Yuletide 2007
I recieved a warm and fuzzy Chuck story about family and friendship, Coming Home by Tani. Awww!
I wrote:
Title: The Inconstant Moon
Fandom: Barbara Hambly, Those Who Hunt the Night
Length: 2,900 words
Summary: Lydia and James in Oxford, before the books
Read it in all its beautifully formatted glory here, at the Yuletide Archive, or behind the LJ cut.
Oxford, England, 1900
In a chill, drafty laboratory, Lydia Willoughby ignited the thin stream of gas emerging from the Marsh apparatus and held a porcelain dish over the flame. A silver-black film formed on the white surface.
The film dissolved in a solution of sodium hypochlorite.
Lydia folded her suddenly shaking hands in her lap and stared at the equipment, entirely unsure of what to do with the knowledge that Robert Ainsworth, student of mathematics and possible spy, had died of arsenic poisoning.
::
In his more bitter moments of cynicism, James Asher would have said that his service in the Foreign Office had rendered him incapable of shock.
He would be proved wrong in many instances, not least of which was opening his door and finding a thin, gawky, red-haired girl in a somber brown dress.
"Miss Willoughby," he said, and she inclined her head a tiny bit.
"Mr. Asher. Might I come in?"
He let her into the parlor, mind still blank and startled. If had retained servants, he would have rung for tea, but he could offer her nothing.
She perched delicately on the settee and put her spectacles on.
"I apologize for be so forward in coming to see you, but you have not been keeping office hours since your return, and I-" She gave a weak little laugh. "I do not know who else to speak to of this. Robert Ainsworth is dead, poisoned by arsenic."
He blinked at her, and his brain clicked sluggishly to life. He hadn't known Ainsworth well, a promising young man, he'd thought. He had not taught him, but had given him advice when he asked.
"We performed an autopsy on a corpse that had been pulled from the Thames." She looked down at her hands for a moment. "It took me several hours to recall his name. I took a sample of the liver, because I had read about the Marsh test for arsenic and I wanted to try it." She looked back up at him, a little defiantly, as if daring him to judge her curiosity.
He only nodded.
"The test revealed the presence of arsenic in his body. Large quantities of arsenic. I wanted to obtain another sample, to confirm the results, but the body had already been disposed of when I returned."
"Why did you come to me with this?"
"I believe Ainsworth was a particular friend of yours."
He frowned a little, and she dropped the delicate language. "I believe he was a, a spy like you are."
She was clever, so clever. He had not forgotten it, and it almost made him smile.
"I will speak to the Foreign Office about it," he said, neither confirming nor denying it, and she did not press him.
"Thank you."
They were silent for a moment, and finally Asher could not help himself. "How are your studies progressing?"
She smiled, then, sudden and open and clearly happy, and the brilliance of it was like warmth on frostbitten skin-shockingly painful. "Very well. It is...it is everything that I ever hoped for."
He cleared his throat. "Good. I am-that is good."
"James-" she started, and he stood hastily.
"Thank you for bringing this to my attention," he said, striving for cool and formal. "But you must excuse me. I have not been well."
She studied his face for a moment. "Yes, I see," she said, and bid him good day.
When she had left, Asher washed his hands again, even though he knew the scent of gunpowder and blood on them was only an illusion.
::
Three days later, James sent her a note at her father's house, asking her to join him for tea.
Her heart gave a tiny leap when he stood to greet her in the cafe. He looked slightly better than he had at their last meeting, more tidily put-together, but still weary and oddly stiff. She believed him when he said he had been unwell, but she wondered if it were an affliction of the mind rather than the body.
She poured for both of them, and after the little flurry of adding milk and sugar, he asked, "How certain are you that the body you saw was Robert Ainsworth?"
Startled, Lydia paused with her hand on her tea cup. "Fairly certain," she said. "It was not at all decomposed."
"The Foreign Office says that Ainsworth has been sent out of the country, and that our man in Paris confirmed his arrival there. Two nights ago, he supposedly left Paris for his new posting."
Lydia stirred her tea, thinking. "We were not great friends," she said finally. "But I saw him most often in the library, when I would be wearing my spectacles. I believe I would not mistake a stranger for him, but perhaps I am wrong."
James pulled out a little rectangle of pasteboard and held it out to her. "Do you recognize this name?"
An elaborate, Italianate script with gold accents spelled out the words Madame Ophelia, Medium, Fortunes Told, Mysteries Revealed and an address.
She shook her head. "Did Ainsworth know her?"
"Perhaps," James said. "His rooms have been cleaned out, his clothes and personal possessions are all gone. We found that, along with a few other calling cards and loose change, behind a dresser. It is most likely nothing."
She handed the card back to him. "I am sorry to have bothered you, then."
"No," he said, "no, you were quite right to be concerned. The consequences should you be correct are far worse than the inconvenience should you be mistaken."
There was a silence, and she sipped slowly at her tea, stealing little glances at his face. Four months ago he had been in Pretoria, during the South African war. She had been told he was dead, and she remembered the actual, physical pain of the grief and the almost nauseating giddiness of relief when she heard that news was wrong. He was back now, but the ease between them was gone, something stiff and formal in its place.
She was almost glad to leave to attend Blaydon's lecture on blood pathology.
But she could not stop thinking about Ainsworth, and the card, and its motto Mysteries Revealed, and when she hired a hack after the lecture, the address she gave was not her father's house.
::
Madame Ophelia's parlor was dim and close, and the furnishings had a rich, subtle luster. The air smelled of beeswax and incense.
Lydia seated herself across the little, white-covered table from the medium.
"Use your spectacles, if you like. You do not need to impress anyone here with your beauty," the other woman said, in a low, throaty voice touched with some accent that Lydia could not place. James would know, she thought.
She wrestled briefly with her pride, then pulled out her spectacles and settled them on her nose.
Madame Ophelia did not look like Lydia had expected. She had pictured an old crone of a woman, like a village soothsayer, or perhaps an exotic beauty to explain Ainsworth's interest. Instead, Madame Ophelia was middle-aged, with strong features and the coloring of a Gypsy or an Italian. She had an amused little smile on her face, and Lydia suddenly had no idea what she was doing there.
"What do you wish to know, my dear?"
"A gentleman I know came to see you," Lydia said carefully. "I wondered if you had news of him."
"He has gone on a long journey, yes? And you wish to know if he will be faithful."
"I believe he will be as faithful as the grave," Lydia said, and the other woman's mouth quirked at the wording. "But I would like to know more about his journey. His name is Robert Ainsworth."
She watched carefully, but Madame Ophelia's expression did not change. "I'm sorry, I can tell you nothing of him."
"Cannot or will not?"
"Cannot. His fate is not visible to me."
Lydia considered her for a moment. "Tell my fortune, then."
"Give me your hand." Madame Ophelia cradled Lydia's hand in hers, clucking over the acid burns and ink stains. "I see love and death in your future."
Lydia gave her a faint, wry smile. "That could be said of anyone's future."
Madame Ophelia smiled back, quick and sharp. "Not everyone gets love."
"Tell me something I would not know."
"I see long journeys to foreign lands." A faint line appeared between her brows. "I see you traveling with death as though it were a friend. I see..." She looked up at Lydia. "You are right to trust your learning, your science, but remember that all legends have their own truths."
Lydia frowned at her. It was a strange prophecy, vague and yet not generic, and she did not know what the woman meant by it. Her frown was met with a little enigmatic smile.
At the door, as she was leaving, Madame Ophelia said, "Trust not the moon, the inconstant moon."
Lydia turned to ask her what she meant, but the door was already closed.
Lydia closed her mouth, scowled a little at the door, and stepped down to the street. The gaslights were lit; it was still early, but the winter days were short. She had her face turned to the street as she walked, looking for a hack, so she didn't see the person who grabbed her wrist and pulled her into the alley.
She had one moment of blind, heart-stopping panic before she realized it was James.
She stopped struggling, and pressed one hand over her heart. "You said it was nothing!" she hissed, and in the weak glow that reached from the street, she saw a smile flicker across his mouth.
Then he was frowning at her again and tugging her back down the alley. "Of course I said it was nothing. This is a matter of great secrecy."
Lydia held her skirts out of the muck of the alley as best she could and was grateful that the cold kept the smell down. When they reached the end of the alley, James glanced quickly around them and led her to a waiting carriage.
He helped her into it, and before he let go of her hand he said quietly, "Please, let this be. For my sake, if not your own."
Lydia couldn't quite say anything, and nodded instead.
He closed the door, and spoke quietly to the coachman, and then the carriage was moving.
Lydia looked back, but did not see him.
::
Asher stepped back into the shadows of the alley and watched Lydia's carriage drive away. When it had finally turned the corner, he walked returned to his post beside Madame Ophelia's house again.
Something about the evening made the back of his neck itch. After a moment, he realized he was not being followed, not being watched.
He cursed under his breath and ran back the way he had come.
::
The gunshot startled the horses. Lydia felt the carriage jerk and sway, and heard sudden, shouted curses. She stuck her head out the window in time to see a strange man throw the coachman off his seat.
Behind her, the other door of the carriage opened. Another man stood in the doorway, reaching out for her.
The horses slowed. Well, Lydia thought, and jumped.
She hit the ground hard and her feet went out from under her, sending her rolling. The carriage slowed and stopped, and the second man jumped down as well, moving towards her. She struggled to get her breath back, scrambling backwards on her hands and heels.
The second crack of gunfire startled her attacker. His head jerked up and he threw himself back against the carriage, fumbling for his own pistol.
Then James was there, pulling her to her feet with one hand, pistol held against his side.
"Are you hurt?" he asked.
"No," she gasped, and she thought that was true.
He kept hold of her hand, pulling her into a maze of narrow alleys. The streets got filthier and buildings shabbier as they ran, footsteps and cursing always steady behind them.
Her heart pounded and her ankle was beginning to throb.
"Here," James said, and pressed her up into the shadow of a doorway. He pulled a knife out of his boot and pried at the latch until it opened, sending them stumbling into the building. A rickety staircase wound up into darkness, and James led her halfway up before he stopped, pressing on her shoulder until she sat down.
"James, what-"
His face was cool and intent, professional, until he met her eyes. Then it seemed to crack a little, and she understood what he was planning. "I understand," she said.
He disappeared up the stairs. A heartbeat later, the door burst open again. The man stopped when he saw her, hesitated long enough for James to shoot him dead.
There was no second man. "Come on," James said, "the other one will be waiting for us at the back."
They went up the stairs, up and up, until they reached the door at the end of the staircase. James pried the latch open again and opened the door a crack. The roof beyond was black as tar. They waited, but there was no sound or motion.
Lydia was conscious of the heat of their bodies pressed side by side, their rough breathing, the pounding of her blood. James turned his head to look at her and she moved without thinking, pressing her mouth to his, hot and sweet and edged with fear. She felt his startled intake of breath, felt his mouth open just for a second, and then he was pulling back and the moment was gone.
He looked at her, wide-eyed, and then turned back to the door, one hand raised as if to push it open and she thought, The inconstant moon.
"Wait," she breathed. "Just, wait."
He opened his mouth to argue, and at that moment, the moon broke free of the clouds and spilled cold silver light over the rooftop. The second man was suddenly visible, not twenty feet from the door. James shoved the door open and shot him before the clouds swallowed up the light again.
::
James took her back to his rooms, since they were closer. He bandaged her hands, scraped raw by jumping from the carriage, and by the time he was done, they were just beginning to shake.
He poured her a glass of brandy. "Drink this. It's just the shock beginning to set in."
She sipped carefully, and the warm burn of the alcohol helped ease something in her chest.
"I will see if I can arrange a carriage for you," he said after a moment.
She licked her lips and summoned all her bravery. "I would rather stay here, for tonight."
He went still. "I cannot imagine your father would approve of that."
She gave a little laugh and it sounded brittle even to her own ears. "He would not, but as he has already disinherited me over my studies, there is very little he can do about it."
"I am sorry," James said, and she shrugged a little.
"It does not matter," she said, and every time she did it was closer to being true. She looked up and met his eyes. "The things I truly desire are not his to give or take."
James looked away from her, but nodded. "Stay."
::
Asher sent a message to the Foreign Office about the attack. He was still awake when the reply came, watching the dawn creep in around the edges of the sky, and trying not to think of Lydia asleep in his bed.
Lydia woke while he was shaving in the kitchen.
"I have been summoned," he said, gesturing towards the letter.
She only said, "Come back, afterwards."
And he surprised himself by saying, "I will."
::
When it was all over, he felt light and hollow and unburdened.
Lydia looked up from his newspaper when he returned, but she hesitated over her questions.
Asher sat down in one of the study's massive leather armchairs. "Madame Ophelia has vanished," he said. "There are no indications that she left unwillingly. The St. Petersburg office telegraphed us to confirm that the man who presented himself to them as Ainsworth did not match our description. They have asked me to go to St. Petersburg to continue the investigation."
Lydia took a deep breath. "I see."
He smiled faintly. "I told them they could go to the Devil."
She blinked. "Oh. If you...If you do not do this, you will never know who killed Ainsworth, or why."
"Knowing won't bring him back." He forced himself to meet her gaze. "I have done things that have left a mark on my conscience, on my soul. I have told myself and others that they were necessary for the greater good, and that may be true. But this path does not lead to redemption for me. I am done with the greater good, and I will be selfish now."
"What will you do?"
"I still have my position at New College. Although I understand they encourage the dons to be married-more respectable that way."
She started smiling. "Oh? Did you have someone in mind?"
"Well, there is this one girl. Bit of a blue-stocking, but she'll be able to support me when she becomes a physician."
"Oh!" she said, with mock-outrage.
"I don't know if she will agree, though," he said, and her smile was like the sun after a long winter.
I wrote:
Title: The Inconstant Moon
Fandom: Barbara Hambly, Those Who Hunt the Night
Length: 2,900 words
Summary: Lydia and James in Oxford, before the books
Read it in all its beautifully formatted glory here, at the Yuletide Archive, or behind the LJ cut.
Oxford, England, 1900
In a chill, drafty laboratory, Lydia Willoughby ignited the thin stream of gas emerging from the Marsh apparatus and held a porcelain dish over the flame. A silver-black film formed on the white surface.
The film dissolved in a solution of sodium hypochlorite.
Lydia folded her suddenly shaking hands in her lap and stared at the equipment, entirely unsure of what to do with the knowledge that Robert Ainsworth, student of mathematics and possible spy, had died of arsenic poisoning.
::
In his more bitter moments of cynicism, James Asher would have said that his service in the Foreign Office had rendered him incapable of shock.
He would be proved wrong in many instances, not least of which was opening his door and finding a thin, gawky, red-haired girl in a somber brown dress.
"Miss Willoughby," he said, and she inclined her head a tiny bit.
"Mr. Asher. Might I come in?"
He let her into the parlor, mind still blank and startled. If had retained servants, he would have rung for tea, but he could offer her nothing.
She perched delicately on the settee and put her spectacles on.
"I apologize for be so forward in coming to see you, but you have not been keeping office hours since your return, and I-" She gave a weak little laugh. "I do not know who else to speak to of this. Robert Ainsworth is dead, poisoned by arsenic."
He blinked at her, and his brain clicked sluggishly to life. He hadn't known Ainsworth well, a promising young man, he'd thought. He had not taught him, but had given him advice when he asked.
"We performed an autopsy on a corpse that had been pulled from the Thames." She looked down at her hands for a moment. "It took me several hours to recall his name. I took a sample of the liver, because I had read about the Marsh test for arsenic and I wanted to try it." She looked back up at him, a little defiantly, as if daring him to judge her curiosity.
He only nodded.
"The test revealed the presence of arsenic in his body. Large quantities of arsenic. I wanted to obtain another sample, to confirm the results, but the body had already been disposed of when I returned."
"Why did you come to me with this?"
"I believe Ainsworth was a particular friend of yours."
He frowned a little, and she dropped the delicate language. "I believe he was a, a spy like you are."
She was clever, so clever. He had not forgotten it, and it almost made him smile.
"I will speak to the Foreign Office about it," he said, neither confirming nor denying it, and she did not press him.
"Thank you."
They were silent for a moment, and finally Asher could not help himself. "How are your studies progressing?"
She smiled, then, sudden and open and clearly happy, and the brilliance of it was like warmth on frostbitten skin-shockingly painful. "Very well. It is...it is everything that I ever hoped for."
He cleared his throat. "Good. I am-that is good."
"James-" she started, and he stood hastily.
"Thank you for bringing this to my attention," he said, striving for cool and formal. "But you must excuse me. I have not been well."
She studied his face for a moment. "Yes, I see," she said, and bid him good day.
When she had left, Asher washed his hands again, even though he knew the scent of gunpowder and blood on them was only an illusion.
::
Three days later, James sent her a note at her father's house, asking her to join him for tea.
Her heart gave a tiny leap when he stood to greet her in the cafe. He looked slightly better than he had at their last meeting, more tidily put-together, but still weary and oddly stiff. She believed him when he said he had been unwell, but she wondered if it were an affliction of the mind rather than the body.
She poured for both of them, and after the little flurry of adding milk and sugar, he asked, "How certain are you that the body you saw was Robert Ainsworth?"
Startled, Lydia paused with her hand on her tea cup. "Fairly certain," she said. "It was not at all decomposed."
"The Foreign Office says that Ainsworth has been sent out of the country, and that our man in Paris confirmed his arrival there. Two nights ago, he supposedly left Paris for his new posting."
Lydia stirred her tea, thinking. "We were not great friends," she said finally. "But I saw him most often in the library, when I would be wearing my spectacles. I believe I would not mistake a stranger for him, but perhaps I am wrong."
James pulled out a little rectangle of pasteboard and held it out to her. "Do you recognize this name?"
An elaborate, Italianate script with gold accents spelled out the words Madame Ophelia, Medium, Fortunes Told, Mysteries Revealed and an address.
She shook her head. "Did Ainsworth know her?"
"Perhaps," James said. "His rooms have been cleaned out, his clothes and personal possessions are all gone. We found that, along with a few other calling cards and loose change, behind a dresser. It is most likely nothing."
She handed the card back to him. "I am sorry to have bothered you, then."
"No," he said, "no, you were quite right to be concerned. The consequences should you be correct are far worse than the inconvenience should you be mistaken."
There was a silence, and she sipped slowly at her tea, stealing little glances at his face. Four months ago he had been in Pretoria, during the South African war. She had been told he was dead, and she remembered the actual, physical pain of the grief and the almost nauseating giddiness of relief when she heard that news was wrong. He was back now, but the ease between them was gone, something stiff and formal in its place.
She was almost glad to leave to attend Blaydon's lecture on blood pathology.
But she could not stop thinking about Ainsworth, and the card, and its motto Mysteries Revealed, and when she hired a hack after the lecture, the address she gave was not her father's house.
::
Madame Ophelia's parlor was dim and close, and the furnishings had a rich, subtle luster. The air smelled of beeswax and incense.
Lydia seated herself across the little, white-covered table from the medium.
"Use your spectacles, if you like. You do not need to impress anyone here with your beauty," the other woman said, in a low, throaty voice touched with some accent that Lydia could not place. James would know, she thought.
She wrestled briefly with her pride, then pulled out her spectacles and settled them on her nose.
Madame Ophelia did not look like Lydia had expected. She had pictured an old crone of a woman, like a village soothsayer, or perhaps an exotic beauty to explain Ainsworth's interest. Instead, Madame Ophelia was middle-aged, with strong features and the coloring of a Gypsy or an Italian. She had an amused little smile on her face, and Lydia suddenly had no idea what she was doing there.
"What do you wish to know, my dear?"
"A gentleman I know came to see you," Lydia said carefully. "I wondered if you had news of him."
"He has gone on a long journey, yes? And you wish to know if he will be faithful."
"I believe he will be as faithful as the grave," Lydia said, and the other woman's mouth quirked at the wording. "But I would like to know more about his journey. His name is Robert Ainsworth."
She watched carefully, but Madame Ophelia's expression did not change. "I'm sorry, I can tell you nothing of him."
"Cannot or will not?"
"Cannot. His fate is not visible to me."
Lydia considered her for a moment. "Tell my fortune, then."
"Give me your hand." Madame Ophelia cradled Lydia's hand in hers, clucking over the acid burns and ink stains. "I see love and death in your future."
Lydia gave her a faint, wry smile. "That could be said of anyone's future."
Madame Ophelia smiled back, quick and sharp. "Not everyone gets love."
"Tell me something I would not know."
"I see long journeys to foreign lands." A faint line appeared between her brows. "I see you traveling with death as though it were a friend. I see..." She looked up at Lydia. "You are right to trust your learning, your science, but remember that all legends have their own truths."
Lydia frowned at her. It was a strange prophecy, vague and yet not generic, and she did not know what the woman meant by it. Her frown was met with a little enigmatic smile.
At the door, as she was leaving, Madame Ophelia said, "Trust not the moon, the inconstant moon."
Lydia turned to ask her what she meant, but the door was already closed.
Lydia closed her mouth, scowled a little at the door, and stepped down to the street. The gaslights were lit; it was still early, but the winter days were short. She had her face turned to the street as she walked, looking for a hack, so she didn't see the person who grabbed her wrist and pulled her into the alley.
She had one moment of blind, heart-stopping panic before she realized it was James.
She stopped struggling, and pressed one hand over her heart. "You said it was nothing!" she hissed, and in the weak glow that reached from the street, she saw a smile flicker across his mouth.
Then he was frowning at her again and tugging her back down the alley. "Of course I said it was nothing. This is a matter of great secrecy."
Lydia held her skirts out of the muck of the alley as best she could and was grateful that the cold kept the smell down. When they reached the end of the alley, James glanced quickly around them and led her to a waiting carriage.
He helped her into it, and before he let go of her hand he said quietly, "Please, let this be. For my sake, if not your own."
Lydia couldn't quite say anything, and nodded instead.
He closed the door, and spoke quietly to the coachman, and then the carriage was moving.
Lydia looked back, but did not see him.
::
Asher stepped back into the shadows of the alley and watched Lydia's carriage drive away. When it had finally turned the corner, he walked returned to his post beside Madame Ophelia's house again.
Something about the evening made the back of his neck itch. After a moment, he realized he was not being followed, not being watched.
He cursed under his breath and ran back the way he had come.
::
The gunshot startled the horses. Lydia felt the carriage jerk and sway, and heard sudden, shouted curses. She stuck her head out the window in time to see a strange man throw the coachman off his seat.
Behind her, the other door of the carriage opened. Another man stood in the doorway, reaching out for her.
The horses slowed. Well, Lydia thought, and jumped.
She hit the ground hard and her feet went out from under her, sending her rolling. The carriage slowed and stopped, and the second man jumped down as well, moving towards her. She struggled to get her breath back, scrambling backwards on her hands and heels.
The second crack of gunfire startled her attacker. His head jerked up and he threw himself back against the carriage, fumbling for his own pistol.
Then James was there, pulling her to her feet with one hand, pistol held against his side.
"Are you hurt?" he asked.
"No," she gasped, and she thought that was true.
He kept hold of her hand, pulling her into a maze of narrow alleys. The streets got filthier and buildings shabbier as they ran, footsteps and cursing always steady behind them.
Her heart pounded and her ankle was beginning to throb.
"Here," James said, and pressed her up into the shadow of a doorway. He pulled a knife out of his boot and pried at the latch until it opened, sending them stumbling into the building. A rickety staircase wound up into darkness, and James led her halfway up before he stopped, pressing on her shoulder until she sat down.
"James, what-"
His face was cool and intent, professional, until he met her eyes. Then it seemed to crack a little, and she understood what he was planning. "I understand," she said.
He disappeared up the stairs. A heartbeat later, the door burst open again. The man stopped when he saw her, hesitated long enough for James to shoot him dead.
There was no second man. "Come on," James said, "the other one will be waiting for us at the back."
They went up the stairs, up and up, until they reached the door at the end of the staircase. James pried the latch open again and opened the door a crack. The roof beyond was black as tar. They waited, but there was no sound or motion.
Lydia was conscious of the heat of their bodies pressed side by side, their rough breathing, the pounding of her blood. James turned his head to look at her and she moved without thinking, pressing her mouth to his, hot and sweet and edged with fear. She felt his startled intake of breath, felt his mouth open just for a second, and then he was pulling back and the moment was gone.
He looked at her, wide-eyed, and then turned back to the door, one hand raised as if to push it open and she thought, The inconstant moon.
"Wait," she breathed. "Just, wait."
He opened his mouth to argue, and at that moment, the moon broke free of the clouds and spilled cold silver light over the rooftop. The second man was suddenly visible, not twenty feet from the door. James shoved the door open and shot him before the clouds swallowed up the light again.
::
James took her back to his rooms, since they were closer. He bandaged her hands, scraped raw by jumping from the carriage, and by the time he was done, they were just beginning to shake.
He poured her a glass of brandy. "Drink this. It's just the shock beginning to set in."
She sipped carefully, and the warm burn of the alcohol helped ease something in her chest.
"I will see if I can arrange a carriage for you," he said after a moment.
She licked her lips and summoned all her bravery. "I would rather stay here, for tonight."
He went still. "I cannot imagine your father would approve of that."
She gave a little laugh and it sounded brittle even to her own ears. "He would not, but as he has already disinherited me over my studies, there is very little he can do about it."
"I am sorry," James said, and she shrugged a little.
"It does not matter," she said, and every time she did it was closer to being true. She looked up and met his eyes. "The things I truly desire are not his to give or take."
James looked away from her, but nodded. "Stay."
::
Asher sent a message to the Foreign Office about the attack. He was still awake when the reply came, watching the dawn creep in around the edges of the sky, and trying not to think of Lydia asleep in his bed.
Lydia woke while he was shaving in the kitchen.
"I have been summoned," he said, gesturing towards the letter.
She only said, "Come back, afterwards."
And he surprised himself by saying, "I will."
::
When it was all over, he felt light and hollow and unburdened.
Lydia looked up from his newspaper when he returned, but she hesitated over her questions.
Asher sat down in one of the study's massive leather armchairs. "Madame Ophelia has vanished," he said. "There are no indications that she left unwillingly. The St. Petersburg office telegraphed us to confirm that the man who presented himself to them as Ainsworth did not match our description. They have asked me to go to St. Petersburg to continue the investigation."
Lydia took a deep breath. "I see."
He smiled faintly. "I told them they could go to the Devil."
She blinked. "Oh. If you...If you do not do this, you will never know who killed Ainsworth, or why."
"Knowing won't bring him back." He forced himself to meet her gaze. "I have done things that have left a mark on my conscience, on my soul. I have told myself and others that they were necessary for the greater good, and that may be true. But this path does not lead to redemption for me. I am done with the greater good, and I will be selfish now."
"What will you do?"
"I still have my position at New College. Although I understand they encourage the dons to be married-more respectable that way."
She started smiling. "Oh? Did you have someone in mind?"
"Well, there is this one girl. Bit of a blue-stocking, but she'll be able to support me when she becomes a physician."
"Oh!" she said, with mock-outrage.
"I don't know if she will agree, though," he said, and her smile was like the sun after a long winter.