He could lie to himself and say it was a coincidence. To see her here, now, was chance. Her hair was as golden as when they first met, elegantly pinned. He remembered how he used to run his fingers through that hair, how she admonished him for disturbing the pins that held it back from her face. He had always loved her more with her hair loose. The dress she wore was stunning, most eyes in the room drawn to her, in admiration or envy, through covert glances and open stares alike. The fabric was a deep, rich red, so unlike the dresses she would wear when they were together, dresses of light blue or yellow, pale enough that she did not immediately attract attention. They brought out the light in her eyes, especially when she was on the verge of some scientific breakthrough. The rich colour of the dress she wore now was just as vibrant, daring others to look away. As always, she was breathtaking.
Of course, the last time he had seen her, she had been wearing black, to more easily blend into the shadows. The smile she graced a few of her companions with was absent then. Her face had shown nothing but heartache, anger and fear. Absent-mindedly, he lifted a hand to his face. He could feel her parting gift, the cut on his cheek that had not healed properly. As he was drawn deeper into the shadows of his memory, he retreated further into the shadows of the hall. The ball was open to those of good reputation and standing. But there were few places he could not enter at will. Here, London's high society gathered to ensnare husbands, wives, mistresses and allies. The beautiful surroundings disguised a viper's pit of thieves, whores and braggarts. In their midst, an angel. His angel.
The longer he gazed at her, the more he noticed subtle changes. Her hands covered with small scars. Another one, at the base of her neck, was cleverly concealed by her hair. The more she smiled, the more he noticed it was for the benefit of others rather than true amusement or joy. She held her shoulders squarely, chin high, reminding him of a warrior prepared to go into battle. People crowded around her, seeking her attention. She was respected.
He watched her depart the hall with another young man. As with every action she undertook, it was subtle. She directed those that surrounded her to others of her friends or introduced topics of conversation among two people that sparked lively debate. Finally, she excused herself from the few that remained, departing through a small side-door. The man soon followed, far less tactfully abandoning his friends to seek her out. He was the ammeter, she the expert.
His first instinct, as always, was to follow her. But his current lucidity would be short-lived. Soon, he would again be the murderer she confronted in the alley years ago.
He had noticed her actions, her appearance, her eyes. Surrounded as she was with people, she was totally alone. He would not deny her the solace she found in others. He would follow, when he could. Her flickering shadow, attempting forever to redeem himself to her, even if she was entirely unaware of his existence.
Secretly, he sought the moment she glanced behind her, acknowledged her shadow, and continued. He wanted desperately to see the look in her eye as she saw him. He needed her to be happy.
Because she had seen her shadow, seconds before she passed through the door. Emotions coursed through him as the look in her eyes confirmed what he already knew. She could only be happy with the one thing he could not give her.