“Centralization, you said.” Theresa’s brother folded his arms and kicked his legs out impatiently from the seat where he had spent the last handful of weeks. “Less time in an office sitting around, you said.” He looked at the heavy volume in front of him. “We’ll do better than the man Christian paid a vast sum to, who does this for a living. Really, Tee?”

Admittedly, their quest had not run as smoothly as Theresa had imagined. In her mind, they would have arrived at the General Register Office on a Monday and discovered what they needed halfway through that afternoon, before they even had a chance to get hungry for tea.

In reality, it had been weeks. Theresa herself would have been bitterly indignant, except she had to pretend serenity for her brother’s sake.

Instead, she sniffed. “Have some patience, Corporal. Rome wasn’t built in a day.”

Her brother frowned mulishly. “Everyone always says that, but it’s never because someone is complaining about an entire city not being constructed over the space of twenty-four hours! It’s always about something utterly stupid that should not take longer than fifteen seconds. And we asked last night at dinner and it turns out that of course the people who Christian hired did go through the General Register Office. Because they’re not idiots, that’s why. Your assumptions were wrong and you were wrong and I’m tired of sitting here.”

Theresa shot him a quelling look. “How am I supposed to be addressed again?”

A long sigh. “I’m tired of sitting here, sir,” he muttered.

“Well.” It was time to bring out her most fearsome weapon. Theresa fixed her brother with a look. “You are younger than me, after all. And everyone knows men haven’t the patience of women; they never have the chance to develop it. I suppose I have been remiss in not making allowances for your incapacity.”

“That’s—” Benedict bit off his complaint and glared at her. “That’s not fair.”

She waved a hand. “You’re free to go at any time.”

Theresa, on the other hand, was going to sit here and go through these damned records for the rest of her natural life if she needed to. The alternative would be that she would be wrong, and she refused to let that happen.

“Have it your way!” Benedict picked up a book. “I’m staying.”

She shot him another look. “Corporal Benedict.”

He let out a groan. “I’m staying, sir.”

“Your choice not to desert is commendable.” She flipped a page of her record book. “And you’re right—we did find out last night that Judith’s people had looked through the records. That was valuable information; it helps us expand our search, if we must. They were looking for a Camilla Worth. We’re looking for anything abnormal involving something that looks a little like her name. Let’s start by assuming that she’d make only a minimal change. She’s still called Camilla. If I were constructing a false identity, I would use a last name that starts with a W. Or maybe a Y.”

“Right.” Benedict just looked disgusted. “Do you know how many people there are named Camilla in Britain? How are we to pay attention to them all?”

Theresa set down her book, stood, and strode confidently down the hall, not waiting to see if her brother would follow. Luckily, he scampered after her. There was no point being anything other than confident.

“We should finish up the marriage registries today,” she said as he caught up to her. “If we don’t find anything there, we’ll get to look into birth records, and won’t that be a delightful change of pace?”

In all honesty, they should have started there. A child born out of wedlock was the most likely reason why Camilla would have changed her name. She wasn’t about to spring the notion on Benedict’s young, innocent ears unless she had no choice.

After that, there were penal records and death certificates—but those both sounded terrible, and she hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

Theresa marched up to the clerk at the marriage records desk as if she were not fifteen years of age. She hoped the hat she was wearing made her look older; it was ugly enough.

“My good man,” she greeted him. That was how the dowager marchioness spoke, and it always seemed to get results.

He straightened and turned to her. “Yes? How can I help you, miss?”

Theresa tilted her head up and attempted to look down her own nose. It didn’t work, because he was a good six inches taller than she was, and also, her nose was somewhat lacking. She felt herself blushing. “I should like to see the marriage registers for 1864 and 1865, if you please. And if you have a folio for recent marriages, we should like to see that.”

“If you could fill out the request form…” He indicated to her right.

“But of course. I should be delighted to.”

“Why are you talking like that?” Benedict asked loudly. “All stodgy-like? Have you had a stick inserted up your—”

“Shut up,” she responded in a quiet hiss.

A bit of lead pencil, two minutes, and her terrible scratchy handwriting later was all it took to produce the form. The man took it, bowed, and disappeared into the ranks of shelves behind him.

“I’m always amazed,” Benedict whispered at her side, “that they’re willing to give us whatever we ask for just because we fill out some stupid form. Do they have any idea who you are and what you do with things that make you angry?”

Theresa rolled her eyes at him. “Stop being so dramatic. We’re just asking to look at some ruddy pieces of paper. Nobody cares about them, so nobody’s going to make off with them. It’s not as if we’re filing a request to steal the Crown Jewels.”

“Mmm. You’d find a way.”

The man came back with two books under his arm and a sheaf of bound papers.

“Here you are, Miss. You mayn’t take them from the room, of course.”

“Thank you. You’ve been most helpful.”

She and Benedict divided the work between them. Theresa had become almost familiar with the ebb and flow of the reading. The records were divided into books listing name after name after name, alphabetically set forth, with numbers following after that indicating where the full record was kept.

There were no Camilla Worths married in 1865, Theresa found, nor anyone with a last name starting with a W. She tried a few other combinations—Camilla Cassandra, for her middle name, and Camilla Weston, for her mother’s name.

Nothing, and they had gone through weeks of nothing. Boring. Her fingers tapped the table in irritation as she read. She hoped she wouldn’t have to go all the way to death records. That would be inconvenient, tragic, and also? A terrible birthday present for Judith. Even her diseased embroidered crows would be preferable to unveiling Camilla’s tragic, early grave.

“Nothing,” Benedict said, closing his own book. “God, I’m weary.”

Theresa had never been one to give up. Instead, she started on the recent folios. These were easier—pieces of freshly printed bound materials, much thinner since they contained a few weeks’ worth of material each instead of an entire year. There were only a handful of Ws in each sheaf, and she amused herself making stories about some of the people whose names she saw.

Ann Edelbert Wumbler, for instance. She seemed like a solid sort. She owned her own bakery, Theresa decided, but it was actually a sham. Instead, she housed a printing press in the basement, one that produced lewd woodcuts…

“What about this?” Benedict, who had started on his own folio, and who had not been distracted by Ann Edelbert Wumbler, pointed to a record.

The registry index was sparse at best, listing names, parishes, and the location of where the final record was. Theresa followed her brother’s finger and felt her heart begin to hammer.

Winters

—Camilla Cassandra, Surrey, Lackwich, 1b 902.

Oh, God. It…

It could be a coincidence. There was no reason there could not be two Camilla Cassandras in the entirety of England. But… But… She swallowed. She looked over at her brother.

“It’s her.” He said it as guardedly as she did. “At least, it could be? It’s the closest we’ve come.”

It could be their sister.

The moment should have felt more portentous. Drums should have sounded or a raven could have got into the building and cawed in dismay. Instead, the office whirred about them as if they had not just succeeded.

Theresa scarcely remembered her sister.

If that person on the registry was Camilla, it left so many questions unanswered. Why had Camilla changed her last name? Why had she not told her own family that she was marrying? Who had she married?

This last question they could answer on their own. She smiled at her brother. “Here, you’ve seen me do it. You’re the one who found this. You fill out the request for the full record.”

He did. They waited, holding hands so hard that they squeezed each other’s fingers to numbness.

Theresa scarcely knew her sister Camilla. She had a vague memory of a dark-haired laughing girl, swiping Theresa’s face clean and patting her on the head. That was it—one single memory, compared with the millions she had for Judith.

Or the dozens she had for Pri.

Maybe Theresa had been afraid to think too much of Camilla. When Theresa had been young—very young—she had accompanied her father and brother to China. She remembered the trip dimly through the gauze of distance that made all her early childhood memories seem impossibly far away. She remembered standing on the deck of the ship.

Anthony used to have to keep dragging her away from the edge.

She’d been the only child on the trip, and so apparently, she’d invented a playmate for the journey—a sister to take the place of the ones she’d left behind. Priya—that was the name she remembered, Pri for short—had been older. Dark-haired, brown-skinned, with laughing brown eyes. She had been maybe Camilla’s age, although at three, Theresa had been unable to judge such things with any degree of certainty. She’d been sweet. She had played games with Theresa, pulling her away from the edge of the ship when Anthony wasn’t around…and occasionally, sneaking there to stand next to her, watching the waves pass far below.

Don’t worry, Tee. I’ll keep you safe.

Theresa could remember her imaginary sister better than she could Camilla, and it was frightening that her mind could fool itself so well. Perhaps she never let herself think of Camilla because she was afraid that she’d invent something out of nothing.

Look at her; she’d invented an entire story, ending in lewd woodcuts, around Ann Edelbert Wumbler, and the poor woman had done nothing but get married.

Theresa knew that she worried Judith.

In truth, sometimes Theresa thought she worried Judith on purpose. She never wanted to forget that she was different, that her mind did things that other people’s minds did not. And maybe she wanted to remind Judith, because she never knew when she would…

“It’s arrived,” Benedict said, breaking Theresa out of this depressing reverie. Thank God. There was nothing more annoying than reflecting on reality.

The records from the parish were just sheaves of paper sewn together, so new that Theresa could still smell a hint of pungent ink.

Her brother’s fingers fumbled to the right page, spreading it open.

Camilla Cassandra Winters, age 19. Her parents were listed as George Winters and Anne Marie Weston. Her occupation was servant.

“It’s the right age,” Benedict breathed. “And…isn’t that’s her mother’s name?”

Camilla had a different mother than Benedict and Theresa. She stared at the name in question. “I think so.”

“George was father’s given name.”

“True,” Theresa said slowly. “But everybody’s named George. That doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”

Still. It seemed increasingly possible that they’d found their sister. Now all they had to do was…find her.

A handful of weeks ago, she had married a man named Adrian Hunter. His parents were listed as a John Hunter the IIIrd and an Elizabeth Denmore. His occupation: valet.

Benedict exhaled. “This will be…interesting. Do we tell Judith now?”

“Tell Judith what?” asked a voice behind them.

Benedict jumped. Theresa was too well-disciplined to do so; inwardly, though, she winced.

It was the Dowager Marchioness of Ashford—her sister’s mother-in-law. She was a sweet, sweet lady who loved Theresa dearly.

Theresa still couldn’t figure out why. She looked at the black ink smeared on her gloves from examining freshly printed records and scrunched her hands into fists.

“Lady Ashford.” Theresa turned. She curtsied. “How lovely to see you. We were just getting ready to go home?”

The woman raised a single eyebrow. “Theresa, I taught you that trick. You can’t go all mannerly on me in an attempt to get out of an explanation. Whatever are you two doing here?”

Benedict looked at Theresa. “We were going to tell them anyway.”

“No, we weren’t,” Theresa contradicted. She turned to the dowager. “It’s a surprise. For Judith’s birthday. We’re planning it.”

The dowager looked around the General Register Office with a dubious air. Theresa could imagine how the place looked to her—an ugly, dusty building, inhabited by men in dour brown suits. They sat at a table, surrounded by volumes. It smelled of must.

Yes, she imagined herself saying, we are obtaining these lovely records requests for Judith’s birthday. Who doesn’t want to request records?

The dowager shook her head and sighed. “I knew you were up to something when Judith said you were shopping for hats. You never like shopping. You hate hats. You’ve been shopping for three weeks. Is this a good surprise for Judith?”

“It’s the best surprise,” Theresa said earnestly.

The dowager looked unconvinced. “Would Judith think so? Or will this be like the mice?”

“Judith will be overjoyed,” Theresa said. “I promise. With everything I have in me.”

Assuming that Camilla wasn’t dead, that was.

The woman looked around. “Very well, then. Are you almost finished?”

“We’ve just a few notes to make,” Theresa said. “Then we’ll be off home.”

“Off to get a hat,” the dowager told her. And when Theresa’s nose wrinkled, she gave her a stern look. “It won’t be much of a surprise if Judith suspects you of anything. Finish your…whatever it is you are doing. Then, for the sin of telling your sister a lie, I sentence you to hat yourself.”

“But—”

“You know how it is,” the dowager said. “You can be as odd as you like if you’re wearing the right hat. And you, my dear, need to watch yourself on that count.”

“Very well.” Theresa frowned. “If I must.”

Benedict waited until the other woman had retreated to the hall. “You’re so nice to her,” he murmured. “You’re getting soft, General.”

Theresa glanced at him. “Am not.”

But she was. She wasn’t sure entirely how it had happened. The dowager hadn’t done anything, really, except try to teach Theresa manners and put her in pretty gowns…and then, when she’d realized that both of these things were going extremely badly, she had shifted tacks.

Theresa loved Judith and Judith loved Theresa.

But you harbored a different love for someone who had known you since you were a child—a love tempered by the tantrums that you had once thrown. Judith’s affection felt so conditional—given only when Theresa behaved. Somehow, that made Theresa not want to behave at all.

The dowager liked Theresa—General Register Office visits, terrible embroidery, and all.

“She’s just got good ideas,” Theresa said instead. “She understands me. Judith wants me to be a lady. The dowager wants me to be happy.”

And she likes me, just as I am.

The dowager had told her that once, and Theresa had never realized she wanted to hear it until it had been said.

But Theresa didn’t say that. It made her seem vulnerable, and the one thing she knew for certain was that she could never let her brother see her vulnerability.

---

Adrian had made plans to leave with Camilla tomorrow.

Mr. Singh checked the schedules to Lackwich for Adrian. Tomorrow he and Camilla would need to be up before dawn; that meant this was the last morning here before…

His thoughts wandered, and he pulled them back to the land of rationality. No point in feeling odd about the matter—they would go to Lackwich, hopefully find proof of Bishop Lassiter’s wrongdoing, head immediately to his uncle, and file the paperwork for annulment with his assistance. It was what he wanted.

Definitely that.

And if they had one more day together? He had a great deal to do. He’d show Camilla the plates and ask her opinion. They’d talk; he would go to work. It would be just like every other day.

At that thought, he heard the tap of footsteps and he looked up.

She stood at the top of the staircase, smiling down at him, and…

It took him a moment to remember that she wasn’t his.

She could not be. The early morning sunlight cascaded through the east-facing window, catching on motes of sunlight. It danced across her face, as if the daybreak itself were smiling along with her. Oh, no. What was he doing, thinking those thoughts about her?

And then she skipped down the stairs and his heart squeezed in his chest. Oh, damn. What was he doing?

Right. The china. He was showing her the first run of the china plates that Harvil was bringing to the exhibition this year.

He should offer her his arm for the walk, but even that seemed too much. Instead he gave her a smile that he hoped was friendly and not stupid with the pent-up desires that he could not indulge in. Not here. Not about her.

“You don’t have to come.” His voice felt rough.

“Of course I don’t have to.” She smiled up at him. “But I want to. How else will I know what you’ve been doing all day, every day?”

“Well.” It was a good thing she couldn’t see him blush like a schoolboy. “Let’s be off, then.”

He didn’t offer her his arm, and she didn’t try to take it. Still, he felt the phantom pressure where her hand ought to have rested on the crook of his elbow as they walked.

You know, he could have said. I like you. I think you’re lovely. I think you’re brave. I think I want you.

He hadn’t said the words, and she hadn’t said them back. But he felt them on the tip of his tongue. He could see them in the way she tipped her head back to catch his expression, in the way her eyes followed him, bright with happiness.

It wasn’t love. It was attraction, and there was no place for attraction between them now. He wanted to choose someone, not to give in to lust and physical ardor, trapping himself for the rest of his life.

“They’re really just review pieces,” he told her as they approached the building. “You’ll see. We have a lot to do. Once we’ve settled on the design, we have to make a copperplate for transfer printing the underglaze.”

He shuffled the keys into his hand and opened the door.

“None of those words made sense to me,” Camilla said at his side.

“Well… I’ll explain it if you want. Probably in greater detail than you want. Most people don’t want to hear. In any event, after it’s been glaze fired, we enamel it.” Their steps echoed in the corridor. He stopped at the door to the studio. “That was last night. I haven’t seen the review plates since they were fired.”

“Does firing change it?”

“Um…yes. The overglaze colors, see, are made of flux, minerals, and—” He stopped, catching himself. “Right. You don’t need to know.”

Her eyes glowed at him. “Oh, you can tell me anything. I don’t mind.” That shy little dip of her head, the splay of pink across her cheeks. She was so damned lovely, the way she blushed so easily. “I’d like to hear anything you find interesting, really.”

And he wanted to tell her.

He pulled away. “Well, I should show you the plates. I would go on forever, and it would make more sense if you were looking at something first, don’t you think?”

They had been laid out in a row on the sideboard.

“Here,” he said, gesturing her forward. “They tell a story. We’ll start from the beginning.”

She didn’t need to tell him how she felt—not when she already proclaimed it with every smile, with every little blush.

He didn’t need to tell her, either. Not when there were the plates, after all.

She came to stand beside him.

His heart beat heavily.

“Here,” he said, pointing. “This is the first one. You’ll notice that faint green patterned background, redolent of leaves and bamboo? That’s the underglaze painting.”

She had frozen in place, her eyes trained on the plate. “Adrian.”

“The way we get that light green underglaze is a family secret.” He smiled. “As is the orange in the enamel—that’s these colors here, you see, the stripes—”

“Adrian. It’s a tiger and her cubs.”

He felt a lump in his throat. “Well. So. It is.”

“What’s she chasing, that one cub? Is she headed to the river?”

He didn’t object to her pronoun. Now that the plate had been glazed, that little stylized dream looked like a glistening star. They’d specially made a paint for it, a mix of blues and greens so light that you could only see the color when the plate tilted into the light. Gold flecks—real gold—gave it a luminous look.

“I don’t know,” Adrian said. “Maybe it’s a star. Maybe it’s a dream. You decide.”

“It’s lovely. What’s the next one?”

He gestured her on.

On this plate, the underglaze was the cobalt blue of traditional china pottery, painted in waves and roils depicting a raging river.

The tiger kitten, caught in the current, tossed and turned, one paw still outstretched to that stylized star as if to catch it even in the midst of drowning.

Alongside the riverbank, her mother ran, desperate to catch her.

“Adrian, is that a waterfall ahead?”

“Um…yes?”

“You’re sending a kitten into a waterfall?”

“Maybe?”

She turned to the next plate. The tiger cub stood on a riverbank, looking up a sheer cliff down which the waterfall thundered. At the very top, small in the distance, were the faces of the mother tiger and her other cubs.

“You separated them?” Camilla stood in place, looking at the scene. She set a hand over her heart. “That’s not right.”

A fourth plate showed the cub sitting at the base of the cliff. Claw marks marked her attempt to climb back up, futilely. The kitten looked almost despondent—but just to the side, leading away from the cliff, that dream glittered.

In the fifth plate, the cub, slightly older, traversed a swamp, nervously avoiding being caught by some ugly sharp-toothed reptile.

In the sixth, the cub, now juvenile, padded through a dark forest inhabited by fantastical looking birds—drawn forward, forever in pursuit of that glittering dream.

In the seventh, the tiger stalked the stars themselves, a thousand dreams flashing around her paws.

In the final plate, fully grown, she descended a mountain, crowned in stars, to the valley where her mother awaited.

Camilla set the final plate down and looked at Adrian. “I don’t know a thing about art. I couldn’t give you any advice at all.” Her eyes shimmered.

“Did you like it?”

“It gave me feelings.” She tapped her chest. “Here.”

“That’s always a good sign.”

She swallowed and turned to him. “It’s…it’s about a tiger.”

“Yes?”

Her eyes found his. “You tell me I’m a tiger sometimes.”

“Well.” He put his hands in his pockets, the better not to touch her with them. “Yes. I do.”

Her eyes were so wide, so bright with hope. “Are these about me? The tiger cub, lost from home so young? Searching for years as she grows, going from place to place?”

“Never giving up?” he added. “Looking forward, always forward?”

She made a little sound in her throat.

“Really,” he said, “I don’t want to give you the wrong idea. It’s about all of us. Mr. Alabi left his home at twelve, when war came to his home city. Mrs. Song came to Britain in search of a child who had been impressed in the pig trade.”

She looked away. “Oh.”

“As for me,” Adrian said, “my family left me in England during the rebellion. We were reunited afterward, but I lost three of my brothers. That’s why at the end, some tigers are missing.”

She turned to him. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. And here I’ve been complaining to you. I should never have done it.”

He looked away. “I don’t talk much about it. I’m the lucky one. I didn’t die. I didn’t even have to go to war. There are untold millions who will never have what I have. There’s no point asking for sympathy for me when so many have less.”

“Adrian. You don’t need to ask for sympathy. You deserve it.”

God. If he looked down on her now, he would take every inch of comfort she was offering—the liquid warmth of her eyes. She almost reached for him, then pulled back.

“In any event, the plates.” He cleared his throat. “I just help my lead artists put things together. All the feelings you saw in there—they weren’t all mine. The tiger’s journey wasn’t entirely about you. It was about all of us. But…”

Her breath caught on that word, entirely, betraying as it was. She looked up at him.

“But.” His voice was low. “It was partially about you.”

Because I think you could belong. He didn’t say it, though. They were going to Lackwich tomorrow, and—and—

And the sound of a door opening echoed down the corridor. Camilla jumped away from him, blushing, and Adrian exhaled.

“I thought,” Adrian said in the moments before whoever it was arrived, “that even if you moved on, after…this, that…this way you might stay here a little, too?”

Even if. There—he’d said it, put the possibility out in the world. Her eyes widened.

Behind them, the door to the studio opened. Mr. Alabi strode in.

“Ah,” he said. “Miss Winters! What do you think of my plates?”

Camilla straightened, smiling at Mr. Alabi as if, a moment ago, she hadn’t looked as if Adrian had handed her the stars.

“Your plates?” She shook her head. “And here I thought they were everyone’s plates.”

“But I am a part of everyone.”

“I hate your plates,” Camilla said.

Alabi’s face fell.

“They almost made me cry, they were so perfect.” She gestured to him. “Here. I’ll tell you what I thought. Let’s start from the beginning.”

---

By the time Adrian returned that night, he had made all the arrangements to start final production in earnest.

Their train left early the next morning; he had already tasked Mr. Singh to pick them up at the break of dawn. A valise sat by the door—Camilla’s. It did not escape his notice that she had, once again, packed everything she owned into her one piece of luggage. She’d leave nothing behind.

She wasn’t wrong to do so; if she simply walked into Rector Miles’s house and walked off with a record book, showing everything that had been done, then they’d go off to his uncle, present him with the evidence, have their annulment, and…what?

Never see each other again.

God.

This might be the last evening they had together. He made his way into the parlor.

Camilla sat on the edge of her chair, biting her lip. She had a ball of yarn in her hands; she was crocheting…something? He didn’t know what that misshapen lump could be. They greeted each other; they always did. She asked about his day; he inquired as to hers. Then silence fell.

It was a silence stalked by the memory of tigers and plates.

After ten minutes of glancing her way, he gave up on pretending.

“Nervous?” he asked.

“I keep thinking,” she said. “I’m thinking of what to say when I arrive at the rectory. There’s part of me that says that they lied first, and so I shouldn’t let myself be bothered by it. But I am.”

“They did lie,” he said, with as much authority as he—someone who had once spent a few months acting as page for a bishop—could provide. “You shouldn’t feel badly at all.”

She bit her lip again. “What if they don’t believe me?”

“Don’t worry. I’m sending a telegram before hand, remember, purporting to be from Bishop Lassiter. Miles will be out of the house to respond; nobody there will know the truth in his absence. They’ll respond positively if you sound certain. It’s human nature.”

She nodded slowly.

“Go through it, then,” he said gently. “Tell me what you are going to do. The more you think it through, the more real it will be, the easier it will be to execute in the moment. Let’s practice now.”

She nodded, this time less slowly. “I will come in shortly after he has left.”

“Not looking like that,” he said, smiling at her. “If you come in looking like that, all nervous, they’ll doubt you. Look at them the way you looked at Alabi this morning. When you were sassing him.”

She shut her eyes and looked away. One inhalation, then another, and she stood. When she opened her eyes, there was a light smile on her face and a sparkle in her eyes.

He felt a knot form in his chest. God, she was lovely. “Like that.” His throat felt dry as he spoke. “Do it just like that. What will you say to them?”

She spun around, her skirt flaring briefly around her ankles, before smiling at him. “I’ve just realized.” Her smile broadened. “I’m definitely going to tell them the truth. Two lies don’t right a wrong, now, do they? And the more truth I tell, the stronger I will feel.”

He didn’t want to contradict her, not when her confidence seemed so shaky. But he had to say it. “I’m not precisely sure the truth will be effective.”

Camilla just licked her lips and took a step toward him. “Oh, for goodness’ sake, Albert,” she said, and her voice had an almost amused quality to it. “You didn’t actually believe all that, did you? That was a stage drama.”

He swallowed.

She sashayed toward Adrian, one step at a time. “The whole thing was a ruse. Half-Price Camilla? The rector simply didn’t want anyone to take me seriously.”

“Well.” He tried to get into his role as—who was Albert again? It didn’t help that he knew almost nothing of the man, save a vague memory of brown hair. “Why would he do that?”

“Did you not notice that he called me into his office to consult, occasionally, on serious matters? I’ve been in communication with other members of the church, of course.”

She came next to Adrian and sat on the arm of his chair. She seemed so absolutely in control, so utterly right and perfect in the role. Adrian could hardly bring himself to breathe.

“Don’t tell me you actually believed any of that. I thought you smarter than that.” She reached out and set a finger on the top button of his coat.

“Camilla.” His voice came out hoarse.

“He wanted the bishop to think me discredited so I could go assist with some other matters. But here I am.” She tilted her head in an inch, so close that he could almost taste her. “I’ve returned. Did you miss me?”

And in that moment, he did. It made no rational sense; he’d talked to her every day for weeks; he could not possibly miss her. But he felt the distance between them, that bare inch, so keenly that he almost vibrated with it.

“Cam…” Her name came out almost a groan. She swayed toward him, not quite completing what he wanted, and he reached out. Maybe it was to steady her in place. Maybe it was just to touch her. His hand found her waist.

She exhaled, and he could feel her breath—on his lips, in his heart.

“One of my favorite duties,” she whispered, “used to be starting the morning fires. Our room was cold, coal being too dear to waste on servants who would warm themselves in labor. So I’d dress in the morning, my hands too numb to do my buttons, and rush downstairs. There was pride to be had in adding kindling, bit by bit. Blowing on the banked coals. Encouraging them to catch flame in a blast of heat.”

He could almost taste her words. He could feel the picture she painted, that warmth of the fire.

His hand was on her waist. She leaned in a little more, so her forehead touched his.

“I always dawdled as much as I could about the job, letting my hands grow warm. I’d find some excuse—I needed to make sure the fire caught everywhere, so that it burned evenly. I wouldn’t leave, even if I threatened to bake through.”

“Cam.” He felt almost hoarse.

“I have always been susceptible to flame,” she told him.

He wasn’t sure if his lips found hers first, or if hers found his.

God. Oh, God. He couldn’t think; he couldn’t let himself. If he thought, this couldn’t happen, and it had to happen. He could not have let himself stop, not for a thousand rational arguments. The gentle pressure of her mouth on his felt like a promise. Her lips whispered against his, wiping away his concerns one by one.

It will all work out. You have nothing to fear from me. We are in this together.

He had thought at first that he could simply get the annulment and walk away, unchanged. Then she’d worked her way inside him, with her smiles and her impulses and her strength. Now she was fire itself, and he wanted to be burned.

Her lips stroked his in tiny little kisses—almost chaste, despite the heat in them. His other hand slipped around her waist, bracketing her in place.

He felt full, so full. His mouth devoured hers, and she opened another inch to him, blooming in the incandescent heat of his kiss. Her lips burned him, and oh, he desired. He wanted more—her on top of him, not sitting to the side; her opening to him fully, not this chaste embrace.

But he couldn’t take anything else, not after what had been done to her. All he could do was stand here and wait, wait for her to give.

Their lips touched briefly, parted for a second, then came back together in a symphony of perfection. It was too much. He wanted her too much. He wanted to take hold of her and pull her down onto his lap. He wanted to lick her lips and slide his tongue inside, if she’d let him. He wanted to take her upstairs to his bed, no questions asked, not a moment of hesitation, and damn the fact that it would doom any chance of annulling the marriage.

He wanted her and nothing but her, her forever.

She brought one hand up tentatively, setting her fingers against the fabric of his shirt. For one moment, she didn’t move; then, ever so slightly, she stroked downward, sending a spiral of electric want through his nerves. Her hand slid down his ribs, a delicate brush against his flesh. I want you. I care for you. I see you.

He let out a gasp, and encouraged, she shifted her hand farther down, letting it catch on the waistband of his trousers.

Yes, he thought wildly. Yes. Don’t stop. Don’t—

She pulled away first. Her eyes were suspiciously bright; she jumped to her feet, leaving him feeling cold and alone.

“Oh, look at that!” She did her best to come up with a smile. “It worked, I can’t believe it worked! You knew it was an act, and still I fooled you!”

It took a moment for reality to set in. Right. They’d been play-acting. He almost reached for her; his protest almost came out. What was that he felt?

Disappointment? Surely he could not be disappointed. He’d been on the verge of letting go of the entirety of his future; he should be delighted that she had called a halt to the endeavor.

He was not delighted. He wanted to keep her.

It felt so selfish, so desperate, so wrong. He wanted to keep her, and he couldn’t.

He put his head in his hands. Truth, eh? He’d never been good at lying.

“Cam,” he muttered. “I wasn’t acting.”

He could hear her stillness, the lack of motion. He could almost envision the look on her face.

She let out a long, slow breath, and when she spoke, her voice was low. “I know. I’m sorry; that was cruel of me. I thought you would come to your senses at any moment, and figured…it would hurt less if I did it first?”

He lifted his head and their eyes met. Hers were dark and…no, not unreadable. She was watching him with an intensity that he understood all too well. She’d looked at him that way often enough.

“And what,” he said slowly, “if I didn’t want to come to my senses?”

She folded her arms and looked away. “Then it would hurt even more when you finally did.”

Oh, Cam. Brave Cam, clever Cam, vastly unloved Cam. Cam who chased stars and deserved to wear her dreams like a crown. He wanted to punch the entire world for what it had done to her. She should not have felt that way.

She should not have been right.

He stood and took a step toward her.

“Please.” She sniffed. “We shouldn’t.”

“I won’t,” he promised. “Not that. But would it hurt so much if I gave you a hug?”

“Yes.” Her voice cracked. “But it will hurt more if you don’t.”

He wrapped her in his arms and held on as tightly as he could. It was just for now, but he wanted to enfold her in all the comfort he could send. And she burrowed into him, melting as if she were meant to be molded to him. Her chest shook, just a little, and when he brushed her cheek, there was a little wetness to it.

God. How long had it been since someone touched her in affection?

He realized he’d asked the question aloud when she answered.

“It feels as if I’ve been nine years starving.”

He stroked her hair. This was unfair, so unfair, most of all to her. “And here you are—not allowed to eat.”

She shook her head. “I’m allowed, but I’ll pay the price. If we let ourselves do any more, we will be married. In truth.”

It was madness to think they should contemplate that possibility. He didn’t want it. If he gave in like this…what if he regretted it later?

What he said was this: “Am I so horrible, then?”

She looked up at him. “You know you’re not. Of course you’re not. But you told me so yourself. You don’t want a wife who will choose you because you’re not ‘so horrible’ and she felt she didn’t have a choice. You want…” She inhaled. “You want a long, slow falling in love.” She said those words precisely, as if she’d memorized what he’d told her those weeks ago. “A partnership, built over time. Certainty and sureness. You want a choice, and you want to be chosen. You don’t want this—not like this.”

“Cam.”

She looked up at him. She reached out and slowly, slowly touched his cheek. “Adrian. I like you well enough that I promise I am going to give that to you. Don’t give it up, not like this.”

He exhaled.

She pulled herself from his embrace and wrapped her own arms about herself. “Tell me about your parents again. What you said the last time… It was lovely. I want to hear it again.”

I need to hear it again, he heard, and so do you.

He nodded. He sat back down, because if he didn’t, he might reach for her once more. His hands made fists on the arms of the chair, as if holding onto it would somehow substitute for her. “My mother married young, once. She never speaks of that. After her first husband died and left her a wealthy widow, she defied her family to join the abolitionist movement. She devoted her fortune to the cause. Worked with my father for years. My parents fell in love slowly and surely.”

“That sounds lovely.”

“They were comrades-in-arms before they were ever married.”

Cam had become his comrade. His ally in truth, not just in name. Even now, she protected him. She was the one who was reminding him what he wanted, no matter what it cost her.

He trailed off, searching for the right words.

“You’re right,” he finally said, “I want a choice.” He looked up at her. “And I want you to have one, too. You’ve had so little of it; I want whoever ends up loving you to know that you could have had anyone in the world, and you chose him. I want him to think that he has had a gift bestowed upon him, not that he was sentenced to your company by circumstance. You deserve better than this.”

Funny, how she’d faced everything that happened to her in the rector’s household with nothing but resolve, but this could bring tears to her eyes.

“You deserve to have no doubts,” he told her. “You deserve to believe that you were wanted above all others.”

His heart hurt in his chest.

“You deserve everything I want,” he told her. “You deserve a partner, a comrade-in-arms, a slow falling in love. You don’t deserve to be stuck with a man simply because he’s got a hankering for his own pleasure.”

“Is that what you’re after?”

He didn’t answer. He’d made a set of plates for her—partially, at least. It wasn’t as if he could hide the fact that he had some finer feelings.

“We can’t give each other anything else,” she said quietly. “But I can give you that. If that’s what you want—if you want a slow falling in love, if you want joy, if you want not to be stuck with a woman simply because she’ll do and you’ve a hankering for pleasure—then I will make sure you have it.”

His throat almost closed.

“I’m sorry for what I did earlier.” She gave him a firm nod. “Teasing you, when we were practicing. I will not let myself forget. We have too many enemies in this world to be at odds with each other on the question of how we feel.”

“And what if we decide we want to choose each other?”

She didn’t speak for a long time. She bit her lip. She looked away.

“I’ve been alone a long time,” she finally said. “I’ve wanted someone. Anyone. Rector Miles made me believe that when I told myself I would be loved, it was a legion of devils driving me into sin. He told me the tiny voice of doubt I always heard was my sole hold on righteousness.” Her voice shook. “But I refuse. I cannot believe it is evil to hope somebody will love me someday.”

“Cam.”

“I never needed that person to be a husband. I imagined being a faithful companion to an elderly woman. A bright spot in the day of a shopkeeper. And yes, sometimes a wife.” She looked over at him. “I don’t have to be your wife, Adrian. But can I be your friend? No matter what, even after all this is over? It would be more than I have ever had.”

There was nothing for it. He stood. He walked to her again. His arms came around her once more, this time in friendship. His head leaned against hers.

“Yes,” he said. “Please. I think we could both use a friend.”