Page 47

“This way,” I said, guiding her toward a table near the back.

Lily slid into her seat. I caught the way her hands gripped the edge of the table, knuckles white for just a moment before she forced them to relax.

Still on guard. Still aware she was being watched.

Smart girl.

A serving woman approached, Clara, who'd worked here for years and knew better than to ask questions. “Evening, Mr. Hawthorne. What'll it be?”

“What's fresh tonight?”

“Beef-and-barley pies just came out, sir. Also, mutton broth, and we've treacle pudding cooling if you've a sweet tooth.”

“Two pies. Bread with dripping. And a pot of strong tea.”

“Right away, sir.”

Lily was studying the room with the same precise focus, cataloguing every detail.

“Overwhelmed?” I asked, keeping my tone conversational.

“Observing,” she corrected

“Is there a difference?”

“Usually.”

“You've been observing quite a bit today. The streets, the buildings, the people.” I paused. “Anything particularly interesting catch your attention?”

Something flickered in her expression. “Everything is interesting when you're living in a history textbook,” she said lightly. “Though I have to admit, I expected Victorian England to be louder. More chaotic.”

“It is, during the day. At night it quiets. Different people come out. The ones who prefer darkness to daylight.”

“Like Weavers?”

“Among others.” I let the silence stretch, noting how she filled it by looking away, fingers tracing patterns on the table. “But you saw that firsthand this morning. The arrest.”

Her jaw tightened. “I'd rather not relive that, if it's all the same to you.”

“Of course. Distressing, I'm sure. Are you feeling better? I have to say, you recovered remarkably quickly afterward. You faltered most dramatically in the street, only to appear fully restored an instant later.”

She stiffened. “I told you, I felt dizzy.”

“Yes, you mentioned that. Strange though. You were perfectly steady all morning. Then suddenly, on that particular street corner, you became dizzy. And then recovered completely.”

“Are you calling me a liar?”

“I'm observing,” I said evenly. “As you said, there's a difference.”

Clara returned with tea, and Lily used the interruption to compose herself. Her hands were steady now, but I’d seen them tremble.

“You know,” I said once Clara had left, “most people who've suffered head trauma show consistent symptoms. But you. . . you seem perfectly fine. Unless something specific triggers a reaction.”

“Maybe I'm just remarkably resilient.” But she wasn't meeting my eyes now.

“Perhaps.” I took a sip of tea. “Or something on that street caught your attention. Something you didn't want to explain.”

“Like what?”