Even with the normal smoky haze that hung over Edinburgh and the gathering mass of clouds, the South Bridge with its fancy shops looked far different from the last time Phoebe had been here. Standing inside the dressmaker’s front shop, she scanned the activity on the street. It was no longer a dark, empty avenue, where the fog and mist cloaked every sound but the wheels of Ian’s carriage taking her away from the Vaults. Today, the street was filled with color and the busy sounds of pedestrians, carters, and conveyances of every size and description.

As always, she marveled that this bustling and prosperous city thoroughfare and the tall buildings that lined both sides actually sat upon a bridge . . . and that the lowliest of Edinburgh’s poor languished in the Vaults beneath its glittering street.

Phoebe reluctantly shook off the thought, however, and turned away from the large glass window of the shop. She didn’t want to spoil the excursion for her mother and Millie. Today, she needed to have a dress made to wear when she married Ian.

The church in Melrose Village was about to host another Pennington wedding. The notice of their engagement was perfectly succinct, as far as Phoebe and Ian were concerned. Captain Ian Bell of Bellhorne, Fife, is to wed Lady Phoebe Pennington by special license. They were both relieved the families deferred so amiably to their wishes. Only immediate family and close friends would be attending the ceremony. A much larger celebration was planned for the days preceding the Christmas Assembly at Baronsford.

Phoebe had given a letter containing the news to Wynne, asking him to give it to her sister once they arrived in Jamaica. She’d also sent letters to Gregory and Freya in Torrishbrae in the Highlands. They’d just returned to Sutherland with little Ella after Jo’s wedding. Phoebe couldn’t even ask them to come back to Baronsford so soon, considering Freya was now six months into her pregnancy.

“A week,” Phoebe repeated under her breath as she walked by her mother and Millie, who were busily inspecting bolts of painted satin and cotton and muslin cloth, and well as embroidered silk. She couldn’t get excited about new dresses and sashes and shawls and hats and gloves. It didn’t matter what she wore. But thinking of marriage to Ian . . . she let out a sigh of pleasure.

Tonight, her family was having dinner with his family at the Bells’ Melville Street house. Phoebe imagined a day very soon when she’d be sharing that house with him. They’d go to Fife together. They’d dine together every day. They’d walk in the gardens and ride in the fields together. They’d sleep in the same bed. Her face warmed as she remembered their last night in his rooms in Bellhorne. The passionate and insatiable love they’d shared still heated her blood.

She walked to a counter and let her hand trail absently over rows of ribbons.

“Six days to be exact,” she whispered under her breath. Six days to have a husband and friend and lover for the eternity. Six days before she could climb into bed with him at any hour of the day or night. In six days, she could call Mrs. Bell “Mother” too, and sit with her and read to her and help her find her way through the grief.

The doctor from the university, the friend of Dr. Thornton, had come to Fiona. Another expert was to see her in two days. But this trip to the city—or perhaps it was the bright activity of nuptial preparations—had already improved her health. Mrs. Bell appeared sturdier in body and far more stable in mind. The confusion was gone.

Unfortunately, she still did not feel strong enough to join them on this outing today.

The tinkling sound of the door opening onto the street drew Phoebe’s attention to the young lad who tumbled in. Her heart broke a little at the sight of the filthy face, the tattered clothing, and the large eyes peering from his thin face.

“Out, rascal. Out, this moment. Do ye hear me?” the shop owner called from behind the piles of material.

Dropping a stick at Phoebe’s feet, he turned and ran out with the same urgency as he’d come in.

“Just a street urchin, Lady Phoebe. My apologies. The Old Town has gangs of them overrunning entire neighborhoods. Apparently, there is nothing we can do to stop it. I hope he didn’t distress you, m’lady.”

Phoebe’s attention had already shifted from the owner’s apologetic complaints to the stick that lay at her feet. A cane with an ivory handle, carved with a partially opened rosebud. She picked it up and stared at it. It was Mrs. Bell’s walking stick. Or one that looked exactly like it.

She went to the door of the shop, pulled it open, and looked out.

“Where are you going?” her mother called.

“I’ll be right back.”

The sidewalk was filled with crowds of shoppers, and the lad seemed to have evaporated into thin air.

It was possible, she supposed, that others owned a similarly carved cane. But it seemed so unlikely.

Phoebe continued to scan the throng for some sign of the lad . . . or Mrs. Bell, for that matter. As she stretched up onto her tiptoes, someone bumped her from behind with such violence that she would have fallen if not for a set of strong hands that caught her by the elbow, steadying her.

“Oh, my . . . Lady Phoebe!”

She was astonished to find herself looking into the handsome face of the minister. She hadn’t realized his eyes were hazel. He tipped his hat. “Why, Mr. Garioch.”

Ian had told her the minister arrived from Bellhorne yesterday and was staying with them. “I heard you’d come to town. What a surprise to run into you here. We’ll be dining together tonight, I understand.”

“I must apologize, m’lady, for being so abrupt.” The man looked past her down the street. “But I cannot tarry. Mrs. Bell and Mrs. Young are looking at hats in a milliner’s shop only five doors down and some street rat absconded with—”

“This?” Phoebe asked, holding the cane up.

“You have it,” the man said excitedly. “You apprehended the thief!”

“Not exactly,” she explained. “He seemed to take a wrong turn and found me.”

“Well, we must return the walking stick to Mrs. Bell immediately. She’s quite attached to it, you know.” Garioch looked back over his shoulder. “She’s just up the street.”

“Where?” she asked, looking in the direction the minister was indicating, but the crowds blocked her view.

He took Phoebe by the elbow and started leading her that way. “Mrs. Bell will be so delighted to see you. I actually think the milliner’s shop was simply an excuse to join you and your family.”

* * *

“I know choosing ribbons and lace is not the way you’d prefer to be spending your afternoon,” Ian’s mother said. “But I’m truly appreciative of you taking me over here.”

“Absolutely, Mother. Don’t even mention it.”

He was actually quite happy to be accompanying his mother on this little shopping excursion. Initially, when Fiona decided she didn’t feel well enough to go out with Phoebe and her family, Ian’s cousin Alice had arranged to walk a little in Charlotte Square with Dr. Thornton. But later, feeling more game, his mother changed her mind. Ian didn’t need any better reason. He wanted to see Phoebe, regardless of the occasion.

His mother absently patted the seat next to her, feeling for her missing cane.

He took her hand. Her favorite walking stick had been misplaced today, and she was lost without the comfort of it. Before leaving, he’s asked the servants to fetch a different one, but Fiona refused to take it.

“There once was a day when I imagined I’d be taking Sarah shopping for her wedding dress.” She looked out the window at the crowds of people. They were passing Tron Church and Hunter Square and were approaching the South Bridge. “But it wasn’t meant to be.”

The heavy hand of responsibility once again clutched Ian’s gut. After three years of searching, he’d never found the answer. The mystery of his sister’s death was still unresolved. From this street, from these same shops, she’d disappeared. He wondered if he ever would be able to let go of the guilt.

“But now”—she smiled, brightening as she turned to him—“Phoebe is going to be my daughter.”

And his wife. Phoebe was the key to a future that could one day conquer the tragic past. That was his hope.

“And you should know that your cousin is planning to accept Dr. Thornton’s offer today,” his mother said, tapping Ian on the knee. “That’s the reason for their walk this afternoon. With you marrying and Phoebe in our lives, Alice feels more secure that she won’t be leaving me without a companion. I told her, however, that she is always welcome at—”

“What is Mr. Garioch doing on the South Bridge?” he asked as their carriage rolled past. The minister said he was spending the afternoon going through the archives at St. Andrews Church on George Street.

More importantly, why was Phoebe walking alongside him?

* * *

The minister nattered on about the crowds and the shops and the beggars on every corner, but Phoebe couldn’t comprehend much of what the man was saying. An invisible hand held her stomach in a tight grip, and she couldn’t understand why. But with every step she took away from her family at the dressmaker’s shop, the tighter that hand squeezed.

The cane. Mrs. Bell’s cane had been brought into the shop and dropped at her feet. Why?

Phoebe slowed down. “I think we’ve gone more than five doors, Mr. Garioch.”

“You’re correct, m’lady. Running after the wee scoundrel, I lost track and misspoke. But here we are.” He motioned to a building ahead. Phoebe could see a display of hats in the window. “Mrs. Bell and Mrs. Young were to wait in that shop.”

The minister tried to direct her steps toward an alley that ran along the side of the building.

“I left them right inside the door off this wynd. The side entrance is right down here, m’lady. Quite convenient.”

Phoebe stopped. “One moment, Mr. Garioch.”

Fear clawed its way into her throat. Sarah left a shop and disappeared near here. She had to know her assailant. Someone she trusted. Phoebe’s nightmares came rushing back. Faces changing into other faces. Men becoming monsters.

She glanced into Garioch’s eyes, and she knew she was right.

“Give my regrets to Mrs. Bell.” Her words were rushed. She needed to get away from him, but he was herding her closer to the alley. “My mother and sister . . . I need to return to them.”

Phoebe tried to edge around him, but he cut her off. Light glinted off his knife as he pulled the weapon from his coat. She stared, frozen in time, at the blade.

She saw the attack play out in her mind. Here, in daylight, with throngs of people around them, if anyone paid the least attention to a woman bent over in pain, Garioch would calmly reassure them that they were together, that she would be fine in a moment, and that he needed no help.

Phoebe leaped back, avoiding the point of the knife by a hair, but stumbled into the wynd. As she regained her balance, he kept coming, his blade held low, backing her down the alley. Phoebe tripped over a discarded box and fell backwards, rolling over onto her hands and knees. She was quick to jump to her feet, but he continued to move toward her. She glanced behind her into the darkening alley. A few yards more and the wynd turned. In the murky distance, she saw steps descending between crumbling walls.

The Vaults.

“Why? Why are you doing this?” she yelled at him.

His face was impassive, and he said nothing but came on unrelentingly.

She recalled her promise to Ian and shouted for help, but no one could hear her. The wynd was too secluded. No one was coming. No one seemed to hear. She couldn’t believe she’d fallen prey to his trick so easily.

He was the one. The chill of evil grew more distinct with every step. The way he held the knife. His size, the way he moved purposely, inexorably toward her brought back that horrible night.

“I saw you. I fought with you when you tried to kill the boy. That’s why you’re doing this, isn’t it?”

Still no answer. In the corner of her eye, she spotted a doorway in the wall. Perhaps, she thought desperately, it opened to a shop. People. She threw her shoulder against it, but it didn’t budge. Barred from the inside. She saw another and ran toward it. Before she reached it, she heard him behind her.

“Garioch!”

Phoebe turned and threw up her arm in defense as the knife arced toward her.

“Garioch!”

The shouts startled the killer, and Phoebe slipped to the side, fending off the blade’s downward stab.

Ian. He was here. He’d found her. He’d save her.

Garioch’s head jerked around as Ian raced toward them.

“Stop!”

The minister jumped past her, and before Phoebe could move to Ian, she felt the edge of the blade at her throat.

“No stopping. I’ve been chosen. Chosen,” Garioch shouted. “She meddled with God’s work. She needs to die. For I must avenge them.”

* * *

Blast him, Ian cursed. Blast the devil. The minister. The man who had been welcome in their home. A monster in the house of worship. The invisible evil, trusted by all. No wonder Sarah had walked into his trap. Phoebe had nearly done the same thing.

“The voices come to me,” Garioch told him, backing away down the wynd and taking Phoebe with him. “The five martyrs. They died at the hands of the corrupt ones. They were pure and innocent, but the heretics butchered them and burned them.”

Ian didn’t want to hear about heretics or butchers. He wanted the man to let Phoebe go.

The despicable fraud had her in his power. He looked at Phoebe’s face, at the knife in Garioch’s hand. Blood was dripping from where he held the blade against her throat. He moved closer.

“They command me. I have no choice. I must do their bidding. I’m a soldier of God. Surely you can understand that.”

“I don’t understand. You must let Phoebe go. She has nothing to do with this.”

He was backing away, dragging her with him.

“She’s the meddler. She’s not Sarah. Your sister was never supposed to die. It was an accident. She shouldn’t have seen me.”

Ian’s fury roared for blood, but he had to control it.

“Stay where you are,” Garioch warned him. “One step closer and I’ll take her head off right here.”

They’d almost reached the steps leading down to the Vaults.

Ian gave him a few steps, but he was not about to let him take her down there. Once they passed through the door into the labyrinthine darkness, they’d be gone. He’d never get to her in time.

“I’ll go mad if I don’t do their bidding,” the monster said, the intensity in his voice rising. “I have no choice.”

“You always have a choice.”

This was insanity. He was the same height, the same weight, in the same clothes. But a different creature lived beneath his skin.

“My hatred of her is my choice,” he roared, jerking Phoebe’s head back. “She is the devil who thinks she has nine lives.”

“You pushed me into the well,” she spat through gritted teeth.

“You should have died there, but it’s not too late. I will teach her how to die.”

The man stopped. A dozen paces separated Ian from them. Dread washed through him. He couldn’t lose her. Not now. She deserved better. She deserved life.

He wouldn’t argue with a madman. But Ian couldn’t fail her. For all his life, he was a lost man. Wounded, crushed by war, by grief, and she saved him. He couldn’t let her go.

Garioch backed toward the open door. “Men must die. Men must pay for the blood of the martyrs.”

As Ian charged, a tall, thin lad came out of nowhere, swinging a cudgel hard, and it sang in the dim light as it glanced off the killer’s head. Garioch staggered backward for only a second, but it was enough. Ian was on him, driving the knife still clutched in his murderous hand straight into the monster’s heart.