25
Terminus, 23 December 1871
Henry walked through the party to make sure everything at least felt normal. He didn’t have much hope of finding Margie Telfair. He hadn’t mentioned it to the others for fear of upsetting Miss Telfair, but there had been scratches on the floor and baseboard, barely visible in the dim lamplight, that showed evidence of a struggle. He hoped the team outside had captured the mousenapper.
The ball seemed to have returned to normalcy. Some people danced. Many chatted and sipped at punch. No one screamed or fainted.
How tiresome. Now that the monotony of the previous two weeks had abated, Henry wanted something else to happen. He’d forgotten—made himself forget, perhaps—the rush that came with the witnessing of a strange and unusual occurrence. But it wasn’t as
