It was dark, cold, and getting colder by the time they left Wendy's old house. Despite that, Bae wanted to walk back to Uncle Nathan's. He didn't say it, but she could see the cold air was clearing his head—and helping to clear off all signs of crying from his face. Wendy decided not to protest. It wasn't that late, and it seemed to be doing Bae some good.

"I think—I think Uncle would give you your father's room," Wendy said. "If you wanted. I told the maids to leave it alone till you got back."

"Did it hurt?" Bae asked abruptly. "Leaving everything you knew when your father died?"

Bae had already lost everything he knew, Wendy thought—really lost everything. She'd only lost her room and a familiar part of London. She shrugged. "I don't know. I went around in a fog those first days." And Uncle hadn't wanted any scenes from "emotional females," as he'd put it. He'd seen to it Miss Thomas went back to Waels to work for a family in Caerdyf, one with sons young enough not to have a tutor but to gain some benefit from Miss Thomas' inappropriately masculine education.

"Should I wear black for Papa?" Bae asked. He looked worried. Of course, Bae didn't have any money for mourning clothes. Wendy had heard Uncle say he'd pay Mr. Weaver a hundred pounds a year, but she didn't know how much of that he'd received—or how much was left. Even if Uncle had promised to look after him, she knew Bae had lived a long time without enough to even buy bread. At least, she could reassure him on that point.

"No. Men and boys only need a black armband," Wendy said. "A black armband. There are rules about cravats and ties. Those are for older men." Uncle had bought all the servants mourning clothes when Cousin Benjamin died. He still wore his black armband, though the mourning time was past and he'd let the other mourning signs go. There was no black wreath on the door or black borders on his stationery. Of course, most of Uncle's correspondence was with doctors about medicine and theories, so black borders probably weren't appropriate. "I can sew up armbands for you. And put black borders on your handkerchiefs," Wendy said. "And. . . ." she hesitated. "I did get one thing from your father's room, the hair from his brush. I didn't want to risk them cleaning it away. You—you can do what you like with it. But, if you want, I thought I could get it ready for a mourning ring." She didn't know if Uncle would pay for a mourning ring for Bae or not. If not, she thought she could get the money for one. She had a gold chain—her first piece of real jewelry, a gift from her father on her last birthday—she could probably pawn. She wasn't sure how you pawned things, but it couldn't be that hard. People in books did it all the time. The only other thing she could do was sell her hair, and she didn't think hers was long enough to sell, even if Uncle would let her get away with it.

"A mourning ring?"

Really, the things Bae didn't know about! Wendy pulled out her black locket from where it was hidden under her collar and opened it up. "This is a mourning locket," she explained. On one side, there was a picture of a woman facing a cleverly knotted rose of dark brown thread under a thin piece of glass. Except it wasn't thread. "My mother," Wendy said. She flipped the locket over and opened the other side. There was a man in his thirties. Handsome, she thought. And brave. The hair facing it had been worked in a simpler, lace pattern. "My father." She pointed to the lace. "I did that with some of his hair. They don't have mourning jewelry where you come from, do they?" She remembered Mr. Weaver asking her about the watch bob she had made from some of Cousin Benjamin's hair but never had the courage to give to Uncle Nathan. She imagined him looking at her coldly and telling her that sentimentality and meaningless displays of emotion were a pointless waste of time. He'd said as much the one or two times she'd tried to talk to him about her father after he died.

Bae got the guarded look he did whenever she asked questions that came too close to whatever his secrets were. "It's all right," she told him. "You don't have to tell me." She put the locket away. "I've gotten better working with hair," she said. "I could make something fancier than the one I made for Father, if you'd like. Or Miss Grosvenor can. She's very good."

Bae made a face at the idea of Miss Grosvenor making a remembrance of his father. "I'd like you to do it, if it's all right."

"Of course. Is there anything special you want it to look like?"

Bae paused. "A spinning wheel," he said. "Do you think you could make a spinning wheel?"

Wendy thought about it a moment. She'd seen bits of hair done up in more difficult pictures, but she didn't think she could do one like that, not even with her smallest crochet hook. Miss Grosvenor probably could, but Wendy tried to imagine getting Miss Grosvenor to make a spinning wheel as a remembrance even if Bae would let her. "I'd have embroider it," Wendy said. Embroidery was probably cheating, Wendy thought, but she couldn't think of any other way. "Is that all right?"

"Embroidered would be fine," Bae said. "Thank you."

The wind blew down the street, and Wendy pulled her coat tighter around her. "Aren't you cold?" she asked Bae. He just shrugged. Wendy sighed. They were passing by some of the shops and stores, now. Most of them had already closed for the evening. The streets were largely deserted, but there was a lone figure huddled up on the steps of the lending library.

Wendy felt a stab of compassion. Whoever it was obviously had no place to go. On a cold night like this, that was a terrible thing indeed. Wendy felt around in her pocket. Bartleby's wasn't too far from here. People went there to get some food before catching the mail coach, so she knew it would still be open. The poor soul could get a meal. Wendy wasn't sure where poor people found rooms at this time of night. But, surely Bae would know?

"Look at that person," she told him. "Whoever it is will freeze out here if we don't do something." Bae nodded but looked slightly bemused. She realized it still struck him as odd that Wendy's first impulse was to help when she saw someone . . . someone like Bae had been when she first met him. It wasn't what he expected from the world.

Wendy went over to the huddled figure. "Excuse me?" She couldn't tell if it was a man or woman—or maybe even a child. Wendy saw a single, loose curl of red hair slipping loose from the person's cap, but that didn't mean anything. Mr. Weaver wasn't the only man in the city with long hair. "Do you need some help?"

The figure looked up. Wendy's first impression was of a pale, sickly face lined with exhaustion. Then, recognition hit her. "Miss Thomas?"

X

They were back at Wendy's house. Or at the stables behind it. It was hard to tell by the streetlights, but Bae thought Wendy had grown pale as she talked to Miss Thomas, as she called the small, sickly woman they'd found. She had a pale, unhealthy look that reminded Bae of people in the East Side or of many of the villagers back home in winter, when there wasn't enough sunlight and they were living mostly on porridge.

Miss Thomas' reaction had been . . . odd when Wendy called her by name. It was two reactions at once, he'd thought. She'd been exhausted, with the frightened tenseness Bae had learned to recognize in soldiers returning from the Ogre Wars. His father had had it, before the curse and after they came to this land. There'd been wariness—but no recognition.

Until Wendy finished saying her name.

Bae wasn't sure what had changed, then. But, something had. Something in Miss Thomas' face had sharpened, become more alive. And, whatever it was, Bae was certain it was the reason she'd come with them.

Bae still didn't understand why they'd come back here. He thought they should take her to Dr. Hastings. But, Wendy was certain it was a bad idea even before asking Miss Thomas. "There's my uncle," Wendy had finally said under Bae's prodding, as if she was admitting to snakes in the parlor. "Dr. Hastings. I don't know if—"

Miss Thomas had turned pale and looked ready to bolt. "No!" she said. "No doctors!" which only confused Bae, but Wendy looked satisfied.

"Of course not. Don't worry. I know a safe place."

So, they had come back here. Wendy led them to the stables where, as she'd told Bae earlier, neighbors and passing policemen wouldn't see a light. Then, she took them to the small loft room that had belonged to the groom.

Wendy found a candle and lit it from the lantern before putting a storm glass over it. Wendy showed Bae some bedding in a cedar trunk. "Fix it up," she told him. "And see if you can get a fire going in the stove. I'm going back to the house. I think there might be some vegetables left in the root cellar, and I'll see if I can't find anything in the kitchen."

Miss Thomas helped Bae put the bed in order in the near darkness. She seemed shaky, he thought, and wondered how long since she last ate. "Sit down and rest while I get the fire going," he told her. She sat down (gratefully, Bae thought) on the bed.

He could feel her eyes on him as he got the tinder going and began to build up the flames. He glanced over and saw her looking at him in a bemused way. "Why are you hurting?" she asked.

Bae almost dropped his flint. "What?"

"You're hurting. You. . . ." she studied him, as if he were an animal she didn't quite recognize. Then, her expression cleared. "You've lost your shadow!" she exclaimed.

"I—What?"

"Your shadow. There's a darkness. It was part of you. But, you lost it."

Papa, Bae thought. She was talking about Papa. It was still cold in the room and Miss Thomas had her coat on and her knitted cap pulled down tight over her head. Even if she hadn't, the candle flame and small glow from the fire were too weak to make out colors. But, Bae remembered the loose lock of red hair he'd seen by the streetlight, and he remembered Papa's story of the seer he'd met in the war. She'd been blind—scarred, Papa had said, as if her eyes had been cut out and placed in her palms. If it was sorcery, it was an evil, cruel kind.

Miss Thomas' eyes were exactly where they should be, but Bae had heard of people with Sight—everyone had. Papa had wondered if the seer he'd met had been born an ordinary—or nearly ordinary—girl till someone used dark magic to strengthen her power. "You—you have the Sight?" he asked.

"You call it that, too. . . ." she said wearily. She looked—and sounded—half-asleep. "I suppose I do. I see things that don't make sense. You need to find your shadow. Even if it hurts putting it back, don't try to wash it away. . . ."

"It—He's gone," Bae said. "Where I can't follow."

She nodded sagely. "In the dark. I see the dark." She shivered. "I don't like it. It reeks of blood."

"He died," Bae said. "That's what you're seeing."

Miss Thomas looked startled, the same way she had when Wendy called her by name. "I'm sorry," she said. She seemed to wake up, shaking off whatever spell had gripped her. "Don't—don't listen to what I say. The words—it doesn't mean anything."

Bae turned his attention back to the fire, trying to shut out what she'd said. She wasn't a seer, he told himself. She was just crazy. Angrily, he threw more wood on the fire. "Is that better?" he snapped, before she could say any more about shadows.

"Yes, thank you." She seemed to have shrunk into herself. Bae felt a stab of guilt. Crazy or not, she was Wendy's friend. And he knew what it was like to be cold and starving on the streets. He was searching for something neutral to say—something that had nothing to do with shadows—when Wendy came back up the ladder, a small sack slung over her shoulder. "I found potatoes," she said cheerfully. "And onions. And some oil to cook them in, along with some other things." She opened up her sack. "Other things" included salt, a small bit of flour, and a few cans, including two with milk. "Pity there's no bacon or ham," Wendy said. "But, meat would have spoiled by now. Still, I think I can make us some soup out of this." She began chopping up potatoes and onions. Something that resembled the soup Wendy had made for Papa when they first came to the doctor's house began to take form. Wendy chattered the way she usually did, but Bae thought there was a nervous edge to it. Miss Thomas seemed content to listen with bemused wonder but, even if she'd wanted to speak, Bae doubted she'd have gotten a word in edgewise.

As the room began to warm, Miss Thomas took off her cap. She had very curly hair pulled back in a horribly matted braid. Wendy exclaimed at the sight of it. "Miss Thomas, your beautiful hair! What happened to it?"

Miss Thomas shrugged. "I haven't had much chance to care for it."

Wendy got a steely look of determination in her eyes. "I am bringing a brush tomorrow. A brush and a comb." She eyed the matted curls like a knight about to slay a dragon or die trying.

"You're very kind," Miss Thomas said. She took off her coat. She wore a gray dress underneath with a white pinafore. Wendy started at the sight of it.

"Miss Thomas, you—" Wendy stopped. She gave Bae a look. She was deciding whether or not to tell Bae something, something that frightened her. "Bae, I—" She swallowed. "Could—could you leave us? I'm—I'm going to help Miss Thomas get ready for bed. We—we'd better go after that."

So, she'd decided not to tell him. Or not tell him yet. He looked at Miss Thomas, wondering what the mystery was. The dress was ill fitting, although it was pretty well hidden. Bae had seen women in second (and probably third and fourth) hand clothes they hadn't had time or means to resew. Miss Thomas' dress looked better than most of those.

But, she'd been Wendy's governess. Till she lost her job and wound up on the streets. She wasn't dressed like a streetwalker, so Wendy couldn't be afraid of scandalizing him. Gray was the color for half-mourning, wasn't it? He remembered Wendy saying that, after the anniversary of her father's death, she'd be able to wear gray and some subdued colors. Was Miss Thomas mourning someone, as well? There were few jobs open to women in this land and they were usually paid less than men (who had it hard enough, as Bae well knew). Maybe a kinsman had died and that was why Miss Thomas was on the street. And Wendy thought Bae didn't need to hear it right now after—(he felt something cold clench in his stomach)—after Papa.

"Of course. I'll be downstairs, Wendy. Call me if you need me."

He shoved aside the half-formed impulse he'd had to tell Dr. Hastings about Miss Thomas. She still looked like she needed help. But, if she'd lost someone, too. . . . Bae knew what that did to you. And Wendy usually knew what she was doing. Maybe Miss Thomas just needed time to rest and recover. The way Papa had. Bae was willing to give it to her.

So long as she got better, he thought. If she stayed sick or seemed to get worse, he would have to get help for her whether Wendy wanted him to or not. Dr. Hastings could seem like a hard man, but Bae knew he would help her just as he'd helped Papa.