Air and Angels

by Beth Bernobich

As everyone knew, Lady Miriam Grey’s soirées were the most exclusive in all London. Members of Parliament, literary icons, eligible daughters of the rich, even a spare noble or two could be found on Mondays and Thursdays in her exquisite drawing room, there to partake in brilliant conversation or to sample the delectable fare. More fanciful rumors said Lady Grey had seduced, then abducted her amazing French cook. Of course that was mere foolish speculation, but as Lady Grey herself said, Society loved its stepchild, Gossip.

It was for all these reasons–the gossip, society’s expectations, but most especially the eligible daughters–that Stephen Eliot nearly sent his regrets. Nearly, but not so. His parents had made the consequences all too plain if he did not attend.

Dear Mama. My respected Papa. Stephen mentally tipped them a bow as he mounted the steps to Lady Grey’s townhouse in Berkeley Square. He was unpardonably late, he knew. The bells from St. George’s were ringing half past nine. The day’s vivid October sunset had bled into twilight hours ago, and the edge of full night advanced swiftly upon the city.

A butler admitted him into the entry hall. Stephen was turning over his hat and gloves, when he heard a delighted cry.

“Stephen!”

Lady Grey glided toward him. She was dressed in a distinctly Continental mode, in dark blue Chine-figured silk draped about with lacy scarves. Exquisite as always, and with the grace and energy of a far-younger female, but Stephen could not escape the distinct impression of age overtaking a beautiful woman. He covered his sudden confusion by bowing and kissing her proffered hands.

“I am so glad to see you again,” she said. “I missed you terribly.”

“And I you,” Stephen replied. “It is because of you I am here.”

She laughed softly. “You lie beautifully, Stephen.” Then, in a lower voice, she added, “So beautifully, indeed, I wish I had seduced you years ago, when you were younger and I more foolish in these matters.”

“Ah, but you never had any inclination for younger men.”

“Just as well. Now we can comfortably be friends instead of disappointed lovers.” She took him by the arm and led him into the drawing room. “Come, let me introduce you to several other friends. Their acquaintance will go far to soothe your parents.”

Stephen soon found himself exchanging greetings with the secretary of a rising politician, a recently appointed ambassador to Germany, a financier. “Influential men,” Lady Grey murmured as they continued through the room. “You might wish to call upon them tomorrow. No, do not protest. You have time enough to make your choices later. But now, to make this evening more pleasant for you and for another young guest….”

They had come to the other end of the drawing room. An arched doorway led into a small elegant parlor where a few men and women listened intently as an older white-haired gentleman expounded on the state of England’s African and Indian colonies. In another corner, a famous actress, whose name was sometimes connected with that of the king, held her own court. Lady Grey continued past them to a quiet nook at the far end. A young woman sat there alone. She was dressed in a simple mourning gown, with her hair drawn back in a loose coil. She was writing in a small notebook with the stub of a pencil, oblivious to the company around her.

“Miss Dubois,” said Lady Grey. “What are you doing, scribbling like a schoolgirl when you should be enjoying yourself?”

The young woman gave a start, then laughed. “Lady Grey. One might think you were seriously scolding me.”

“I am never serious, except when it profits me. Mister Eliot, I would like to introduce you to a dear friend of mine, Miss Eva Dubois. Her grandfather was also a much-valued friend.”

Eva Dubois’s eyes were a deep rich brown, the exact shade of her hair. A flush edged her cheeks, either from amusement or embarrassment, Stephen could not say. He noticed smudges of lead on her fingers, where she gripped her pencil, and one beside her mouth, as though she had rubbed her thumb there in abstraction. He bowed. “Miss Dubois.”

“Mister Elliot.” She closed the notebook, but not before Stephen glimpsed a complex diagram and closely written notes filling half the next page. How very odd.

“Mister Eliot has just returned from a few years abroad,” Lady Grey said. “Studying mathematics and the human nature, though the latter was not necessarily a formal program. Eva, I believe you will find each other excellent company. Stephen, I must see to my other guests, but do speak with me before go.”

She departed for the drawing room. Meanwhile, Eva Dubois was studying Stephen with an unreadable look. Unsettled, Stephen took a seat next to her on the sofa. As soon as he did, she slid her notebook into a handbag at her feet. “So,” she said, “you are studying mathematics?”

Stephen shrugged. “I was, after a fashion. Are you interested in the subject, Miss Dubois?”

Her lips twitched. “After a fashion,” she replied archly. “Or would you rather talk about your travels? If not that, we might discuss the October weather, or the possibility of the sun rising tomorrow. I’m certain we might discover some topic of sufficient interest to us both that we could satisfy conventions.”

He flushed. “I am sorry. I never thought you would– I mean, I never thought–” He stopped and shook his head. “I’m sorry. I was rude. Rude and unthinking. I…Miss Dubois, it’s doubly uncivil of me to say so, but you are not what I expected.”

If he expected her to show dismay, or outrage, he was mistaken. Eva Dubois smiled, a warm genuine smile. The change was so sudden and acute that Stephen blinked in surprise. “You were not uncivil, you were honest,” she said. “Unless you believe, Mister Eliot, as my father did, that honesty is another form of insolence.”

Her voice had all the surface qualities he associated with well-bred young women, but something in the slight emphasis on his name, the shadow beside her mouth, suggested a much older, much more sophisticated person, as though an angel had come to visit this world in the guise of an innocent.

He shook away the strange impression, and was about to reply, when his attention was caught by another entering the parlor. But enter was too insipid a word–this woman strode through the arched doorway like a man, oblivious to the curious looks of the women, the frank appraising stares of the men.

Her gaze swept the room and alighted upon Stephen and his companion. “Eva,” she said. “You remember our previous engagement, do you not?”

An aunt, Stephen thought, or an older cousin. He could tell by the cant of their eyes, the echo of line and color in their features. He rose and held out a hand. “Delighted to meet you,” he said. “You must be Miss Dubois’s–”

“–sister,” Eva said. “Mister Stephen Eliot, my sister, Lily Dubois.”

Lily Dubois favored him with a brief, uninterested glance. There were faint lines beside her eyes and mouth, and her complexion lacked the creamy radiance of Eva’s. What intrigued him more were the white scars over her fingers and the back of her hand, which caught his attention when she impatiently tucked a loose strand behind her ear. He glanced down and saw the other hand was equally scarred.

“I am so glad you find me worthy of close inspection, Mister Eliot,” Lily said. She turned back to her sister. “Eva, enough with the pleasantries. We must take our leave now.”

Eva Dubois rose at once and tucked her bag with its mysterious notebook under her arm. “My apologies, Mister Eliot, but my sister has it right. We are promised elsewhere, and must hurry or we shall be unpardonably late.”

Her fingertips brushed his, then she was following her sister from the room, a stir of whispers following in the wake of their passage.

#

“So,” Gilbert Wardle said, “the prodigal son has returned.”

“I had no choice,” Stephen said. “My parents wish me to marry and start a career. I wanted another year abroad to complete my studies but–”

“–but they threatened to cut off your allowance and you were not about to play the impoverished student.”

They were sitting in one of the upper rooms of Gilbert’s club. The hour was late; most of the other members had departed for home. A few remained to enjoy a whiskey and cigar, as Stephen and Gilbert did, and the haze of their smoke drifted through the room, making the air close and stale. Stephen ran a hand across his eyes. He felt an incipient headache coming on.

Gilbert watched him through narrowed eyes. “I’ve offended you, haven’t I?”

Stephen shrugged. “Yes. No. It’s true I made a mess of my studies. Perhaps my father had the right–that I liked the role of student better than the actual work.”

“Now you are being merely foolish,” his friend said. “You were handy enough at Cambridge. What happened to send you off course?”

“Oh, the usual. I let myself become distracted by novelties. I was on the point of…” Stephen broke off with a smothered laugh. “My apologies. Excuses are tedious. Suffice to say that I neglected my classes in favor of drinking and wenching–in short, the ordinary run of vices. And that is all the self-pity I shall inflict upon you. How goes your own work? You landed a plum of an appointment with Lord Randall, if I recall.”

Gilbert gave an elaborate sigh. “The same as always. Boring. A bloody boring sinecure, pardon my language. But at least it keeps me in funds.”

There was a pause while they both sipped their whiskeys. The room had emptied out in the past few moments. Even now the last two members trailed out the door, leaving behind a silence and a solitude that made the room’s air seem even warmer and closer than before. Stephen swirled the whiskey around in his glass, and considered ordering another, perhaps with less soda. His discretion overtook his urge; he set the glass aside and rubbed his forehead again.

“You know,” Gilbert said, “you might like the work I do. It’s not so very taxing, and it would give you the means to live independently. You would have time enough to pursue mathematics on your own. Are you interested?”

He spoke in the same languid tones Stephen remembered from their university days. Still charming, still handsome, with the deep blue eyes and patrician features so loved by women, he was like a Dorian Grey, only without the vice, Stephen thought. And yet, watching him now, Stephen thought he could see shadows underneath the glittering exterior.

“Mind,” Gilbert went on, “there is no guarantee, merely a suggestion. I shall have to speak with my superiors. But I did not wish to meddle unless you agreed.”

A sinecure. It did not sound very appealing, but Stephen did not wish to refuse outright. “I shall have to think about it,” he said.

“Fair enough.” Gilbert drew a long breath on the cigar and breathed out a stream of smoke. “So tell me, fair one, how did you like Miss Eva Dubois?”

“How did you–”

His friend waved a hand. “Rumors,” he said lightly. “They fly like eagles, swifter than leopards and keener than wolves. Or something like that. In this particular case, the leopard was young Littlefair. He too attended Lady Grey’s soirée and saw you talking with the girl. Did you like her?”

“I hardly had time to make her acquaintance. Why? Do you?”

The smoke rippled as Gilbert shook his head. “Hardly. Sweet young virgins do not appeal to me. And before you make the suggestion, I have no interest in the sister either. A freakish creature, that one. Have you heard the story? No? Ah, now I remember. You had departed for the Continent a few months before the scandal broke. I must enlighten you, then.”

Without asking Stephen, he called for two more whiskeys. When the waiter brought them, he asked the man to see what kind of night it was outside and, if the weather had turned wet, could he summon a cab for them. Stephen watched, silently, noticing that Gilbert did not resume speaking until the waiter had retreated from the room. A wisp of breeze from the closing doors stirred the smoky air.

“About the Dubois family,” Gilbert went on. “The grandfather had his moment of fame in the Royal Society with some well-received papers on astronomy. The father took to law, where there was more money. He–the father, that is–had hoped for sons, but when Fate offered him daughters, he attempted to do the right thing. Governesses. Sizeable dowries. He married the elder off to a colleague two years ago. A decent man who allowed his wife to indulge in her odd fancy for chemistry, but the girl showed little gratitude and ran away several times. At last the man divorced her, and she vanished from society until two months ago. Rumor says that Lady Grey lent the girl money so she would not be on the street, but no one knows.”

“What about the younger?” Stephen asked.

Gilbert sipped his whiskey and made a face, as though the drink did not meet his expectations. “Our friend Rumor is curiously silent on that matter. All I know is that she lived in the country with her parents until two months ago, when the mother and father died suddenly in a carriage accident. The elder girl returned with indecent haste to oversee the property, and from time to time, she and her sister visit the city.”

“You seem to know a great deal about two girls you don’t care for.”

His friend grinned. “All rungs of society feed upon gossip, my child. The girls are nothing. It’s their cousin who intrigues me. Lucien Fell.”

Lucien Fell. Rumor coupled his name with those of the seedier actresses and money merchants. There was even talk about his connection to more dangerous figures in the London underworld. Stephen could not suppress a shudder. “What about him?”

“For myself, merely the fascination we all have for the truly disreputable. Beyond that…Let me say only that friends of a colleague of certain friends expressed interest. If, by chance, as you go about your social rounds, and hear aught about Friend Fell, let me know. One favor begets another, as the saying goes.”

In the candlelight, with his eyes hooded like a cat’s, Gilbert appeared more a stranger than a friend. He has changed, Stephen thought. His mouth had turned dry, and he wanted to call for a glass of water, but something in Gilbert’s unblinking gaze made him think better. “Very well,” he said. “I promise to do what I can.”

Gilbert rewarded him with one of his old, affectionate smiles. “Dear Stephen, how astonished you look. Come, let us leave this miserable stuffy room. A walk should do us both good.” He stood and held out his hand. “I’ve missed you, Stephen. I’m glad you decided to return.”

#

It was odd, Stephen thought, how a long absence made all the familiar landscapes alien and strange. For the next two days, he spent his mornings paying calls–the social rounds Gilbert had alluded to. And just as dutifully, he had accepted dinner invitations from various influential men Lady Grey introduced him to at her soirée. But the whole business had an aspect of irreality about it, and he fully expected to blink and find himself transported back to his rooms in Paris.

His current surrounding did nothing to ease the impression. He had called upon his old advisor from University that afternoon, expecting to spend a quarter hour drinking strong tea and listening to a lecture on his morals. Instead, Doctor Adams had announced they would take an outing on this last fine day in autumn. Now Stephen found himself trudging through the leaf-blown gardens of the Crystal Palace Park. The palace itself glittered atop its hill, like a fantastical creature descended from the scudding clouds.

A sharp gust of wind spattered him with water from a nearby fountain. Stephen pulled his hat low over his face and leaned toward his companion to catch his last words.

“I said…I am surprised and pleased you called,” Doctor Adams repeated. “I won’t flatter myself that you want advice, so I won’t give you any. My opinions, however, are another matter.”

He leaned heavily upon Stephen’s arm, using his cane to propel himself forward along. Stephen hurried to keep pace, wishing they had taken the sheltered passageway from the train station, instead of this windy winding path. “I ought to have written before,” he began.

“There are many things you ought to have done. You did not. Forget them and concentrate on the future, Mister Eliot. Or have you forgotten all your lessons?”

Stephen smiled. “I seem to have, but now that I have you to remind me…”

Doctor Adams snorted. “Fools are those who depend upon others. Ah, speaking of fools…”

They had come to the so-called prehistoric swamp with its models of dinosaurs. Stephen squinted at the three Ichthyosaurus–massive crocodile-like creatures shown oozing from the waters. He was about to ask Doctor Adams his opinion on evolution, when he realized the old professor was not looking at the dinosaurs, but an enormous hot-air balloon, which even now was attempting an ascent, its basket filled with shrieking children.

“Fools,” Doctor Adams repeated. “They’ll have that balloon wrecked inside five minutes. The wind’s all wrong.”

“It’s one of those new navigable balloons,” Stephen offered.

“Doesn’t make a damned bit of difference, as you well know.”

The professor went on to lecture about wind currents and downdrafts. Stephen attended dutifully in spite of the chill and the lingering damp from the fountains. Once or twice, he tried (without success) to suggest they continue toward the palace itself. He had just succeeded in turning the old man back toward the path, when the sight of a familiar figure arrested his attention.

Eva Dubois.

She stood some distance away, swathed in a sensible dark-brown wrap, her head tilted back as she observed the balloon’s uncertain ascent. Nearby was the sister–Lily, he remembered–who was engaged in close conversation with a short, stocky man with a swarthy complexion. The man leaned close to Lily Dubois, as she spoke earnestly in his ear.

Even as he observed them, the conversation ended, and Lily Dubois and her sister continued toward the palace. The unknown man stared after them a moment, then abruptly swung around and headed in the opposite direction. With a chill, Stephen recognized his face from countless newssheets–it was Lucien Fell.

“You’re shivering,” Doctor Adams said. “Shall we continue inside, then?”

“Yes, of course,” Stephen said distractedly. He craned his head around, trying to see which direction Fell took, but the man had already vanished around a bend in the path, and so he gave himself over to following Doctor Adams toward the palace’s grand entrance. They passed the great Sphinxes flanking the stairs and entered the central transept. It was warmer here, the grand space luminous with sunlight; the faint scent of orchids and other exotic flowers drifted through the air.

They spent hours visiting the palace’s numerous exhibits, with Doctor Adams offering his observations on each one. By the time they completed a meticulous tour of the Technological Museum, then the basement with its collection of printing machines, Stephen had entirely lost his earlier sense of irreality. Now they were ascending the stairs to the ground floor. The newly installed inclined elevator rose to the second floor galleries; beyond it, the indoor gardens extended south. There was also a pavilion, where weary visitors might rest and take refreshments.

And there, sitting among the shabby and the fashionable, was Eva Dubois. She was alone this time, without even her elder sister for a companion. Her wrap had fallen from her shoulders, and she was scribbling furiously in a notebook, oblivious to the chattering crowds around her.

“Ah,” breathed Doctor Adams. “It is Miss Dubois.”

“You know her?” Stephen asked.

“I knew her grandfather. Let us pay our respects.”

They threaded their way between the tables and chairs. As they approached the one where Eva Dubois sat, Stephen hung back, thinking he ought not to intrude upon her self-imposed isolation. Doctor Adams had no such qualms. “Miss Dubois,” he called out, advancing toward her alone. “What a pleasure to encounter you here.”

Eva Dubois glanced up and hastily closed her notebook. “Doctor Adams.” Her voice was breathless. “You gave me such a fright.”

“Hardly. You are merely being secretive, as always. I see you have not lost your old habits of writing in notebooks, just as you did when you were a child.”

She smiled, but her cheeks took on an added flush of embarrassment. “Oh, not quite the same. I…I was just writing out a list for some errands. Lily and I have so much to accomplish before we leave the city tomorrow.” As she spoke, she rose and drew her wrap around her shoulders. “And speaking of those errands, if you will excuse me…”

It was then her gaze encountered Stephen’s. She paused in recognition. “Mister Eliot.”

Stephen achieved an awkward bow. “Miss Dubois.”

“You know each other?” Doctor Adams said.

“We met at Lady Grey’s this past Monday,” Eva said. Then to Stephen, “I had no idea you were acquainted with Doctor Adams.”

“I–”

“Mister Eliot was a student of mine,” Doctor Adams said. “I thought him quite promising at the time, and so naturally, he has wasted his talents abroad. But perhaps he might find inspiration closer to home.” He nodded to Eva Dubois.

“Perhaps,” she said dryly. She favored Stephen with a direct look, which seemed to identify and catalogue all his insufficiencies. Unsettled, he could not think how to reply.

Luckily, he was spared the necessity. “My dear,” said Doctor Adams. “I just wanted to offer my condolences about your parents. If you and your sister need anything–anything at all–come to me at once. For your own sakes, as well as your grandfather’s.”

Her expression warmed and she offered Doctor Adams her hand. “Thank you. That is so very kind of you. But indeed we are quite well at the moment. So well, that Lily and I have planned a small gathering of old friends at our house this weekend. Very impromptu, I’m afraid, though we are sending out proper invitations today. We would be so pleased if you could attend.”

With old-fashioned courtesy, Doctor Adams offered his regrets–unavoidable obligations, previous engagements, etc.–but perhaps Miss Dubois and her sister would come to dinner in the city next month. With equal courtesy, Eva Dubois explained they expected to take a long journey next month. “Though,” she added, “there is a possibility we might have to delay our departure.” She hesitated briefly, then turned to Stephen. “Mister Eliot, what about you? Do you also have other obligations this weekend? I spoke with my sister about you. She said she would be delighted to have you attend.”

Taken by surprise, Stephen stammered something incomprehensible. Dimly, he heard Eva Dubois go on to mention the names of other guests–members of the Royal Society, well-regarded artists, friends of her grandfather and of Lady Grey. His parents would be pleased and horrified at the same time. He ought to refuse…

…if by chance, you hear ought about Friend Fell, let me know…

“Will your cousin be there?” he asked abruptly.

A brief silence ensued. “It is possible,” she said slowly. “You mean my cousin Lawrence, do you not?”

Stephen recovered himself. “Yes. I meant your cousin Lawrence. But that was merely curiosity on my part. Of course, I would be delighted to attend your gathering.”

“The generosity is all yours.”

Her eyes narrowed with suppressed amusement. Again he had the impression of a sophistication beyond her years. But she is a mere girl, he thought, intrigued all over again. Before he could make a suitable riposte, however, Eva Dubois was repeating her excuses about errands and obligations to Doctor Adams. Another glance in his direction, a politely murmured good-bye, and she was hurrying toward the front entrance of the palace.

#

“You say Lucien Fell will be present?”

“So the girl implied.”

“Ah.”

A monosyllabic utterance that implied so much, Stephen thought. Satisfaction. Curiosity.

The written invitation to the Dubois household had arrived Thursday morning. Stephen had immediately sent a note to Gilbert Wardle, saying he would like to drop around in the evening. A silent manservant had ushered Stephen into a small parlor. After serving them port, he had departed and closed the doors. The room itself was far more richly appointed than Stephen had expected, even knowing about Gilbert’s personal wealth–an enormous leather-covered Chesterfield, some very fine bronze figures, and several oil paintings of water lilies done in the modern style.

“Would you like to see the letter?” he asked.

Gilbert took the much-folded sheet and scanned it. “Hmmm…hopes to fulfill proper etiquette…begs your attendance…sister expressed a desire to continue….What a very odd creature. And her handwriting is more like a clerk’s than a woman’s. What is that about the sister?”

“Nothing,” Stephen said hastily.

His friend tilted his head. “I would venture to say more than nothing, but never mind. We all have our secrets. Have you accepted?”

“I did but–”

“But you dislike the prospect of quarreling with your father. Such a weak excuse, my fair child. However, you are not entirely in the wrong. It’s best if we avoid any unpleasantness. So, let me think. Let me think.”

He leaned back and closed his eyes. Stephen sipped his port and scanned the newspapers spread over the table. The headlines were troubling. Entente with France. Menace of the German fleet. Trouble in Ireland. Rumors of further plots against the king. The world had tipped over from one century to the next. Even if he could transport himself at once to the Continent, he was not certain he could resume the carefree student life he’d known before.

“I know,” Gilbert said, breaking into his reverie. “You shall tell your parents that an old friend from University days has invited you to his house in the countryside. Tell them we are traveling together in my carriage. Make up some excuse to leave your man behind.”

“Won’t that look suspicious?”

“Not if you drop hints that our dear friend has fallen on bad times, and that we are all roughing it in sympathy. Use your imagination.”

Easier to say than do, Stephen thought. “And what about Lucien Fell?” he said. “Should I do anything? Say anything?”

“No. I want you to observe the man. Watch what he does. Note whom he talks to. If you can overhear what they say, do it, but whatever else, do not make a spectacle of yourself.” Gilbert’s face relaxed into a smile. “It’s gossip, Stephen. One never knows what fruit the tree will bear. So we tend it, hoping for the best.”

The next two days all went far more easily than Stephen had expected. His parents made no objections, and following Gilbert’s advice, Stephen offered no explanations, though he felt a strong urge to. By late Friday afternoon, he was enclosed in his friend’s carriage, riding through the glorious autumnal day. He ought to have experienced a sense of liberation once they passed the outer bounds of London, but he could only think how Eva and Gilbert both wished something from him, and it had nothing to do with friendship.

His first view of the Dubois estate did nothing to cure his uneasiness.

A ring of thick stone walls marked the edge of their property. Beyond the iron gates, a long paved driveway wound beneath oaks and chestnuts. Old money, Gilbert had said. And yet, there was a curious air of neglect about the place. Dead leaves smothered the grass. Here and there he noted bracken and weeds, the rank scent of wild things.

Another ten minutes brought the carriage to the front door. As Stephen disembarked, a dozen or more servants appeared to take care of his luggage. The house itself was a massive rambling structure–wings flung themselves out to either side, ornamented with porticoes and columns and a collection of buttresses. More signs of neglect met his eyes–patches of ivy grew over the walls, and moss made the stones slippery underfoot.

His rooms, at least, were clean and comfortable. Gas had not yet been laid here, but the candles were beeswax, the carpet thick, and the bedclothes freshly laundered and warmed. Stephen dressed with care and soon found his way back to drawing room, where the footman had politely informed him the guests would gather before dinner.

The first person he encountered was Lily Dubois, nearly unrecognizable in a flowing dinner gown of richly-figured Chine. “Mister Eliot. I’m so glad nothing prevented us from enjoying your company. Come, let me introduce you to the other guests.”

She led him into the drawing room, which belied any signs of the neglect he’d noted elsewhere–fine crystal chandeliers, the polished dark wood floors and Oriental rugs scattered about. All signs of prosperity and taste. The centerpiece of the room was a massive stone fireplace, laid with a generous fire. He scanned the room, looking for Lucien Fell. No sign of that particular disreputable man. Indeed the company was most respectable. Among those gathered about the fireplace, he recognized Sir Benjamin Baker and William Huggins, both much-lauded members of the Royal Society. Not far away stood a celebrated author and his entourage. There were even a few women present, bright gossamer beings amongst the soberly dressed men in their black or grey dinner costumes.

Then, across the room, he sighted Eva Dubois, speaking with a stout, white-haired gentleman with a scientific air. He paused. She happened to glance in his direction. An uncharacteristic smile illuminated her face, one that produced conflicting impulses within Stephen.

The decision was taken away from him, when after murmuring something to the white-haired gentleman, she came forward. “Mister Eliot. I am so glad you came.”

“Miss Dubois,” he said, making a bow.

She held out her hands. He kissed them, thinking her manner had greatly changed in just two days. Far more cordial, almost intimate. She was not like other young gentlewomen he had met, even abroad; nor was she anything like the artist’s models or professional courtesans he’d sometimes taken home. Eva leaned closer, speaking into his ear, her breath tickling his cheek. She was wearing perfume, a faint woody scent, very pleasing. The scent invaded his senses, causing him to lose the thread of conversation.

With some effort, he drew back, only to realize the butler had announced dinner. He heard Eva Dubois saying something about how the number of guests prevented her from sharing his company during the meal. “I’m so sorry,” she murmured. “I had hoped to continue our conversation sooner, but there are other guests I must see to. Perhaps afterward…”

She vanished into the crowds. Stephen tried to draw a breath to clear his head, but the scent of her perfume clung to his hands and lips. In a daze, he allowed the servants to guide him to his place, between a scientist and a philosopher. Both were learned men, and Stephen did his best to engage in the debate, but he found it difficult to maintain his attention. He ate, vaguely aware of the fine dishes, and drank whenever the servants refilled his glass.

The dinner ended at last. Stephen rose at once, only to see Eva vanish through a small doorway. The number of guests had swelled, or so it seemed to his oppressed senses. He escaped into one of the smaller sitting rooms, where a few men–all strangers–had gathered to drink whiskey. He wandered past them, through a pair of glass doors and across a stone-paved patio, into the garden beyond.

Blessed darkness closed around him. He breathed in the cool clear air and felt the wine fumes dissipate. Gilbert and his schemes be damned, he ought to have refused this invitation. Fell would never attend a gathering such as this one. The girl must have sensed his interest and used her cousin’s name as a lure. But why? She was not the sort to fish for a liaison.

He walked on, pondering how to extract himself from the household without causing offense to either Gilbert or the Dubois girls. Gradually he became aware that he had left the house itself far behind, and that the surrounding gardens had turned into fields. He slowed, uncertain of the path. Just ahead he saw the gleam of water beneath a new moon. Then a movement in the shadows caught his eye–someone else had escaped from the house. He paused, thinking he would rather avoid conversation, when a familiar voice accosted him.

“Mister Eliot.” Eva Dubois’s voice carried the hint of suppressed laughter. “Are you running away?”

“No. I– I merely wished for some quiet.”

She laughed and took his arm. “Then let us escape into the night.”

Her warm hands encircled his, and she led him unresisting down the path. Eva Dubois wore a new perfume, he noticed–a much stronger, muskier scent that reminded him of orchids. Underneath it, the scent of the other perfume lingered, its woody notes combining with this new one to create a strangely intoxicating aroma, as though they had left England’s tame gardens behind for some exotic jungle. Stephen shook his head to clear it, wondering where Eva was taking him. He glimpsed a wide field, beyond it a dark woodland, caught the warm rich fragrance of dying lilies. Clouds flitted over the moon’s face, causing shadows to flicker over the leaves, and he thought about wild cats, hunting in the moonlit jungle.

“So tell me about your mathematical studies,” she said. “Or have you given them over?”

“I…I haven’t decided yet.”

“Are you waiting for someone to inspire you, then?”

Vaguely, he remembered Doctor Adams using those same words. “You mean a wife?”

“Isn’t that what it always means? No, I mean– Never mind what I mean. Here is what I wanted to show you.”

They had come to a small building–quite far from the house, as Stephen discovered when he glanced around. Large crates and boxes obstructed the path around the building. The air smelled of crushed grass, as though many feet had trampled the fields. He turned toward the crates and boxes, curious, but Eva re-directed his attention back to the building, which he realized was an observatory. A quite fine structure, built along modern lines and with what looked like a splendid telescope protruding from a slit in its roof.

“My grandfather,” Eva said, before he could ask. “He built it to confirm his theories about mathematics and the stars. My blessed father never saw a reason to dismantle it.”

She unlatched the door and took him inside. There she guided him between more boxes and strange equipment, to the telescope. With an expert air, she adjusted the lenses and showed him how to gaze through the eyepiece to see the moon suddenly brought sharp and close. Jupiter and Mars were there, and beyond them the bright pinpoints of light across the gulf of night. All the while, she described her grandfather’s exploration of the skies, which she had repeated and expanded upon. But as he listened, he realized she spoke of more than nebulae and star clusters and constellations. She spoke of other worlds, and how they might be inhabited, just as the Earth was.

“Other worlds?” Stephen asked, hardly able to keep the laughter from his voice.

She rounded on him. It was impossible to see her features in the gloom, but he could sense her anger, her passion. “Yes. Of course. We are hardly alone in the universe. Who knows when they might decide to visit us? Or we them?”

He hardly knew how to answer her.

“You think me bedazzled by a fantasy,” she went on. “But remember, while you were traversing the Continent, free and unencumbered, I sat here alone and watched the stars. You cannot imagine how often I wished I could pluck myself from this house, this world, and go shooting outward—”

She stopped abruptly. “My apologies. I have embarrassed you, I see.”

“No,” Stephen said. “I understand.”

“Do you?” She glanced up, eyes bright from tears.

“I do,” he whispered.

There was a long moment, while neither of them moved. Then, Eva reached up and touched Stephen’s cheek with her bare hand. The sense of her skin upon his was electric. A shiver went through him, and it took all his self-control not to kiss her.

Eva leaned close to him, her perfume flooding his senses. “Stephen,” she said, and guided his hand to her breast.

His lips met hers. After that memory fragmented to individual sensations. The baring of skin. The discovery of blankets upon the floor. Before he was aware, Eva had raised her voluminous skirts, and he….he was plunging fast and deep into the warmth of her sex. Eva held him tight, urged him on in ways he had not experienced since certain nights spent with an Italian courtesan.

Memories blurred after that. He remembered little more than a final gasp, a moment where he was torn between violence and tenderness. Then, with his fingers gradually releasing his grip upon her hair, he drew back with a sigh.

#

Stephen came to himself in his own rooms. He lay, half-undressed, on top of the bedcovers. His body was damp. His head was spinning–from the wine, no doubt. He had drunk far too much at dinner. And afterward…

He bolted upright. The sudden movement brought a surge of bile into his mouth. He clamped his lips shut and swallowed. Wiped a hand over his face. His skin smellt of sweat and wine, of Eva Dubois’s perfume and the heady scent of their mutual spendings. No dream. No doubt at all what had happened.

Remorse swept over him, followed swiftly by a flush of remembered passion. He stumbled from bed and pulled on his trousers and a shirt taken randomly from the clothespress. A splash of cool water from the basin helped to clear his thoughts. He had to find Eva. Apologize. She was merely flirting with him, the way some naive girls did. But she was no serving girl, to be bedded and forgotten. He had make restitution.

He lurched from his room into the darkened corridor. Pale sunlight leaked through a window at the far end of the hallway. It was dawn, or thereabouts.

“Sir, is something wrong?” The voice came from behind him. Male. Deferential. A servant.

“Eva Dubois.” Stephen’s voice came out thick and garbled. He swallowed and tried again. “Miss Eva Dubois. Do you know if she has arisen yet?”

The servant seemed unsurprised by this request. “Miss Dubois left word in case you should ask, sir. Come with me, if you please.”

They proceeded through more corridors, across an enclosed courtyard, into a new wing of the mansion. Stacks of crates lined the halls. Most were draped in canvas, but a few stood open, with layers of cotton wadding torn aside to reveal glass bottles, metallic cylinders, and other items Stephen could only guess at. Sharp odors drifted through the air. He paused, trying to identify them, but the servant was unlatching a pair of thick double doors. He motioned for Stephen to go inside.

A long narrow room opened up before him. A very strange room, unlike any he had seen before outside certain buildings at University. On either side, he could make out worktables stacked neatly with more glassware, more strange equipment, and several devices that reminded him uncomfortably of the observatory. At the far end a light burned; a woman sat bent over a worktable, her attention entirely upon a glass beaker set over a tiny blue flame. Racks of vials crowded her desk, but he had the same impression of order and organization. Seemingly unaware of his presence, the woman selected a vial from a rack, measured out a liquid, and added it to the beaker. She observed the results a moment, frowned, and scribbled something into a journal book that lay open beside her.

Stephen coughed. Lily Dubois glanced up. With face illumined by the lamp and burner, she seemed even paler, older than before. “Mister Eliot. Good morning.”

Stephen stopped halfway down the aisle. He licked his mouth and tasted the sourness upon his chapped lips. “Miss Dubois. I was–”

“–looking for Eva. Yes, I know.”

“Then do you–”

“It would be presumption to say I know everything, but yes, I know the particulars. You need not worry, though I know you will.”

The liquid in the beaker started to bubble. Lily’s attention shifted abruptly to her experiment. She took up a glass rod and stirred the mixture. Stephen’s attention was caught by the pale scars over her hands. Chemical burns. Of course.

“Mister Eliot.”

Lily Dubois was observing him closely.

“You appear unwell,” she said. “And the hour is far too early for most, I know. I suggest you retire to your rooms and try to sleep. All will be well. I assure you.”

She turned her attention back to her chemicals–a clear dismissal. Stephen hesitated a moment, then silently retreated from that vast unnerving room. The same servant waited outside. With a deferential gesture, the man took Stephen by the arm and helped him back to his rooms.

“I am a touch unwell,” Stephen murmured. “The air here does not agree with me. Please have someone pack my things and bring the carriage around. I must go back home.”

#

He arrived at his parents’ townhouse pale, but clean and neatly dressed. The same nameless, discreet servant had drawn Stephen’s bath, laid out his clothes, and fetched a plain breakfast, all without any direction. Later, Stephen thought the man must have received instructions from Lily Dubois to make certain her guest was presentable before he fled. As he suffered through his mother’s exclamations, and his father’s grim silent looks, he was grateful for her forethought.

His manservant arrived at last, and led a sick and weary Stephen to his rooms, where he collapsed onto his own bed. His mother’s physician arrived later, and pronounced him overtaxed. The diagnosis kept his parents and friends away. But within a day, Gilbert Wardle came to call, and Stephen knew he must face his friend’s questions.

“You look horrible,” Gilbert said lightly, as he settled into a chair beside Stephen’s bed. “But not as horrible as the fish they served at our club last night.”

Stephen shook his head and immediately regretted it. “Thank you for coming,” he whispered. “But I’m afraid I must disappoint you.”

Gilbert’s eyes gleamed momentarily. “He was not there?”

“No. Nor did anyone mention his name.”

“Interesting. He must have misled the girls. Did you happen to overhear anything of interest?”

“Nothing,” Stephen said at once. “Nothing that I can remember.”

His friend observed him silently for a moment. “I see. Well, perhaps it’s for the best you did not stay the entire weekend.” Then, in a lighter tone, he added, “Your parents were not pleased, of course. I confessed my part in the debauchery–nostalgia for our University days, sympathy for our friend, an ill-judged drinking contest, etc. However, they seem to recognize that young men must expend their wildness before settling into a respectable life. You’ll find them stiff but forgiving when you rise from your bed.”

Gilbert remained with him another quarter hour, confining his talk to commonplace subjects–the latest dinner gossip, rumors of the King’s dalliances, etc., etc. Even as he took his leave, he made no more oblique references to the Dubois girls or to Stephen’s sudden, inexplicable flight.

He knows, Stephen thought. If not the particulars, then the larger shape of events.

He sank back into his pillows and closed his eyes. He had spent a day pretending that the incident didn’t matter. That Lily Dubois would take care of her sister, wiping out any need for him to act. Ballocks, he thought.

Head spinning, he forced himself to sit upright and called for paper and pens so he might write to Eva Dubois. He did not spare himself, he thought, reading over his words. No excuses. Only apologies for his brutish behavior and cowardice. It was necessarily an awkward incoherent effort, but perhaps she would understand.

She did not.

Or at least, she did not answer.

A second letter returned unopened. Then a third.

Two, three weeks passed. By this time, Stephen had learned through oblique questioning that the Dubois sisters remained at their country house. Lady Miriam Grey even sent him a teasing letter, asking what outrage he had offered her young friend, to frighten her away so thoroughly. Merely banter between friends, but Stephen found himself go cold as he read the words.

No more shirking. I did commit an outrage. I must make it right.

He waited until late afternoon, then took a cab to a district far away from fashionable Mayfair, where he hired a horse. By the early evening, he was riding down the wide gravel lane to the Dubois house. The lane was now thickly strewn with golden leaves, and his eye noted other signs of obvious disrepair. More weeds and fallen branches. The walls desperately needing mortar, and the driveway itself pocketed with holes. A cold misty twilight overspread the whole, adding to the gloom and sense of neglect.

In the courtyard, he dismounted. All the windows were dark, but lamplight showed underneath the main doors. He tied his horse to a rail and knocked. A cool breeze fingered his hair, carrying with it the scent of moldering leaves and something else he could not decipher. He shivered, and wished he had worn his winter overcoat.

The door jerked open. A thickset man filled the doorway, his features cast in shadows from the feeble chandelier behind him. He wore plain black clothes and heavy gloves. Not the butler Stephen remembered. A stranger, and definitely not the usual servant. “No one is at home,” the man said, before Stephen asked.

“They are,” Stephen said. “Miss Eva Dubois is at home. I know it.”

“Miss Eva–”

“Never mind, Albert. I know the gentleman.”

Lily Dubois motioned for the man to stand aside. She too wore plain dark clothing–men’s clothing, he realized with a shock–trousers, a knitted jersey, and sturdy boots. Her hair was pulled back in a tight braid; a flush from the cold colored her cheeks, making her appear younger than before.

She returned his gaze with an amused smile, but he sensed an uneasiness. “Come inside,” she said at last. “It seems we must talk at least once before it is all over.”

She lit a candle and led him down a series of servant’s corridors, toward the back of the house. Their footsteps echoed eerily, and the candle’s flame cast unnerving shadows around them, emphasizing the emptiness of the house. Stephen nearly turned back more than once, but curiosity tugged at him, especially after he began to recognize the turnings as those leading him to the same laboratory where he last spoke with Lily Dubois.

“She’s inside,” Lily said, pointing to the familiar double doors. “I daresay she won’t be entirely surprised.”

Inside, he found the same familiar scene, but with a few important alterations. The strange equipment was gone, as were most of the books. And this time, it was Eva who sat at the worktable, scribbling in a notebook. Like her sister, she wore trousers and a warm knitted jersey.

Stephen strode forward. “Eva.”

Eva straightened abruptly, eyes wide. “Stephen. You should not have come.”

“I could not help it,” he said. “I wrote–”

“I know,” she said. “But, you see, there was no point in answering. Unless you agree, with my late father, that form and propriety outweigh the truth.”

They studied each other a few long moments. She had changed, he thought, in any number of indefinable ways. Her mouth no longer had that tightly constrained look about it. Her eyes were bright–with anticipation? Excitement? Only now did he wonder what she did in her sister’s laboratory. He glanced down and saw sheets of formulae, written thick upon the paper she held tensely before her. Hastily she turned the sheets over.

“You are confused,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry about now?” Lily Dubois said, as she rounded the worktable to stand beside her sister. “Still worried about the calculations?”

Eva shook her head. “No more than usual. They all still match our expectations.” She managed a smile for Stephen. “You seem quite fagged out. Come. We shall have a last supper together.”

It was the strangest, most unconventional meal he had ever participated in. No servants. Only a few platters of cold salted beef and stale bread, which Eva fetched herself from the pantry. Instead of wine, they drank well-water so cold it made Stephen’s teeth ache. He could see now that Eva Dubois had seduced him, not the other way around, and that Lily Dubois had assisted by supplying those most unnatural perfumes. To what end, he could not tell. His only consolation was that Lily Dubois seemed as uncomfortable with his presence as he was with hers.

The meal ended. Eva Dubois nodded to her sister. “It’s time.”

“Long past time,” Lily said. “He comes with us?”

“I see no other way,” Eva replied. “Besides, he can assist with the work that comes after.”

“Ah, you mean…”

“…exactly.”

Without waiting for his reply–if there could be one to such a bizarre exchange–the sisters left the room. A moment’s hesitation, he followed them. He hoped–expected–they would finally explain everything, but neither one spoke to him. They murmured to each other, their voices so low he could not catch their words, only the tone of barely suppressed excitement. Lily had taken up a candle to light the way through the empty corridors; when they came to a door leading outside, the same thickset stranger waited for them. He had a lit lantern, which he gave to Lily Dubois.

“Thank you, Albert,” she said. “How are the preparations?”

“Nearly done,” he said.

She nodded. “Very well. We’ll go now.”

Outside, the fog had dissipated, and stars speckled the clear night sky. With growing impatience, Stephen followed the two women along a wet overgrown path, around the observatory, and into a broad field. Torches illuminated the clearing; by their light, he counted at least a dozen men in work clothes moving about, loading boxes into what appeared to be an immense wooden basket. Ropes, attached to metal rings, rose into the air, to an enormous dark mass overhead. His heart gave a painful leap as he recognized what it was.

A balloon. They’ve manufactured a balloon.

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

“Escaping,” Eva said calmly.

“Where–?”

“To the stars.” She smiled at his incredulity. “Dear Stephen. I have been scouring the heavens a decade, my sister even longer. I am only surprised it took us this long to discover a species that monitors ours. And they do, you know. They were waiting for someone–anyone–to answer their call. So I did.”

Visitors from other worlds, she had said, at his last visit.

Dimly, he realized she was babbling about radio signals from a nearby satellite and an alien ship waiting in the upper atmosphere. Impossible. Scientists would have discovered such a thing themselves. His protests died on his lips–it was clear Eva and her sister would not listen. Indeed, both were absorbed in examining a row of canisters lining the basket.

“Stephen,” Eva said. “It is time to say good-bye. Thank you.”

Lily, who was climbing into the basket, snorted. “Why thank-you?”

Eva sent her an inscrutable look. “Because it moves me to say so. Are we ready?”

“Of course. And you are a sentimental idiot.”

Stephen’s brain lurched forward. “You are leaving? To…to live with…monsters? But why? What if–?”

“If I were with child?” she said. “I am, most likely yours. As for why? I’m not certain I can explain it in words you would understand. Let me only say that I am weary of being invisible, Stephen. I want…” She drew a breath and lifted her gaze to the stars. “I want to find a world where I am truly myself–for good or bad, clever or indifferent–and not merely an inspiration for someone else’s ideas. Or expectations.” She smiled sadly. “I do not expect you to understand. Why should you?”

“How do you know? You have not even given me a chance.”

Her expression did not change. Indeed she looked even sadder than before. “Dear Stephen. Even if you were not like the others, I could not live with you alone.”

She reached for one of the levers. Stephen charged forward, intent on wrestling her away from the balloon, but stopped when Lily Dubois produced a small handgun. “You cannot stop us,” she said. “Only we can stop ourselves.”

Another gesture from the handgun told him to step back. Eva climbed into the balloon. She and her sister went through an incomprehensible series of checks. All clear, apparently, because Lily Dubois flung off the anchor ropes, while Eva ignited a burner. The ropes holding their craft drew taut. Lily flung back her head and grinned. Eva, however, was immersed in adjusting various valves. But then she too lifted her face to the stars. It was a look unlike anything he had seen before–delighted. Triumphant. He opened his mouth to call out when a hand clamped onto his arm.

“Hush,” said Lucien Fell. “They know what they are doing.”

“But–”

“But nothing. My cousins had paid me well to follow orders.”

His lips pulled back from his teeth in a feral grin. Cold and shaken, Stephen watched as the balloon expanded to blot out the sky. There was a moment’s pause, a hesitation where he thought they had miscalculated, then the balloon jerked and lifted free of the ground. Still Lucien Fell did not release him. His grip tightened as the balloon rose above the tree tops. Flames burst out, and the balloon shot higher. Just before the basket rose out of sight, Stephen glimpsed a wire mesh rising to cover the basket. It was not enough, he thought. Surely, they would die…

An answering burst of light came from higher above. The balloon soared upward. The sky went dark, only to reappear in a shower of stars.

“Come with me,” Lucien Fell told him. “We have work to do.”

#

…The stars were falling, thousands and millions, a great bright rain of fire. He blinked, and the brightness faded. Only a single pale halo of light remained, swinging up and down through the darkness. Lucien Fell, it was, swinging the lantern as he dragged Stephen through the dark cold Dubois mansion. On and on they marched, through the echoing hallways. Now they were in the kitchen, its tables shoved against one wall to make room for stacks of metal barrels. Lucien pried the lid off one–the acrid stink of chemicals rolled through the air. He nodded. She kept her promise. I’ll keep mine. And you’ll help.

With Lucien giving orders, they had spread the chemicals throughout the house, then over a fair part of the grounds as well, including the observatory. Lucien had lit a match and set it to the dry grass, which burst into flames–so swiftly it overtook them in their escape. The last Stephen remembered was falling to the ground, trying to beat away the flames, while all around him the bonfires of Guy Fawkes’ Day blazed, and stars and embers fell from the sky…

He woke with a groan. Fire. He had to reach the road. Warn…someone about the conflagration, but he could not move his arms or legs. He struggled to fight free. Hands pressed against his chest, and a man’s face hovered over him. He heard a familiar voice telling him not to be such a damned fool.

“Gilbert?” he whispered. His mouth felt cotton dry.

“Stephen.” Unmistakable relief.

Stephen wanted to say more, but his tongue refused to work properly.

“No, don’t try to talk too much,” Gilbert went on. “I’m simply glad you woke up. The doctors…Well, between the terrible burns, and half the night spent lying in the cold wet fields, we nearly thought you wouldn’t. Wake up that is.” He bent closer to Stephen. “It’s an excellent thing that someone noticed your disappearance that evening.”

He followed me. No. An underling. A….spy.

“Lucien,” Stephen croaked.

“Escaped,” Gilbert said with obvious disgust. “At least, that is what we surmise from later events. But you…”

“Went…to find…”

“The Dubois girl. I know. Stephen, I’m very sorry to tell you that she and her sister did not survive the fire. You must take consolation that she surely died quickly. The fire spread so fast, so hot, as you know.”

Ah, Gilbert. If only you knew all the truth.

Even in so much pain, he nearly laughed to think of his friend’s expression if he heard about creatures from beyond the stars, or the marvelous scientific endeavors that allowed Lily and Eva Dubois to break free of the Earth’s bonds, to sail free toward the stars, there to meet their otherworldly protectors.

Or were they protectors?

He had assumed that, of course, but now he was not so certain. Two girls–two women–sailing forth to join a very different civilization, and one of them bearing a child to carry on the human race. Were they refugees? Or conquerors?

But Gilbert was still speaking about Lucien Fell. How the man had obviously taken advantage of his cousins, using the grounds to store illegal explosive materials for his criminal activities. Lucien himself had escaped the inferno–they knew that from the later events–but clearly he had murdered his two cousins, whether by accident or cold-blooded intent.

“But enough of that villain. Stephen.” Gilbert paused, suddenly diffident. “Stephen, I am sorry to have inveigled you into such a mess. I ought to have trusted you more. My superiors agree with me, and so I’ve come with an offer of a position. A sinecure,” he added, with a touch of his old casual tone.

Stephen managed a smile. “Hardly a sinecure,” he whispered.

Gilbert’s mouth twitched. “Clever boy. Well, I won’t press you for an answer now. There’s time enough. We want you fully recovered and back in the arms of Society first. Speaking of which, Lady Grey has asked me to serve as her postman and give you this.”

He handed Stephen an envelope, which Stephen took awkwardly in his bandaged hands. An invitation, clearly, judging from the expensive, scented paper and formal calligraphy. He tried to picture himself entering her fashionable townhouse, mingling with the other guests at one of her famous soirées, but could not. Never again. He closed his eyes and let the envelope fall onto his chest. Gilbert was saying something about that damned position again, then a murmured good-bye and a promise to visit him the next day. Stephen let him talk. For once, it was easy to pretend.

At last, the door clicked shut. Stephen breathed a sigh of relief. The reprieve was temporary, of course. Tomorrow would come more visits–from Gilbert, from his parents, and others. Possibly Doctor Adams. Most definitely Doctors Adams.

He sighed again. Thought about his so-called studies in mathematics. Doctor Adams had once called him promising. There were universities where he might take advanced courses, study in earnest this time. Ah, but that was impossible. He had used up all his chances in the past two years. Certainly his parents would not support him.

An ache welled up behind his eyes. Stephen raised his bandaged hand to rub his forehead; he encountered the forgotten envelope from Lady Grey, balanced between his body and the edge of the hospital bed. How odd that she would send him an invitation here, in a hospital. It was not like her to act so foolish.

No, never foolish.

Impatient now, and more than curious, he fumbled the envelope onto his chest and tore it open. Inside was stiff card–an invitation to one of her soirées. All very proper. But underneath the formal printed lines, she had written a single line in a swift, tiny script: If you need help, come to me–M.

Help. He wanted to laugh, then sob. Help, to climb to the stars? No, he was no brave adventurer like Eva Dubois. He merely wanted a second chance. Well, and it seemed that fate, or rather Lady Grey, would give him one.

Stephen drew a long shuddering breath and turned his head toward the window. Outside night had fallen, and cold bright stars illuminated the late November skies. Gazing at the milky constellations, he wished good fortune to the travelers.