxed my ears so hard I went deaf for half an hour. Then he fed me a roll and told me to come ask next time instead of nicking.”
“Cobb,” she repeated. “The same man who came to fetch you at the coffee-house.”
“Yes,” he said. “He has been rescuing me from my own idiocy since I was small enough to fit in a flour sack.”
“You have a talent for finding people who will not let you drown,” she said.
“I thought I had,” he said. “Then I introduced one of them to Pell.”
She nudged him lightly with her shoulder. “And then you found me.”
“Lucky me,” he said.
“Is that sarcasm?” she asked.
“Partly,” he said. “Partly…it is something else.”
She looked at him.
He was staring out at the river, the wind tugging at his hair. The grey of his eyes matched the water’s. He looked…younger like this. And older. As if the boy who had stolen apples and the man who had traded in ledgers sat uneasily in the same skin.
“Do you miss it?” she asked.
“Miss what?” he said.
“The feeling of potential,” she said. “Before everything…broke.”
He considered. “Sometimes. Mostly at dawn. When the river looks like it might give instead of take.”
“And now?” she asked.
“Now it looks like a very large mirror,” he said. “One I’d rather not stare into for too long.”
She snorted. “Coward.”
“Yes,” he said cheerfully. “And yet here I am, walking beside a woman who has just bargained with Caine. My cowardice has limits.”
“Why did you go into trade?” she asked. “You could have taken the living your brother offered. Preached. Married. Settled.”
He shuddered. “Because I like numbers. And wine. And women. Not necessarily in that order. The Church prefers its curates to like none of those things too much. Also, my sermons would have been…unorthodox.”
“I should have liked to hear one,” she said. “I imagine you would have made very good metaphors out of barrels.”
He smiled. “My brother said as much. Right before he told me to kindly go use them somewhere they wouldn’t cause a scandal.”
“And you have succeeded wonderfully at avoiding scandal,” she said.
“Oh, absolutely,” he said. “My entire life is a hymn to discretion.”
She laughed again, the sound feeling easier each time.
A gust of wind snatched at her bonnet. She grabbed for it, fingers fumbling. The ribbons, hastily tied, loosened. The bonnet flew off, tumbling toward the embankment.
Ferris darted forward, caught it by the brim just before it could dive toward the mud.
He turned, holding it up with a little flourish.
“Your armor, madam,” he said.
Her hair, freed from its confines, whipped around her face. Strands escaped the pins, curls loosening.
Ferris’s gaze caught.
For a moment, neither moved.
Her breath puffed white in the chill air.
His hand tightened on the bonnet.
Slowly, he stepped closer, lifting it as if to set it back on her head.
His fingers brushed her temple, warm against the cold.
“Your pins are inadequate to the task,” he murmured.
“Mrs. Willoughby insisted there be at least six,” she said, voice not quite steady. “She says any more is unfashionable.”
“Fashion is an idiot,” he said.
His hand slid, almost accidentally, along the line of her jaw as he adjusted the bonnet.
Heat shot through her.
She swallowed.
“Mr. Ferris,” she said lightly, because if she did not, she might say something else entirely, “are you flirting with me by way of haberdashery?”
His lips twitched. “I wouldn’t dare.”
“You dare everything else,” she said.
“Not everything,” he said. “Not this.”
“This what?” she asked.
“This,” he said softly, and for a heartbeat, the air between them thickened.
Her heart slammed against her ribs.
His thumb lingered a fraction too long at the knot of the ribbon under her chin.
“There,” he said abruptly, stepping back. “Respectable again. As much as possible, given the circumstances.”
She exhaled.
“Thank you,” she said.
“My pleasure,” he said. His voice sounded hoarser than before.
They resumed walking.
The river moved beside them, constant, implacable.
Behind them, in some smoky room, Caine shuffled pieces on his invisible board.
Ahead, Hanover Square waited, with its tea and its gossip and its theatre boxes.
Between: two people who had not meant to become entangled and were discovering, day by day, that disentangling might be more dangerous than any Caine could arrange.
---