The dark-haired constable turned to Mr. Simon and asked, “Is there a place we can have this discussion without an audience?”

Mr. Simon bade the matron take them to his office whereupon began an interplay that Sarah might have found comedic were her nerves not drawn so taut. Mr. Thayne gestured for the constables to precede him, and they gestured for him to precede them, and then the dark-haired one gestured for the bewhiskered red-haired constable to go first. He demurred and then took a step forward, only to tread on his companion’s foot as he, too, took a step.

Sarah caught Killian’s eye. He lifted his brows but made no comment.

Finally, the dark-haired constable followed the matron with Killian behind him. Sarah made to follow, but the red-haired constable stopped her. He drew her off to one side and asked her to repeat again her assertions as to Killian’s whereabouts the previous night. There was a shrewdness in his gaze that made Sarah think that the entire bumbling episode had been performed with the intent of creating in her a false sense of ease.

She was most definitely not at ease.

The constable asked her again about Killian’s whereabouts, the question worded in a different manner, a challenge to the veracity of her words. She sighed and answered him, keeping every response to a single word if possible, a handful of words at most. And she did not alter her account, though the constable’s mien went from shrewd to combative to leering. His questions grew increasingly more personal, his tone increasingly more aggressive.

When it was done and over with more than an hour had passed, and she was left standing alone in the hallway. She took a moment to gather herself and then walked into the ward intent on resuming her duties.

There, with sneering antipathy, Mr. Simon confronted her before all and dismissed her from her post.

“You are no longer employed at King’s College,” he said. “You will receive no recommendation from anyone at this hospital. Your conduct is unbecoming and reprehensible. You will leave the premises immediately.”

She had expected exactly this, yet it still hurt.

She looked neither right nor left as she walked from the ward into the corridor. She had taken only a handful of steps when someone caught her hand. Elinor stood at her side.

“If you need me,” she said, “come to the front doors at end of shift. Wait for me outside. Or come in the morning before shift. I don’t have much, but what I have I’m happy to share.”

Sarah blinked against the tears that pricked her lids. She wrapped her arms around Elinor’s shoulders for a quick hug and dredged up a smile meant to reassure. “I’ll be fine. You’d best get back before they decide to dismiss you as well just for speaking with me.”

Elinor’s face took on a mutinous expression, but Sarah refused to let her friend say or do anything rash on her account. “Go on. I will be fine, I promise.”

She watched Elinor walk back into the ward then went and gathered her cloak and left the building.

A thick fog had rolled in, heavy and damp. Caught in the gray blanket of cloying mist that clung to her skin and obscured the way, she could see little of what lay ahead.

Footsteps sounded from behind her, heavy and quick.

She turned but could see little more than a tall form in a dark over-garment. Of King’s College, there was no sign; the fog had swallowed it whole. She backed up several steps, then lifted her hem, preparing to flee, but a voice hard and angry called out, “Miss Lowell.”

She froze. The voice was vaguely familiar. “Miss Lowell,” he said again, as though he knew she was nearby, but could see her no better than she could see him.

The form stepped forward to reveal a long black coat, black-gloved hands, and a black top hat.

With a gasp, she fell back another step.

Her pursuer lifted his head and she gasped again when she recognized one of the apprentices from the hospital, Mr. Watts.

For an instant, she couldn’t move, couldn’t think, fear icing her mind, her limbs.

Then anger crept in, and with it, the recollection that she was not helpless. She was armed. She was prepared.

“Why are you following me, Mr. Watts?” she demanded, surreptitiously pulling her cudgel free of her cloak.

She glared at him, studying his expression, his posture, watching for any clue that he might attack. Something nagged at her. Something not quite right…

He glared back. “I have words I need to say to you.”

“Words? You could have spoken to me at the hospital. At any point over these many months, you could have spoken to me. Instead, you chose to follow me, terrorize me, steal into my home in the darkness—”

“What? No—” All anger drained from his face, replaced by confusion. “I never did that.”

“Never followed me? Your presence belies that claim.”

“No, I did follow you, but… I mean—” He shook his head. “I have followed you twice. Just now, and last night. Not over the course of months. And I never terrorized you.”

Sarah kept her cudgel at the ready. “Last night you stole into my chamber when I was not there and then stalked me through St. Giles, called my name, chased me through the alleys.”

Mr. Watts lifted his gloved hands before him, palms forward. “I did not.” He shook his head. “I most certainly did not. I saw you walking on Great Russel Street last night. You were brisk, almost at a run. I was concerned so I followed.”

“That is a lie,” Sarah said. She could read it in his expression.

He sighed. “I did see you on the street. But I did not follow out of concern. I followed because I finally worked up the courage to tell you…” Whatever courage he had possessed last night failed him now, because his voice trailed away and he did not confide what it was that had driven him to seek her out last night.

His hands dropped to his sides and his expression darkened. “I saw you with him. Mr. Thayne. I watched you. I saw you lead him inside.” He paused. “I thought you were a different sort. I thought you…me…we…” His lips formed a bitter twist. “I was mistaken. I was there this morning when you made your sordid admission. You are not the woman I imagined you to be.” The last was said with a mixture of accusation and derision.

His explanation took a moment to become clear in her thoughts, and when it did, she was both startled and dismayed. “You mean to say that you built a dream of—” she gestured back and forth between them “—some sort of intimacy between us. Without ever having so much as a conversation with me? And now you are angry in your newfound realization that no such intimacy exists? That I am not the image you created in your secret fancy?” She drew herself up. “How dare you? How dare you follow me now to berate me in this manner? You have no say over my actions.”

At her words, Mr. Watts deflated, his shoulders slumping, his head hanging forward. He pulled his hat from his head and turned it in his hands, over and over. She stared at the hat in his hands and realized what it was that had nagged at her when he first emerged from the mist. The hat was wrong, a top hat, whereas her pursuer the previous evening had worn a low crowned hat. Too, as she looked at him now, she realized that while Mr. Watts was tall, he was not broad enough and he carried himself like a boy inhabiting the body of a man.

He spoke the truth.

He was not the man who had stalked her all these months.

Sarah turned away. “Go back to the hospital,” she said. “We have no further words that need be exchanged.”

He called after her but she walked on, past the graveyard, the stones obscured from view under their blanket of fog. She did not look back, but she knew he did not follow.

She reached Coptic Street without further incident. Sounds echoed around her, the distant creak of a wheel, the jingle of a bridle, but the coach in possession of both was veiled from sight. It was eerie and unsettling; the entire world had been swallowed by the fog.

Continuing on, she passed a mangy dog that sniffed at the gutter, then she jerked to a stop as Mrs. Cowden’s house materialized from the mist, ghostly tendrils wrapping around the crumbling chimney. The sight of the house, dark and shabby, drove deep the vile desperation of her circumstances.

Tears pricked her lids, and she dashed them away with the back of her hand. There was no value in tears of frustration and anger, fear and hopelessness. They would only serve to leave her nose red and her lids puffy.

They would neither change nor solve anything.

In the end, she would still have only days left until her rent was due once more, and though her savings might stretch to pay it, they would not stretch for long.

In the end, she would still be without employment or reference.

In the end, her good name would still be besmirched by her own words.

And in the end, she would still be in love with Killian Thayne.

Her situation was fraught with the greatest uncertainty.

Her options at the moment were so narrow and frayed, she was having a difficult time seeing them at all. And despite that, she knew that if faced with the same choice in the same setting, she would again do exactly as she had done. Because she could not let them take him.

The sound of wheels clacking on the cobblestones and the clopping of horses’ hooves made her head jerk up and her gaze dart along the street. As though teased apart with the tip of a knife, the fog parted to reveal four great black beasts and, behind them, a gleaming black coach. Instinctively, she stepped back, only to find the carriage rocking to a halt several paces away, directly in front of Mrs. Cowden’s lodging house.

This was a private coach, a rich man’s coach.

A prickling sense of expectation bloomed, for she had no doubt as to the owner of the carriage. She had known by his dress and his mode of speech that surely Killian was from a different world than the other surgeons at King’s College—a different world even than the comfortable one she had been raised in. But this coach, with its gleaming finish and beautifully matched horses, spoke of wealth beyond what she could have imagined.

The sight of it was both welcome and worrisome, for Killian’s presence here created a labyrinth of complexities and enticements.

A footman climbed down and stood by the carriage door. He wore a smart green and gold livery, as did the coachman on the bench.

Feeling as though she slogged through a bog that mired her every step, Sarah walked the last dozen paces to the coach. As she stopped beside the footman, the clouds above parted to let a single beam of light fall upon her, sending the shadow of the carriage stretching along the cobblestones.

The footman glanced at the light and frowned. “This way, miss,” he said, indicating the door on the far side, away from the light.

Wary of the horses that snorted and pawed the ground, she offered them a wide berth as she rounded the carriage. The footman opened the door. She blinked and peered into the dim confines. Killian sat in the far corner, wrapped in shadow and mystery.

The collar of his cloak was raised high, and his hands were gloved in black leather. She frowned, certain there was some significance to that, but unable to place exactly what.

“Come inside please, Sarah,” he said. “I wish to speak with you.”

A request? An order? She could not say. But since she had much she wished to ask him, much she wished to say, she took the footman’s offered hand and allowed him to help her inside the coach.

Settling herself in the corner opposite Killian, as far from him as the small space would allow, she waited in silence as the footman closed the door, leaving them alone. She could see only the hint of highlight on Killian’s brow, his nose, his chin. The blinds were pulled down over the windows. Wishing to have a clear perspective of his expression, Sarah reached to raise one and let in what little light had penetrated through cloud and mist.

Killian moved quickly, leaning forward to trap her wrist. He tipped his head down and looked at her over the rim of his dark spectacles, his gaze intent, and she thought she ought to be afraid. But she was not. For some inexplicable reason, when she was with Killian, she felt safer, more secure, more confident than she ever had in her entire life. She felt as though he opened a dam and let her soul dance free, let her be exactly who she was.

Strange thoughts. Mad thoughts.

“Leave the blind,” he said softly. “The light is too bright.”

She thought he spoke in jest, but a glance disabused her of that notion. He found even this fog-shrouded day too bright for his comfort.

For a flickering instant, she had the terrible thought that he was as her father had been, an opium addict whose eyes were pained by even modest illumination. Yet, Killian evinced none of the traits associated with that malady. Her father had been lethargic, his pupils ever constricted, his speech slurred. He had shown no interest in his appearance or grooming. In the end, she had barely known him, for his mannerisms and behavior were so drastically altered.

By contrast, Killian was alert, his clothing impeccable, his intellect sharp and clear.

Perhaps he simply disliked the sun. Perhaps. But wariness unfurled inside her.

“Are you cold?” he asked, cutting the silence.

It was only then that she realized she was trembling.

He did not wait for her answer, but loosened his hold on her wrist and spread a thick blanket over her legs, then used the toe of his boot to push a warming brick along the floor. “Drape the blanket over top and the heat will rise to warm you.”

“Thank you,” she murmured, touched by his consideration. Then, “Why do you have the brick? You said you do not feel the cold.”

“You remember that, do you?” He paused. “I do not notice the cold. I brought the brick for you.”

He settled back in the corner and studied her for a moment, leaving her strangely uncomfortable and disconcerted.

But no longer cold.

“It seems you are ever leaping to my defense, Sarah.” He dipped his head, toyed with the edge of his glove, then looked up once more, his expression unreadable. “Why did you lie for me?”

“Did I lie?” she asked. “Did you leave your place at my door and return to the hospital sometime before dawn?” She did not believe he had, and that made her either very intuitive or very foolish.

He smiled a little. “No. I never left.”

“Then I did not lie. I merely reworded the truth. You did accompany me into my lodging and remained there with me from ten o’clock last night until dawn. The fact that there was a door between us is irrelevant.”

He reached over and ran the backs of his gloved fingers along her cheek. She had to force herself to sit still, to refrain from leaning into his touch. “Why did you sacrifice yourself for me?” The regret and pain in his tone tugged at her heart.

“They were going to take you,” she said, her voice low. She dropped her gaze to the tips of his perfectly polished boots. “The constables. They were going to take you to the interrogation rooms. I have heard what they do in the rooms below Bow Street. Everyone has. I cannot imagine the Metropolitan Police rooms are very different. They would have hurt you.” The thought of that horrified her. “They would have beaten you, left you bloodied and bruised.”

“Bruises heal,” he said.

“I could not bear it if they hurt you.” She raised her head and saw that he watched her with complete attention, his expression one of bemused wonder.

“I would rather they hurt me than for any harm to befall you,” he said. “I wish to see you safe, Sarah. Safe and protected. Free to live a wonderful life.”

A bark of laughter escaped her. “Wonderful?” She shook her head. “My life is wonderful in some ways. Not in others.” She paused. “You say you want me safe and protected. Then you must understand why I could not let them hurt you. And they would have...to make you confess to crimes you did not commit. They would have beaten you, broken your surgeon’s hands…”

He caught her hand and lined it up with his, palm to palm, fingers to fingers. He closed his eyes as though savoring the contact even through his glove and hers. “And you know with certainty that I did not commit these crimes?” He opened his eyes.

“I do.” She nodded, feeling fierce and certain. “I know you could never do that, never harm someone weak and ill.”

He appeared taken off guard by her ferocity.

“Do not paint me with gilded righteousness, Sarah.” Sadness flickered across his features. “There are things you do not know of me. Things I did many, many years ago when I was a different creature than I am today.”

“Creature?” She let her fingers slide between his and curled them over, holding on. “You say the word as though you are some ravening beast. You are not. You are a man.”

Leaning forward to rest one elbow on his knee, he lifted her free hand and pressed his lips against the backs of her knuckles.

Oh, the sweet sensation of his touch. It poured through her like rich, red wine. She read such longing in him, such pain, as though he was desperate for this contact. As desperate as she.

She ached for him to kiss her and hold her so tight against him that she could feel his heart beat.

“I am many things, Sarah. I have been many things.” He was mere inches away. Her breath locked in her throat and her pulse galloped.

“Whatever you have been, whatever you are, I know you, Killian. I know you.”

“You do not.” And he sounded inordinately sad as he said it. He said nothing more for a moment, then spoke, very softly. “I wanted to grab him by the throat and slam him against the wall when I heard from Mrs. Bayley that he had censured you. Demeaned you.”

Mr. Simon. He spoke of Mr. Simon, who had sneered at her after the constables had finished questioning her. He had not even offered her the respect of privacy when he had dismissed her from King’s College, impugned her integrity, looked at her as though she were refuse to be scraped off his boot. He had dismissed her in front of everyone. It was a humiliation that scored deep.

“If you felt dismay on my behalf, then you must understand the dismay I felt on yours. You understand why I could not let the constables take you, impugn you, accuse you of horrific crimes.” She cocked her head. “It is better that you did not grab Mr. Simon by the throat. Whatever he is or is not, the patients derive some benefit from his care.”

“It was only the realization that such actions would render your sacrifice meaningless that held me in check. That, and the desire to deserve the gilded halo you attribute to me.” This last was said with a sardonic edge.

Sarah could summon no reply, and so they sat for a moment in silence while she tried to gather her thoughts and emotions into some semblance of calm. Her world was coming unraveled at the seams, and she was not certain how to drag the edges back together.

Killian made a vague gesture toward the closed door of the carriage. “Would you prefer to wait while I have Jones pack for you, or shall we proceed now and I can send someone to fetch your belongings later?”

“Pack? I don’t...” I don’t understand. But she did. Killian meant to take her away from here. To bring her...where?

He lifted something from the seat beside him and extended his hand. She saw then that he held the pretty porcelain saucer that had been hers since childhood.

“You were in my room,” she said. “How? I locked it this morning.”

“And the women who live in the room next to you have a key.”

She frowned. “They let you in?”

“They were in there already. They said you pay them for laundry services.”

“I do.” Her chin came up. “Even with what little coin I have, that expense was justified. It is—was—important for me to look presentable at the hospital and my schedule did not allow for washing garments with the frequency my position required.” She paused. “But that does not explain why they let you in.”

He smiled, a flash of teeth, the hint of a dimple. “I can be most persuasive when the matter is of import.”

“You consider me a matter?” she asked.

“I consider you of import,” Killian replied, his expression solemn now.

Sarah dropped her gaze and took the dish from him to cup it in her palms. ““How did you know that I would want this? Of all the things in my chamber, this is the one that means something to me.”

“I know much about you, Sarah. I know every subtle glance, the way you breathe, the delicate sweep of your lashes. I know the tilt of your head and the pull of your lips when you are puzzling out a solution. I know the set of your shoulders and the curve of your back. You are endlessly fascinating to me.” He gestured at the dish. “I noted your expression when you looked at it last night. I could see it meant something to you.”

His words made her heart race, and she had no need to wonder if he knew it, because he said, “I can hear each precious pulse, Sarah, feel each beat of your heart.”

Impossible. Surely he could not. But somehow she believed him. Believed he did feel her, hear her. Believed he knew her.

She turned her head away, staring at the lowered blind, imagining the street beyond. As the fog outside obscured the street, so too was her future obscured. She could not see the path that would carry her into tomorrow, and next week, and next month. But she knew that wherever that path might lead, she had the opportunity now to be with Killian, to snatch moments of happiness. And she would snatch them. Finally, she said, “Where do we go?”

“We go home. My home, now yours.” And all the arguments that tumbled to her lips died as he turned his gaze upon her. “I offer you the world, Sarah. Anything you want.”

She believed him in that as well. “What do you demand in return?”

“Demand? No, I only ask. I ask for you. Your company. Your smile. Your eyes, dancing and pleased as they look to mine. Your intellect. Your valor. But mind me well, Sarah, you will need that valor. I am not an easy...man.”

The hesitation hung in the air, a warning, but not a surprise. She had seen from the start that he had depths like a roiling ocean in the midst of a storm. She sensed he meant it as a warning of something deeper, something greater. But he was not ready to tell her. Not yet.

He shared something of import here, some secret that shimmered between them and slid away from her like smoke. She tried to clasp it, to see it clearly, but the meaning dissipated, and she was left with the certainty that his words revealed something she did not quite grasp.

“Well, I suppose that I am neither meek nor submissive, which makes me a somewhat difficult woman, wouldn’t you say?”

He made a soft laugh, his eyes glittering in the dim light. “I would have you only as you are, and no other way. The thought of having you by my side, of sharing the world with you is a heady temptation.” His tone turned muted and dark, his eyes bleak. “I have been alone for a very long while.”

“I understand loneliness,” she whispered.

Again, that fleeting, dark smile, as though her words both amused and saddened him.

He reached down and lifted something else from the seat. The yellowed magazine that held the story her father had found so fascinating. Polidori’s The Vampyre.

Offering it to her, he held her gaze, and she sensed that unlike her candle dish, he had not retrieved this out of care and kindness, but for another reason entirely. Cautious and watchful, she took the pages from him, her pulse speeding up, her thoughts tumbling to and fro as a strange expectation suffused her.

I am not an easy...man.

I have been alone for a very long while.

You have not read Byron’s The Giaour?… It is a poem about a monster damned to drain life from those it loves.

Something clicked inside her, a key in a lock.

No. What was she thinking? It was not possible.

The Vampyre.

The smoky ideas that had eluded her a moment past coalesced, and she was left speechless and overwhelmed.

Impossible. And…not. It explained so much.

He stared at her, unsmiling, severe. She had the thought that he knew the direction her suppositions traveled. That he wanted them to flow toward that impossible conclusion.

Her breath stuttered to a stop, trapped in her lungs, and she stared at him, suddenly certain. Certain of the impossible, the terrible, the mad.

Inexorably drawn, her gaze dipped to the magazine once more. The seconds ticked past, protracted and sluggish.

“You did not kill those people at King’s College,” she whispered, the words so soft she wondered that he could hear her at all. When he made no reply, she raised her head and realized that he waited only for that, that he wanted her to look at him as he made his response.

“No, I did not kill them.” His eyes, liquid mercury, gleamed in the dim light, boring deep inside her.

“But you could have.” She wrapped her arms around her waist and held herself tight. “You could have because...”

There was both sorrow and resignation etched on his face as he finished the thought that she dared not speak aloud. “Because I am—” He paused, and she waited, her breath stalled in her chest, then he shook his head and finished, “I am not like other men.”

And suddenly, that assertion was laced with a multitude of subtle inferences and implications that she was not yet ready to drag into the light.

In that moment, though she knew not its source, she felt his suffering as her own.

Whatever his tormented secrets, she recognized in him like to like, knew that whatever horrors he had known and seen, whatever mysteries lurked in his heart, he was even more alone than she.

That he needed her as she needed him.