24
Terminus, 23 December 1871
When Fiona saw the door to the balcony swinging in the slight breeze, the sinking in her gut dragged her to sit on the bed, upon which lay her mother’s empty clothing.
“Not again.” The moaned words escaped from her mouth before she could catch them.
“I’m so sorry.” Devon looked down at her. “I’ve failed you again.”
Fiona squeezed her eyes shut. She wouldn’t cry, not in front of him. But she wouldn’t disagree with him, either.
“Devon!” A familiar man’s voice called from the hallway, and something about it shot a jolt of anxiety through Fiona, but she couldn’t remember why. It continued, “Where the dickens are you? The guests are starting to worry that you or Therese has been taken ill.”
Devon cursed under his breath. “I’ll be right there, Pierce.” He too
