Near where the charter’d Thames does flow.
And mark in every face I meet
Marks of weakness, marks of woe.
—William Blake, “London”
Grace suspected it was evening. She had no real way of telling, save by the changing nature of the meals she was brought—oatmeal for breakfast, sandwiches for luncheon, and supper, which tonight had been mutton with currant jelly. It was all rather better than her mother’s usual fare.
She had also been provided with two plain linen dresses, in a sort of bone color, not unlike the robes the Brothers wore. She supposed she could sit about the cell stark naked for all they really cared, but she dressed carefully each day and plaited her hair anyway. It seemed like giving up something not to do it, and this evening she was glad she had, as soft footsteps heralded a visitor.
She sat up on her bed, heart pounding. Jesse? Had he forgiven her? Returned? There was so much she wanted to say, to explain to him—
“Grace.” It was Christopher. Gentle Christopher. The torches burning in the corridor—Brother Zachariah had put them there for her, since the Brothers did not need light—showed her that he was alone, coatless, and carried a leather satchel over his shoulder.
“Christopher!” she whispered loudly. “Did you sneak in?”
He looked puzzled. “No, of course not. Brother Zachariah asked me if I knew the way and I said yes, so he went to attend to other business.” He held up something that glittered. A key. “He said I could come into the cell and visit with you. He says he trusts you not to try to escape, which is rather nice.”
Into the cell? Grace hadn’t been near another human being without bars between them for what felt like forever. It was kind of Zachariah to let a friend come into her cell, she thought, as Christopher unlocked the door and pushed it open, the hinges squeaking. Kindness still knocked her off guard, leaving her feeling confused and almost uncomfortable.
“I’m afraid that there’s only the one chair,” Grace said. “So I’ll remain sitting on the bed, if that’s all right. I know it isn’t proper.”
“I don’t think the usual rules of British etiquette hold here,” Christopher said, sitting down with his satchel in his lap. “The Silent City isn’t in London—it’s everywhere, isn’t it? We could walk out the doors and be in Texas or Malacca. So we can cobble together any rules of politeness we like.”
Grace couldn’t help but smile. “That makes a surprising amount of sense. But then, you often do. Have you come to discuss the notes you left? I’ve had some thoughts—ways the process might be refined, or experiments that could be tried—”
“We needn’t talk about the notes,” said Christopher. “It’s the Institute’s Christmas party tonight, you see.” He began rooting around in his satchel. “And I thought, since you couldn’t go, I might try to bring some of the party to you. To remind you that even though you are here, it is not forever, and soon enough you will again be someone who goes to parties.” As though performing a magic track, he drew out a green glass bottle. “Champagne,” he said. “And glasses for champagne.” These too he drew out of the bag and set on the small wooden table next to Grace’s bed.
There was a feeling in Grace’s stomach that she didn’t recognize, a sort of fizziness like champagne itself. “You are a very strange boy.”
“Am I?” said Christopher, sounding legitimately surprised.
“You are,” said Grace. “You turn out to be very sensitive, for a scientist.”
“One can be both,” Christopher said mildly. His kindness, like Zachariah’s, left her almost worried. She would never have expected it, not from one of James’s friends, who had every reason to dislike her, but he seemed steadfast in his desire to make sure she did not feel utterly abandoned or forgotten.
And yet it was all built on deceit. She knew that now, from Jesse’s reaction to what she had told him. He would have found out on his own, anyway, she was sure; but if she had not told him, every part of their relationship would have been a lie. Now at least, if he forgave her…
With a loud pop, Christopher removed the cork from the top of the bottle. He poured two glasses, set the bottle on a shelf, and held a glass out to her: it was an oddly pretty thing in the dreary cell, the gold-colored liquid shining.
“Christopher,” she said, taking the glass. “There is something I must tell you.”
His lavender eyes—so beautifully odd, the color—widened. “What’s happened?”
“It’s not quite that.” Solemnly Christopher clinked his glass against hers. She took a long drink from the glass, and it tickled her nose; she had to hold back a sneeze. It was better than she remembered. “It’s something I’ve done… to someone. Something terrible, in secret.”
His brow furrowed. “Is this something you did to me?”
“No,” she said hurriedly. “Not at all. Nothing to do with you.”
“Then probably,” he said, “it’s not me you need to confess to, but rather the person you did it to.”
His voice was solemn. Grace looked at him, at his gentle serious face, and thought, He suspects. I don’t know how, and perhaps he only speculates, but—he guesses something very close to the truth.
“Grace,” he said. “I’m sure whomever you have wronged, he will forgive you. If you explain how it happened, and why.”
“I have confessed already,” she said slowly. “To the one I wronged. I cannot say that he has forgiven me, nor that I deserve his forgiveness.” She bit her lip. “I have no right to ask,” she said slowly. “But if you could help me…”
Christopher looked at her, with his steady scientist’s gaze. “Help you with what?”
“There is someone else,” she said, “who has been harmed greatly by my actions, through no fault of their own. Someone who deserves to know the truth.” She took a deep breath. “Cordelia. Cordelia Carstairs.”
* * *
Lucie would never have admitted it out loud, but she was pleased that the Christmas party was going forward. She had become reacquainted with Jesse at a ball at the Institute, but he had been a ghost and she the only one who could see him: it had been startling, but not, perhaps, romantic. This was her first chance to dance with him as a breathing, living man, and she was filled with nervous excitement.
The weather outside had been electric all day, heavy with the promise of a storm that had not yet broken. Lucie sat at her vanity table as the sun dipped low outside her window, firing the horizon with scarlet while her mother put the finishing touches on Lucie’s hair. （Tessa had grown up without a maid and had learned early on to do her own hair; she was excellent at helping Lucie with hers, and some of Lucie’s best memories were of her mother plaiting her hair while reciting to her the plot of a bad novel she’d just read.）
“Could you pin my hair with this, Mama?” Lucie asked, holding up her gold comb. Jesse had given it to her earlier that day, saying only that he would like to see her wear it again.
“Of course.” Tessa deftly smoothed a coil of Lucie’s French pompadour into place. “Are you nervous, kitten?”