But I cannot give myself another minute for such cogitations as Ryall has already braced my arm against his side, his speech now imparting a farewell of sorts to Marta while I'm herded towards the drawing room door.

  "I'll return to you as soon as I've escorted our Miss Hawes upstairs," Ryall says, tossing the words over his shoulder along with a smile that elicits from Marta nothing more than a small lift of her glass before she tips it back and imbibes the last of its contents in a single swallow.

  We move through the foyer, Ryall setting a meandering pace that I could take as reluctance to see me up to the next floor. At the bottom of the stairs, he pauses. A step back puts enough space between us that instead of holding me against his side, he turns to face me, his hand sliding down the length of my sleeve until he takes my hand in a loose, tenuous grip within his own. "I have not seen you much of late, Thea."

  My fingers twitch, a slight stretch before they pull inward again, and yet I believe he takes it as an approval of his touch, so much so that he moves nearer. Not a step, but rather a drift in my direction, like a reed pushed by a shift in the air.

  "Miss Summerson informs me you've been unwell? At least, that was the reason for your inability to join me here for supper last week. Is it…?"

  The question hangs there, the remaining words drawn back and silenced with a seal of his lips, followed by an audible swallow.

  "I am tired, that is all." A half-truth, really. For I am tired, always tired, the few hours of sleep I achieve each night bringing little in the way of rest. But I cannot tell him that. Marta has advised against it, instructing me that I should only reveal the barest details of my affliction. Or my gift, as some refer to it. Though it depends greatly on the person speaking, and whether or not they've ever been forced to suffer for it.

  "A word," Ryall says, nearer still, his voice lowered to a whisper. "That is all, you know. And I will open my home to you, see that you are treated with the greatest care, given everything you could want or need."

  I slide my fingers out of his. "Thank you." My voice is small, and I cannot meet his eyes. Perhaps I need to play more of the coquette, accept his advances with a willing air. I had tried before, thinking—hoping, maybe—that his fascination was due to nothing other than the persona he'd witnessed on stage, the version of myself that Marta put forward to attract a greater audience and, in turn, greater revenue. But I take a step back, my shoulders turning towards the stairs, though I stop myself from twisting away from him completely. "I will keep your offer in mind, should it ever become a necessity."

  The smile returns, enough to tell me that I've said the right thing. A nod, his arm held out to me, and we begin our ascent, our steps muffled by the plush carpet that runs down the center of the staircase.

  "She had wanted to greet you downstairs," Ryall goes on, and it takes me a moment to realize that we're back to speaking of his cousin, Mrs. Trask. "But she is… Well, I would not say she is of a delicate disposition. It is more that she is wary of strangers, I think. It has been difficult for her, the loss of her child after such a long illness. And she was so devoted to his care, so it must… Oh, it must weigh heavily on her."

  We pass several doors, doors that open to rooms I have visited before. But it's to one at the end of the corridor that he guides me. He knocks lightly with the back of his hand, and a brief, muffled response invites us into the room.

  Darkness greets me. I blink at the sudden change in illumination from the gaslit hall behind me. There are no lamps lending their light to dispel the gloom in here, not even a candle on which to focus my gaze as I step across the threshold. Ryall, I realize, has allowed me to move forward without him, and it's only my own footfalls on the edge of the hardwood floor breaking the silence that presses like a cumbrous thing against my head.

  The silence, of course, is what unnerves me. There should be noise. There should be the voices, as always, seeking out a new avenue into my thoughts, hoping the distraction of meeting a new individual will be enough for one of them to insinuate itself into my normal musings. But it's an absence of sound here, as if I've submerged my head beneath the water and shut out all of the usual noises to which I'd become accustomed.

  "Rachel?"

  I nearly start at Ryall's voice. Like the shattering of a window, it allows everything to come through again. A shudder passes through me as even the ringing in my ears returns, layered over the rush of breath and the thrum of beating hearts and pulsing blood around me.

  There is a glow from the fireplace. I seek it out as my eyes adjust to the light, or lack thereof. A few embers, left to burn down to ash, is all the illumination I'm allowed. Slowly, I turn my attention away from the dying fire, and I find a figure seated in a chair, topped by a pale face set over smudges of grey and lavender nearly indiscernible from the shadows surrounding her. For it is a woman I see, the hem of a silk gown catching that ebbing radiance of the coals, hands folded and resting on a lap beneath a trim, corseted waist. I could think her a statue for all the life she displays. And then she blinks, breaking the spell, and the pale face shifts with the effort of producing a small, slow smile.

  "This is her, then?" Her eyes, twin holes of black in the fair face, dart towards Ryall. "Miss Hawes, is it?"

  I nod, despite my uncertainty if it's from me she expects a reply. "And you are Mrs. Trask?"

  She stands up, hands unclasping and sweeping across the front of her skirt before they complete a full arc that brings them up to a gesture of supplication at the level of her chest. "Oh, call me Rachel, please. I could not abide to be on such formal terms."

  Her voice is high and thin, the words all tumbling out in a rush as if she cannot keep up with her breath as it escapes her. As she approaches, leaving the shadows behind and stepping into the circle of light let in from the hall, I realize that she is similar in build to myself. Fine-boned and fragile, yet she carries lines in her face that I do not have, and there's even an edge of silver in the dark hair so neatly pinned away to the back of her head.

  "Geoffrey, if you would?" Rachel thrusts the point of her chin towards the door where Ryall still lingers.

  I look back to see Ryall bow, first to his cousin and then to me. And it is on me that his gaze remains. "I will check back on you in, say, half an hour? Perhaps we can enjoy a light supper together." He doesn't wait for either of us to give a word of assent or protest, if indeed the offer were meant for anyone other than myself. A final nod and he departs, backing into the corridor and shutting the door behind him.

  Rachel stands not two paces from me, her hands still folded together in front of her bodice. I cannot see more than this, now that the light from the hall is cut off and I'm again adrift in the darkness of the room. But I make out the tilt of her head, and I imagine the tight, brittle nature of her smile as it deepens the lines in the dry skin of her cheeks. "Oh, now then." The voice, still breathy, sends syllables fluttering around in the air between us like butterflies. "I'm not certain what all Geoffrey has told you."

  "Very little," I inform her. "Only that you mourn your son."

  "My only son," she adds, her height gaining an inch as she lifts her chin, as her shoulders press back against the confines of silk and whalebone. "And I… I killed him."

  Chapter Three

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  * * *

  Rachel sits by the fire, again posed as if she were capable of slipping back among the shadows and dark, heavy pieces of furniture. The resurgent flames lick over the fresh coals, fingers of blue light pushing back the darkness and permitting me to study the woman across from me in greater detail. The jewels that grace her hands and ears, the lustre of her gown and the fine, near-invisible stitching act as a sort of barrier between us, an unspoken thing that keeps us apart, no matter that we now sit in places of equal prominence near the grate.

  "He was always so very ill," Rachel says, her gaze fixed on some vague location behind me. Her fingers move, a small twitch that transforms into a steady slide of her thumb across the knuckles of her other hand. "Simon," she adds, and her eyes, an unusual mixture of blue and green and hazel, finally meet mine. "I chose his name before he was born, before I even knew that I wanted children. But I knew that I would have a boy, and I knew I would love him, no matter what difficulties should lie ahead." A glimmer of a smile, and the fingers stop their fidgeting. "They said he would not live for long, that he was too weak to grow, to thrive…"

  I watch her, and again I'm struck by a silence that seems to surround her, to emanate from her like a living and breathing thing. When she raises her chin, I see the quiver there, the gleam of moisture collecting at the corners of her eyes. And I lean several inches forward, shifting in my seat as I clear my own thoughts and press towards hers with a touch as light as gossamer.

  My teeth catch on the edge of my tongue as I bite down, drawing the acrid taste of blood into my mouth. It's all over and done with before I've even a chance to regain my balance, and I'm left to stare at the woman across from me as the voices increase and then recede again, a sibilant hiss of waves pulling away from the shore and back to sea.

  "Miss Hawes?"

  The change in her posture is the only crack in her facade. Everything else remains the same, the placement of her hands in her lap and the still unshed tears in her eyes. And yet there's also a tightening at the corners of her mouth, the jolt of a muscle in her jaw as her eyelids flutter once, twice, and then nothing.

  "Your son." I swallow after I speak, pushing down the mixture of blood and nausea until I can trust myself to breathe. And now it's her turn to watch me while I struggle to grasp at the detritus of her thoughts before they are taken from me. A flash of color, of muted voices, of an odor so cloying that I cannot prevent myself from gasping for air. Something else, as well, something that beckons me to follow, and all as a renewed pain sears its way through my temples. A voice I hear above all the others, and I tremble at the realization that it is not her own.

  "Miss Hawes," she says again. "Is something amiss?"

  I press the tips of my fingers into the arms of my chair with such force I worry I might break the wood into splinters. I don't like this. I have no trust for the silence that seems to shield her, and yet that same pull from before tugs me towards her. "Your son… He did indeed strengthen, did he not? The doctors…" I shut my eyes. She told me nothing of this, but it's all there regardless of her efforts to keep me out. A giddiness overwhelms me, followed by a rapid descent into sorrow, and when I find Rachel's face again, I see a mixture of shock and fear in her expression.

  "Geoffrey said…" She shakes her head, her teeth seeking out her bottom lip. "I thought it was all a farce, empty words. I never believed that you would—" She cuts herself off with a noise in her throat. An adjustment to her position, and all of a sudden she seems intent to resume her former narrative as if our brief disturbance had never occurred. "Yes, yes. There were all the signs of improvement, that he would grow to be a healthy child, a healthier man, that I would no longer have to worry over him." A flutter of her fingers, and her chin lowers until I see nothing but the severe line of her parted hair. "Did he tell you of my husband?"

  I blink at that. Of course there must be a husband. But I merely gesture for her to continue rather than ruminate on how little Ryall told me about his cousin before I was requested to make her acquaintance.

  "He died." At first, I think she will leave it at that, but the smile returns, pulled so tight it creates a dimple in her right cheek. "As Simon's health improved, his own deteriorated. Perhaps the strain of worrying about his only son, or perhaps…" A sigh slips out, and her shoulders roll forward as the weight of what seems to be an insurmountable grief lowers onto them. "He simply did not wake up. Three days before his fortieth birthday, and he was already gone from me."

  She doesn't speak again for well over a minute. I look towards the fire, the coals having settled into a steady burn. At the prickle of warmth on my legs, I cross my ankles and tuck my feet as far beneath the edge of my chair as they'll go.

  "And all the while, Simon continued to grow stronger. Oh, my darling boy!"

  I glance up again to see the surreptitious swipe at tears before they can escape beyond the boundary of her eyelashes.

  "There began to be talk of his attending school," she continues, her voice thick. "Though I would have nothing of that. Whatever outward show he gave us of improvement, I think I always knew that my time with him would be short. And anyway—" A wave of her hand and she's swept away her sudden outburst of emotion. "I would never have sent him from home, not even to the local vicar's for lessons. No, he was to stay with me, and so I hired a tutor, and we began to carve out a happy little life for ourselves, just him and I. Of course, there were always meddlers," she says, her eyes flashing as her voice rises. "But I kept tabs on our staff, paring our household down to only the most essential positions. I did not let anyone through our doors who I could not trust implicitly."

  She looks at me then, something like expectation sharpening her features. What it is that she currently wants from me, whether it be approval or sympathy or some manner of reproach against her actions, I cannot guess. But I nod anyway, if only to keep her speaking, while that same temptation to delve into her deepest thoughts—the ones so carefully placed beyond my reach—tugs at me.

  "Well, he was nine years old when he showed symptoms of his old illness returning to him. He complained of headaches, of being too weak to rise from his bed, and he refused to eat anything unless I had prepared it for him myself. And the doctors were useless," she adds with remarkable vehemence. "I dismissed all of them until only I was responsible for his care." Her eyes widen as she leans towards me. "So you see, yes? Why I should feel such guilt? Why I should suspect that I am the one responsible for his death? If I had done something different, if I had not insisted in having so much control, he might still be with me today."

  I don't know what to say, or if I'm even required to speak at all. Perhaps my only reason for being here is to lend an ear, someone to whom she can confess before I deliver a penance and send her on her way. But before I can determine the extent of my purpose here, a light tap on the door draws our attention away from each other as Ryall steps sideways into the room.

  "Ah, I see," he says, though without offering an explanation as to what precisely it is that he has interrupted. "Miss Summerson was kind enough to remind me of the time, and I did not wish for you to think that we had gone and forgotten you." His gaze darts between us, incapable of resting on one of us for more than a few seconds. "I had hoped… That is, there is still some time before supper is to be served, and there was some expectation among us—Miss Summerson, Mrs. Trask, and myself, I should say—that you would be willing to aid Mrs. Trask in the task of reaching out to her son. Only if you are willing, Miss Hawes."

  I turn in my seat and look back at Rachel. Her eyebrows are raised, and her hands—those delicate, bejeweled hands—have returned to their former pose of supplication. "You do not know how much it would mean to me, Miss Hawes, if I could speak to him, if I could ask Simon for his forgiveness."

  At that moment, there is nothing I want more than to leave. But the ability to dictate the terms of my own existence has always been something that resided in the realms of the fantastical. And so I stand, and I lower my chin towards Rachel and then Ryall in turn. "Of course. I'm sure Marta has already taken it upon herself to arrange everything." And all without any need for my involvement. "Should we return downstairs?"

  Ryall steps back, leaving the doorway open for us. "Yes, that would be best. Rachel? Miss Hawes?" He makes a sweeping movement with his arm, indicating our place to go before him. I allow Rachel to go first, and then I bring up the rear, expecting to fall into step behind Ryall. But he waits for me, his arm held out again, his body angled in such a manner that I cannot step past him without giving insult.

  I place my hand on his sleeve, the touch so light I wonder if he even registers my fingers as making contact. But his own hand comes up to cover mine, and he lowers his head as Rachel walks on, the swish of her silk gown telling us precisely how far she's travelled from us.

  "This is a great favor, Miss Hawes. Thank you." His other hand finds my chin, his thumb stroking the edge of my jaw. The movement has a casual feel to it, as if he's doing nothing more than reaching up to push back an errant lock of hair or wipe a smudge of dirt from my skin. His kiss, however, has nothing of the cavalier about it. He presses his lips first to my cheek, then my jaw, and finally they wend their way to my mouth, the pressure firmer there, enough that I clamp my teeth shut until he raises his head again. "I look forward to this evening's entertainment with tremendous anticipation."

  He leads me towards the stairs, our arms intertwined, his steps aligned with my own. And all while the portion of my mind I try so desperately to hold at bay, the voices attempting to wound me with their sibilant torments, tease me with the question as to why the deepest gloom of the room we've just departed seems to trail in the wake of a shimmering silk gown.

  Chapter Four

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  * * *

  It's an informal sitting. That much I gather from the hasty arrangement of table and chairs, from Marta's whispered conversation with Ryall about which objects can be pilfered from other parts of the house to aid me in my demonstration. And as for myself? I'm already seated, my head bowed, my gaze tracing over the table I'm reluctant to touch. Rachel has taken her place across from me. In the brighter light of the drawing room, I notice a sallow tinge to her complexion, and there is the purple sweep of shadows beneath her eyes.