Through time II ; Flames of time

He never forgot

*Leo*

The words hang in the dim air between us. The lamp hisses. Lily“s expression does not change, but something in her posture shifts, a fractional settling of her shoulders, as though she has just received a piece of news she was already expecting.

“To whom?“

“Her name is Evelyn Ashworth. She is nineteen. The engagement was arranged before my father“s death, and I have not yet found a way to dissolve it that does not cause irreparable harm to her family“s standing.“ I pause. “Or to her reputation.“

“You do not love her.“

It is not a question, more a fact. I meet her eyes. “No. I do not.“

She nods, once, and then she looks away, toward the canvas-shrouded arch. “So I am to be a kitchen maid named Mary, hiding in the cellar, while you play the dutiful duke upstairs with your nineteen-year-old fiancée.“

“For now.“ I swallow. “Sorry.”

“For now,“ she repeats. She unfolds her arms and lets them fall to her sides. “And the mission? The fractures? The killer you mentioned?“

“We will begin tomorrow. There is a household dinner tonight. I cannot absent myself from it without raising questions, and I cannot bring you with me. You will remain here, in the servants“ quarters, until I can arrange a plausible reason for your presence above stairs.“

“Here. In the cellar.“

“There is a room. It is small, but it has a bed and a washstand. I will bring you food when I can.“

She looks around the cellar, at the crates and the cobwebs and the single guttering lamp, and I see her take the full measure of what she has agreed to. The flat she left behind had electricity and running water and cats who slept on her duvet. This room has none of those things. This room has damp stone and coal smoke and a man who cannot stay.

“Show me the room,“ she says.

I lead her to it. It is tucked behind the cellar“s far wall, a narrow space that was once used by the housekeeper for storing linens and has since been forgotten. The bed is a simple iron frame with a thin mattress. The washstand holds a chipped basin and a pitcher of water I replaced two days ago. There is a single window, high and small, through which a sliver of grey afternoon light falls onto the floorboards.

Lily sets her rucksack on the bed. She does not sit down. She stands in the centre of the room, her hands at her sides, and she looks at the window, the washstand, the bare walls.

“I will come for you in the morning,“ I say. “At the latest.”

“Will you?“

“Yes.“

She turns to face me. “You said this house is full of people. You said I cannot be seen. How do I know you will not simply forget I am here, tucked away in your cellar like a piece of luggage you have not yet decided what to do with?“

“Because I have never forgotten you,“ I say. “Not once. Not in any year, in any version of London, in any moment since I first saw your face.“

She stares at me. The grey light from the high window falls across her cheek, and I can see the faint tremor in her lower lip, the one she is trying very hard to control. I want to cross the room and take her hands. I want to tell her that everything will be all right, that I will protect her, that the world I have dragged her into is not as cruel as it looks in this moment. But I cannot make promises I am not certain I can keep, and so I do not move.

“Get some rest,“ I say. “The journey takes more out of you than you realise.“

I leave her there, in the narrow room with the iron bed and the chipped basin, and I am unable to describe how much I hate to do it. How much I hate not being able to explain everything to her.

I climb the cellar stairs to the world above. The kitchen is empty when I pass through it, the range still warm from the midday meal, a half-peeled potato abandoned on the scrubbed wooden table. I move quickly, my footsteps quiet on the flagstones, and I do not let myself look back.

In the hallway beyond the kitchen, a housemaid is polishing the banister. She bobs a curtsy when she sees me. “Your Grace.“

“Carry on,“ I say, and I walk past her toward the study, where a stack of correspondence awaits my attention and a decanter of whisky sits on the sideboard where my father left it six months ago. I do not pour myself a glass. I sit at the desk and I stare at the unopened letters and I think about the woman in the cellar, the dress that fits her well enough, the way she said my name in the mews off Marylebone Road as though it was the only thing she trusted.

Somewhere in the house, a clock strikes three. I pick up the first letter and begin to read.