CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
The clock in the lobby downstairs gave the single chime of a quarter past.
“Just after the witching hour,” Mary said. She looked down at her ink-stained fingers. There was no moon or starlight outside her window, and the street lanterns had long been extinguished and brought inside. Not even a drizzle of rain kept her company in the midst of the evil that lurked upon her pages.
She could smell him on her fingers.
Claire stirred in the bedchamber. Mary rose from her desk to cross the parlor, peer into the darkness of the second room toward Willmouse’s crib and, satisfied both her babe and her sister were sleeping soundly, closed the connecting doors. She leaned against them, rubbing at the ink on her hand, thinking of the girl she’d just written about, wondering wheth
