"Abigail was a good way along when them other nuns got rid of her," the old neighbor said with a wicked flash in her eyes. She seemed delighted to impart such salacious gossip to us. "That's what I'm trying to tell you. Bad things happen when you choose the wrong side. A wiser girl wouldn't have chosen to be a Mick nun; she'd have picked C of E. Them dirty Micks ain't a good lot, that's what I always say. Look what happened to her there."

How did one become pregnant in a convent? Not that it mattered to us. Abigail's predicament seemed to have nothing to do with Phineas's disappearance. What did matter was where she could be found now. We still needed to talk to her.

Matt asked the crone but she merely shrugged. "Well I don't know, do I? She left here 'bout ten years ago, when her son got a good job."

"At a factory," Matt reiterated.

"Aye, making hats. Abigail used to do finishing work in her garret to pay the rent and buy enough food for the two of 'em. She were a good worker, at it day and night, putting silk covers and bindings on fine top hats. The pay weren't good but she got by. Real fast, she was, and they gave her plenty to do. More than me and my daughter, and there were two of us. Don't know how she got through her lot and slept. The gov'ner at the factory liked her so much he gave her son a job working the machines when he were still a boy. Few years later, they made him supervisor and he and Abigail moved out, lucky buggers. They just up and left without a goodbye. Dirty Micks never did belong here." She spat into the mud. "Abigail thought she were better than us, even though we're good Christian folk too." She squinted at Matt and once again eyed him up and down. "You her cousin, eh? Well, well."

Matt took out another coin. "What's the name of the factory where the son works?"

She licked flaky lips and didn't take her gaze off the money. "Christy's Hats in Bermondsey Street."

Matt gave her the coin and thanked her. I lifted my skirts and flicked off the mud clinging to the hem before climbing back into the carriage. Matt gave instructions to the coachman and joined me.

A few minutes later we walked through the arched entrance beneath the warehouses of Christy's hat factory on Bermondsey Street. It was like stepping into a noisy, bustling village. An enormous engine hissed and whirred at the end of a long avenue, its chimney adding more filth to the miasma smothering this part of the city. Workers wheeled carts laden with crates and boxes between buildings, and a man shouted orders over the rhythmic clack clack of machinery. I expected the stench of the leather and tanning factories to be overpowered by more pleasant smells but if anything, they seemed stronger here, and I asked Matt why that would be.

"The furs for the hats have to be removed from the carcasses," he said. "They must do it on the premises." He shot me a worried look. "Do you want to return to the carriage?"

"It won't help. That smell is in my clothes and hair now."

He placed a hand at my lower back. "This won't take long."

He stopped a man carrying a clipboard and asked if he knew of a supervisor named Pilcher. He did not but directed us to the clerks' office. The sounds of the machines were louder inside the office and Matt had to raise his voice to speak to the bespectacled man behind the desk.

"I'm looking for a fellow named Pilcher. I was sent here by his old neighbor who told me he was a supervisor on the factory floor. Do you know him?"

The clerk frowned a moment then his forehead cleared. "I recall the fellow. He left some years back."

My heart plunged, although I'd prepared myself for this outcome. At least leaving voluntarily was better than being dead.

"He didn't last long after he got promoted," the clerk added. "He used to work as a machinist in the silk-hat room, then as supervisor. He was an excellent employee, so we moved him to the japanned hats department, with a view to training him in all areas of the business so that he might rise through the company. But he didn't take to it, or to beaver hatting either. We tried him in other departments too—shellac, wool carding and blowing, among others—but he never did show the intuition we saw on the silk hat floor."

"Why not move him back there?" I asked.

"He resigned before we could."

"Do you know where he works now?" Matt asked.

The clerk shrugged. "I don't recall."

"What about his mother, Abigail Pilcher? She used to do piece-work for Christy's from her home."

"I don't remember all the piece-workers. They come and go."

"Apparently she was very good and got her son the job here."

"Mr. Danver is in charge of the piece-workers." The clerk called out to one of the other clerks passing by and asked him if he knew Abigail Pilcher.

"She hasn't worked for us in years," Mr. Danver said. "Pity. She was fast and did good, clean work."

We thanked the clerks and returned to our carriage. Matt gave the orders to drive us to St. Mary's church in Chelsea. He sat opposite me and tipped his head back before closing his eyes and drawing in a deep breath.

"We'll find them," I told him.

"Does it really matter if we don't? She may know nothing about the disappearances. Her leaving the convent at that time could be a coincidence."

"You don't believe in coincidences."

He cracked open his eyelids and smirked. "Did I say that?" He folded his arms and closed his eyes again. "This does seem rather a large coincidence and less likely."

"We will find her," I said again. "But at least we know where to find the priest."

He didn't answer me and I remained quiet for the journey back across the river so he could rest. It was not a long drive, however, and we arrived at the church in good time. It was near the convent but far enough away that we would not be seen by any nuns who happened to be peering out of windows.

Father Antonio wasn't in the church or at home in the rectory, and his housekeeper didn't know when he would return. We left a message saying we needed to speak with him, but I doubted he would go out of his way to contact us. The nuns had probably already informed him of our impertinent questions.

We didn't discuss this delay but I could tell it weighed on Matt's mind as it weighed on mine. He was not his cheerful self and went straight to his rooms to retire upon arriving home. I was glad I didn't have to order him to rest and bear the brunt of his frustrations.

I found Miss Glass and Willie in the sitting room, talking quietly and, of all things, knitting. Well, Miss Glass was knitting while Willie tried to untangle a ball of white wool.

"If she was here, she'd be warning you too," Miss Glass said.

They both looked up as I entered.

"You tell her, India," Miss Glass added. "Tell Willie that her own mother would be warning her to be careful of strange men."

"My ma wouldn't care." Willie gave me a sad smile. "We were just talking about our lovers, India, and how they don't always turn out to be what they promise."

"That's certainly a conversation I can contribute to," I said wryly. "Indeed, I'm quite the case study."

"Eddie Hardacre were just one," Willie said. "I've had more disappointments than I can count." She glanced at the door as if expecting Duke to be there, ready with a sarcastic comment.

I gave her a sympathetic look. "Has your current fellow turned out to be a disappointment?"

"I ain't never said I got me a fellow."

"We're not blind, Willie."

"You sure about that? Anyway, Letty were just about to tell me about her lover."

"I was not." Miss Glass clicked her tongue as she dropped a stitch. "You're not holding the wool properly, Willemina."

"Go on, Letty. Tell us about him." Willie leaned in and whispered, "Your secret'll be safe with us girls, eh, India? We won't tell a soul, cross our hearts." She crossed her heart, earning a scowl from Miss Glass for jerking the wool.

"Do tell us," I pressed, unable to help myself. I got the feeling a gentle nudge would get her to divulge the story.

"Go on, out with it," Willie said. "We young ladies need your guidance, Letty. Without it, gosh, we'll be prey for all manner of bad men. Look at what happened to India."

Miss Glass set down her needles in her lap and took the wool from Willie. "It's more of a tale about my former friend, Penelope, and how she…" She lowered her head, but her back remained ramrod straight. "She's the worst kind of woman. A wart on humanity."

Willie blinked at her, suddenly serious. "She hurt you, didn't she?"

"She reminds me of Lady Buckland," Miss Glass went on. Lady Buckland had been Dr. Millroy's lover and the mother of his child, Phineas. Even in old age, she seemed rather lecherous toward her young footman.

"A mistress?" I asked.

"A husband stealer."

Willie and I exchanged glances. Miss Glass had never married, but perhaps she'd come close and Penelope had lured her intended away. If he could be lured then she was better off without him.

She put her knitting in the basket at her feet. "I'm going to dress for dinner. You two should as well."

"Why?" Willie asked. "We expecting guests?"

"No, but guests or no, your day clothes are not for evening wear. Honestly, Willemina, you're quite the cowboy. India will change, won't you, India?"

"If it's what you prefer," I said.

"Good girl." She patted my shoulder as she passed.

"'If it's what you prefer,'" Willie mimicked in a high voice once Miss Glass was out of earshot.

"What's eating you?" I asked. "You seem out of sorts."

"Nothing's the matter." She shot to her feet and strode to the window where she drew the curtain on the darkening street. "Nothing at all," she added, quieter.

"Nonsense. I'm not as blind to reading the signs as some people think. Has your man said or done something to upset you?"

She snorted as she drew the other curtain. "You got it wrong, India. I'm just frustrated. I ain't patient like some."

I sighed. "I understand entirely. Our lack of progress is frustrating me too, and Matt, although he pretends not to be affected. I know he's worried though, particularly with his watch slowing even more."

She plopped down on the sofa and buried her face in her hands. "God forgive me, I'm selfish. I've been so distracted lately, I weren't even thinking of Matt."

"Then what were you talking about?"

Duke and Cyclops entered, looking bored. "So this is where you two are hiding," Duke said. "Thought you were out, Willie."

"I got home a while ago. Where've you been?"

"Library," Cyclops said.

"You two? Reading? What's the world coming to?"

"Don't change the subject," Duke said. "Why'd you come home early? And why the long faces?"

She crossed her arms. "Ain't no business of yours."

"Your lover quit, eh?" He chuckled. "Got tired of you spouting off about this and that?"

She sprang up and ran at him, teeth bared. Thankfully she didn't make a sound to alert the servants. Duke caught her and, with Cyclops's help, held her at bay.

"Calm down!" Duke snapped. "It was just a lark."

She shoved Duke's chest and both men let her go. She stormed back to the sofa where she sat with a flounce and petulant frown.

"Stop it, the lot of you," I said. "You ought to be ashamed of yourselves. You're supposed to be friends."

Duke retreated to the mantelpiece, not taking his wary gaze off Willie. Perhaps he thought she'd charge again. "You're right. Sorry, Willie."

She looked up, surprised. "Accepted. I'm sorry too, but you got no right, Duke. I ain't putting up with your lip no more."

Cyclops caught my eye. He arched his good eyebrow in question.

I sighed. "Everyone is a little testy this evening," I told him. "It's the lack of progress that's doing it. I ought to warn you that Matt's nerves are stretched thin too. We continue to meet delays in our investigation. Indeed, the more we investigate, the further away from finding Phineas Millroy we get. At least, that's how it seems."

"You got to stay strong for him, India," Willie urged. "Be his anchor."

That was all well and good, but who was going to be my anchor? I felt all at sea, drifting further and further from shore.

"We all do," Cyclops told her. "Lumbering it all on India ain't fair, considering she and him aren't…" He coughed and looked away.

"Getting married," I offered. "No, we're not. I've made it clear to him, and I'd like to end any speculation and gossip here and now. Matt and I are not together and never will be."

"I'm glad," Willie said. "On account of him needing to go home to America when this is done. But does he know it? Because it don't always look like he does."

"I've told him."

She huffed. "Being told and knowing ain't the same thing."

"No," I said quietly. "They are not."

---

Dinner was a strained affair, and I was glad when it ended, even though most of us retired to the drawing room. Miss Glass went to bed early, easing the tension somewhat. Although she knew all our magical secrets, somehow it was easier to discuss them without her there. Nobody wanted to worry her more than she already was.

Matt poured brandies, and Willie pulled out a cigar from her breast pocket. She slid it beneath her nose and drew in a deep breath.

"You are not going to smoke in here," I said. "Miss Glass will smell it in the morning. Go to the smoking room."

She took her glass from Matt and stormed out without a word.

"Is it just me or is she upset about something?" Matt asked, watching her go.

"Her lover's had enough of her irritating ways," Duke said.

"You're the only one who finds her irritating," I told him. Everyone just looked at me. "You're right, that's not true. But I do think Duke is partly right and the problem is with the gentleman she's been seeing at the hospital."

Duke grunted and drank the entire contents of his glass in one gulp. "Another," he said to Matt.

Matt hesitated then obliged. "Did India inform you how our afternoon went?"

"Aye," Cyclops said. "You ain't getting far."

"We still have the priest to talk to yet," Matt said. "I think we'll learn a great deal from him."

"How?" Duke accepted the glass. "He ain't going to tell you what he heard in the confessional."

"We might be able to convince him."

"How?"

Willie strode back in, holding the unlit cigar and tumbler in one hand and a newspaper in the other. She thrust the newspaper into Matt's chest. "Bristow just got the evening papers. Read it." Her gaze slid to me.

That was enough to have me crowding around Matt along with Duke and Cyclops to get a better look. My insides tightened when I read the masthead—The City Review. A journalist from that newspaper had teamed up with the Watchmaker's Guild master, Abercrombie, and threatened to print an article demonizing magicians. While I hadn't forgotten their threat, I'd set it to the back of my mind as we searched for a medical magician.

The page was opened to the article in question. A quick scan of the first three paragraphs proved that they were not going to hold back in their judgment. "Evil," "sinful," and "un-English" they called magicians, drawing on their readers' religious and patriotic fervor to stir up hatred and fear.

"Lies," Duke spat. "All damned lies."

"They're drumming up sympathy for tradesmen and shopkeepers," Matt said quietly.

"'Depriving honest, hardworking people of their livelihood,'" Cyclops read. "'And starving their children in the process.'"

As if that wasn't bad enough, the article took an even more serious turn by mentioning the death of Wilson Sweet at the hands of two magicians, Dr. Millroy and my own grandfather, Gideon Steele. I clamped a hand over my mouth to stifle my whimper but forced myself to read to the end. The journalist, Mr. Force, mentioned how the two men had colluded to experiment on the "humble" Mr. Sweet to "play God and extend his life, only to end it instead."

Although the article stated that Dr. Millroy was a medical magician and Chronos a horology one, it did not specifically mention that magic was only fleeting unless that horology magician used a specific spell. Some readers—namely, magicians—would read between the lines, however, and realize that had been my grandfather's role in the experiment.

I sat down with a groan. "Anyone who didn't suspect I was a magician will now connect Gideon Steele to me. My secret is out."

Matt touched my shoulder. "Not everyone will believe this."

"Enough will. Many more will wonder. Matt, I'm sorry. This is all my fault; that article is in retaliation to Oscar Barratt's, and he wouldn't have written it if I hadn't gone to him that day. And now I've brought suspicion to your door too simply by living in the house."

"If you think that means you ought to leave, think again." He squeezed my shoulder, as if his stronger grip could keep me there.

"I'm not thinking it," I assured him. I didn't add that I had nowhere to go, with the cottage now being leased.

"Don't worry about us," Cyclops told me. "We can take care of ourselves. But you be careful, India. There might be some watchmakers who resent your magic."

"But she ain't a practicing watchmaker!" Willie declared. "It's not them she has to worry about anyway. It's magicians thinking she can extend their magic. Those folk will come looking for her, mark my words."

"And that will stir up trouble with all manner of artless craftsmen and the guilds," I added heavily. "Not just the watchmakers."

Matt's fingers tightened. "Enough," he said to his friends. "You're frightening her."

"Better she's frightened and aware than ignorant and exposed to danger," Duke said.

"The question is, what do we do now?" I asked.

"Nothing," Matt said emphatically. "A counter article will only lead to another response from The City Review and that will only serve to keep the story alive. The sooner it dies, the better."

I agreed, in part, but I wasn't sure Oscar Barratt could leave it alone.

I was right. The man himself arrived at our door a mere half hour later. He strode into the drawing room ahead of Bristow, still carrying his hat. "Have you read it?" he asked without so much as a greeting.

"We have," Matt said, a hard edge to his tone beneath a calm shell. "Hand your hat to Bristow or he'll think himself superfluous."

Oscar hesitated then did as told and Bristow left with the hat, shutting the door behind him.

"Drink?" Matt asked our visitor.

Oscar nodded and took the seat I offered him. He stroked his short goatee beard and rested his injured arm on the armrest. He still wore it in a sling. He'd been shot in the shoulder by Mr. Pitt, the man who'd killed Dr. Hale, but it had not hindered him too much. Indeed, his work had only intensified after his article exposing magic appeared in The Weekly Gazette. The last time I'd seen him, he'd told me of all the correspondence he'd received from the public. I'd been furious with Oscar for exposing magicians, but he'd managed to soften my stance a little with his solid reasoning and desire for we magicians to live a normal life, free to practice our magic. His heart was in the right place, at least, and I couldn't remain angry with him for that, particularly when I agreed, in principle. Not that I would tell Matt. He was vehemently opposed to exposing magic.

Matt handed Oscar a glass of brandy then tossed the newspaper in his lap, open to the page with Force's article.

Oscar flinched. "What do you make of it?" he asked.

"What do we make of it?" Willie pushed out of the chair and stood over Oscar. His eyes widened and he pressed back into the chair. "It's all your fault, Barratt, that's what we make of it."

Oscar picked up the newspaper and placed it on the table near the lamp beside him. "I didn't mention India in my article. I didn't name any magicians. Nor did I mention that magic is fleeting. This…" He tapped the newspaper. "This is not my doing. It's Abercrombie's and the reporter, Force. If you're looking for someone to blame, blame them."

"Be assured," Matt hissed, "they will not escape my wrath either."

Oscar swallowed heavily.

"But you started it, Barratt," Willie said with a pout. She stomped back to her chair and threw herself into it. "You should take some responsibility for that. A real man would. God damned men," she muttered into her chin.

Duke and Cyclops exchanged grimaces.

"I'll fix it," Oscar said. "I'll write another—"

"No!" Matt slammed the heavy tumbler on the table beside Oscar. Luckily it was empty or the contents would have splashed out. "You will not write another thing about magic. Is that clear?"

Oscar's jaw hardened. "I'll write what I see fit to write, Glass. As long as my editor wishes to publish my articles about magic, I will continue to write them. It's not up to you."

Matt glowered back at him, his jaw equally uncompromising. It was like watching two gladiators circle one another in the ring, taking the other's measure, looking for weaknesses. Physically, Matt was the stronger of the two, particularly with Oscar's arm in a sling, but I knew from experience that Oscar could not easily be swayed. Not only did he dig in when he set his mind to something, but he refused to even consider alternatives.

"When your articles bring danger to my door, and the people I care about, it becomes my business," Matt said. "And if you think I can't stop you writing another article, think again."

Oscar tugged on his sling. "Are you threatening me?"

Matt picked up his glass but did not fill it. He sat beside me on the sofa and smiled at Oscar. It was a friendly, open smile that seemed to throw the journalist off balance. Only I could feel the anger vibrating off Matt.

"Have you spoken to Mr. Force?" I asked Oscar in an attempt to diffuse the tension.

"I tried to but he wouldn't see me. I left a written message for him at The Review's office, telling him how irresponsible it was to name names and mention the murder of Wilson Sweet."

"A written message, eh?" Duke rolled his eyes. "That ought to fix it."

"Words are powerful, sir."

"My name's Duke, not sir. And words are only powerful when they say something the reader is willing to hear. I don't know Mr. Force, but I do know Abercrombie, and he won't care that magicians will be harassed now thanks to that article, and India in partic'lar. He won't care one bit."

"If anyone bothers you, India, tell me immediately," Oscar said. "Perhaps I can help."

I paused, waiting for Matt to scoff or say something but he did not. "Thank you, Oscar," I said, "but I don't see how you can."

"You can help by not writing anything more on the subject," Matt said. "Let the topic be forgotten."

Oscar shook his head. "I can't. You know that."

"You've stirred up enough trouble."

"I can't let that piece of rubbish be the last word on magic." He sipped and set the glass down on the newspaper. "No magician can." He lifted his brow at me.

I glanced down at my lap but felt everyone's glare bore into me, Matt's being the hardest. "I agree with Oscar," I said.

Matt shot to his feet and stalked to the sideboard. He poured himself a large brandy and drank half in a single gulp. "We agreed it was best to leave the matter alone, India."

"No, we did not. Oscar's right. We can't let Force's vile piece be the last word. He calls magicians all manner of horrible things, and people will believe it. We have to print a rebuttal and show magicians in a favorable light."

He turned his back to me and leaned a fist on the sideboard. If we'd been alone, I would have touched his shoulder and tried to reason gently with him, but I couldn't do it in front of the others.

I appealed to Oscar. "Be sure to mention that all the magicians of your acquaintance regularly attend church, have families, and simply wish to live peaceful lives as the artless do. Don't use the word artless though. It implies a lack in character. Use mild, conciliatory words, nothing too clever."

Oscar's face lifted with his smile. "I do know how to write persuasive pieces, India."

"Yes, of course. I am sorry, but this is an important article and it needs to be exactly right."

"Be sure and say that magic don't do anyone any good," Cyclops chimed in. "Remind folk that it don't last."

"Cyclops!" Willie spat. "Whose side are you on?"

"I ain't on anyone's side, but he's going to write that article no matter what. Seems this way we get some say in what he puts in it. Being all cut up about it will get us nowhere."

We all looked at Matt's powerful back, slightly hunched as he towered over the sideboard. He slowly turned to face us.

"Don't mention India's name," he said, his voice as dark as his eyes.

Oscar looked to me. "I'd like to. Your grandfather has already been mentioned so—"

"No," Matt snapped.

Oscar didn't take his gaze off me. If Matt's raging ruffled him, he didn't show it.

"Don't mention me," I said. "Only those who know me well will know my grandfather's name. Acquaintances do not and hopefully haven't made the connection."

"Say you agree, Barratt," Matt said.

"If it's what India wants, then I agree."

"Maybe write how Chronos was forced by Dr. Millroy to experiment on Wilson Sweet," Willie added.

"I can't say that since it's not true and is unfair to the memory of Millroy. But I will write how both magicians involved in that sorry event regretted their actions and never tried it again."

My swallow sounded loud in the silence. We all averted our gazes. Thankfully Oscar didn't seem to notice. Matt's past and his life-giving watch were the only thing about magic that I'd kept from him, and I wanted to keep it that way.

"I'll note that one is dead and the other thought to be overseas," Oscar went on. "Does that suffice?"

"Yes," I said quickly. "I think so."

"As long as India isn't named," Matt said again.

"Or any other magicians," I added.

"Except myself." Oscar smiled over the rim of his glass as he sipped. "Don't look so shocked, India. It's time I put myself forward as a magician. It's the best way for these articles to be taken seriously, otherwise questions about their authenticity will continue to arise."

"But you'll be inviting all manner of judgment on yourself," I said. "Are you ready for that?"

"Yes."

"Are your family?" He had a brother who ran the family ink production business. Like Oscar, he was an ink magician.

"Let me worry about my family. Besides, a reminder that magic is fleeting should dampen the outrage of my brother's business rivals. I'll use the ink trade as an example of what magic can and cannot do. Once I describe the pretty effects I can create with ink yet the utter uselessness of the magic, no one will continue to feel threatened. My brother will be furious at first, but he'll calm down when he sees that nothing will change."

"You think nothing will change?" Matt went to take another drink but found his glass empty. If he tried to fill it again, I might be compelled to take the glass off him. But he did not. "You're a fool if you believe that, Barratt. A damned fool."

Oscar finished his drink and bade us goodnight. I couldn't blame him for making a hasty retreat in the face of Matt's hostility. Perhaps I should have retreated too, but I remained, along with the others, in the drawing room. I had one final point to make before retiring to bed.

"Another favorable article from Oscar could be the very thing we need," I told Matt after Oscar left. "It could flush out Phineas Millroy."

Matt leaned back in the armchair and stretched out his legs. He closed his eyes and expelled a long breath. "What's done is done. The article will be written. Let's leave all discussion about it alone now." He opened weary eyes and looked at me. "I don't like arguing with you."

I returned his soft smile. "I don't like arguing with you either."

"But she's right," Willie said. "If the Millroy bastard suspects he's a magician, he could contact Barratt hoping to learn more about himself." She pressed her hand to heart. "I want to state how sorry I am, India. I didn't think about that before. It's a good idea. You're right to get him to publish another article, and I was wrong."

"You should get that in writing, India," Duke said.

"Then frame it," Cyclops added.

Willie threw a cushion at Cyclops but he caught it and tossed it back. "I'm going to bed," she said, setting the cushion on the sofa again. "Goodnight."

"You not heading out tonight?" Duke asked, following her.

"Nope."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't want to."

"Something happened between you and your lover, didn't it?"

She didn't respond or slow down as she made for the door. Duke caught her arm and she rounded on him. Her eyes flashed. "What do you want, Duke?"

"I want you to know you can talk to me," he said quietly. "We've been through a lot together, and I'll always be around if you need a shoulder to cry on. No judgment, no giving advice if you don't want it, just to talk."

Her features softened and, for a moment, I thought her face would crumple and she'd cry. But she rallied and even managed a distorted smile for him. "Thanks, Duke. Appreciate it. But I don't want to talk. I just want…" She shrugged. "I don't even know what I want."

They left together, and Cyclops filed out after them with a speaking glance at Matt. I was suddenly alone with him, precisely where I did not want to be. I picked up my skirts and hurried toward the door.

"I want you to know that I don't entirely blame Barratt," Matt said from his chair. He did not try to stop me leaving or ask me to stay, but I stayed anyway—at a safe distance and in sight of Bristow, who hovered outside the drawing room.

"That's not how it seemed," I said.

"Barratt had a hand in inflaming the situation, but I can see his intentions are good."

"You should tell him that, not me."

"I care more about your forgiveness than his."

"Matt." I took a step toward him but stopped again. I clasped my hands behind me. "There's nothing to forgive."

Lounging in the dim light cast by the lamps, he'd never looked more youthful. The signs of exhaustion were hidden by shadows and he had a way of looking at me that was not quite looking but pretending to be focused elsewhere. My heart thumped loudly in response.

"When is your birthday?" I asked.

His mouth twitched. "July nine. Why?"

"Sometimes it's hard to believe you're not yet thirty."

He laughed. "It's hard for me to believe too. I feel like an old man, some days. In many ways, I'm lucky. I've lived a full life. If it all ends—"

"Don't." My voice cracked. "It's not going to end. No way in hell, Matt, so you can stop talking like it is."

He chuckled. Chuckled!

"I fail to see what's so amusing about the turn of this discussion," I bit off.

"It's just that you and Willie are sounding more alike every day. Do I need to be worried about you carrying a gun?"

I snapped my skirt and spun around. "Only if you say something that offends me. Goodnight."

"India! Come back and talk to me. I desire your company."

"Goodnight, Matt," I said over my shoulder, my anger already fading but my resolve to leave even stronger. I hurried out before it faded too.

---

To everyone's surprise, Matt was gone before breakfast. He'd left the house alone. Not even Bristow knew where he’d headed.

"He didn't inform me," Bristow told us as he replaced the empty teapot with a full one. "He took the coach."

"Damn it," Willie muttered, sitting down hard on the chair. "If he's gone out without telling anyone, it's somewhere bad."

"Aye," Duke muttered. "You sure he didn't leave a note under your door, India?"

"Quite sure." If he didn't want a single one of us to know then I had to agree with Willie. It was somewhere bad. Somewhere he knew we'd object to him visiting.

I ran the previous night's conversations through my head, and for a moment, I suspected he'd gone to see Oscar Barratt to order him not to write the article after all. But Matt must know that was a futile exercise. So if not to see Barratt, where else would he go? The office of The City Review? But it was too early and it wouldn't be open. He didn't know Mr. Force's home address so he couldn't have gone there.

But he did know where Mr. Abercrombie lived, and Matt had told Oscar that Abercrombie and Force wouldn't escape his wrath.

I sprang up. "I know where he is!"

Duke, Cyclops and Willie all rose too. "Where?" they chimed together.

"Confronting Abercrombie." I snatched up a slice of toast and marched out of the room, my skirts snapping at my heels. "Bristow! Bristow, I need a hansom!"

"Make it a growler to take all of us," Cyclops added from behind me. I turned to see him surging out of the dining room, a slice of bacon sandwiched between two pieces of toast. He shoved it in his mouth and signaled to the others to hurry.

"What are we going to do if Matt's there?" Willie asked me.

"Stop him from saying or doing something that will land him in trouble."