Part 3

Chapter 11

This is my home now. People are used to me and my books, my notions.

I've never worked down in the mines. Not for survival, anyway. But no one thinks it strange when I don a set of dusty coveralls and cap, a fraying wicker basket in hand. A dried-up raisin of a man smiles toothily at me and gestures over his shoulder. Says that there's a bit of slack in the bin I can use for my stove.

This is my home. So, I give his pit ponies a pat as I walk past and tell him to save it for someone less able-bodied than me. Old Ma Crane could probably do with some.

And just that easily, I lower myself down, down, down, my skin breaking out with the familiar cold sweat. This is my home, and theirs. By now, I'm used to walking with their ghosts. I pull out the empty flour sack, saddened that it should never be reincarnated as a little girl's dress—its destiny, like so many others around here, is a dark one. The men's sacrifice—our sacrifice—is shoveled into it until the sack is full.

Chapter 12

If Mac's tests matched their theory, the vacuum cleaner had indeed been sabotaged to store and deploy the coal dust which ignited to kill Edward Tidmuth. It was currently wrapped up in wet toweling and on its way to the morgue, the constable under strict instructions to avoid flame at all cost.

Best they could piece together, the murderer had snuck into the building unseen and laid in wait.

"If the killer pretended to be cleaning," Jack thought aloud as he searched the desk of Railway Commissioner Clapp, "Tidmuth wouldn't have suspected a thing. Just an unfortunate malfunction that left him covered in dirt."

"Never speak of this to Dot," Miss Fisher threatened, combing through the contents of a secured file cabinet, lockpick still in hand. "She's still not fond of the one at home."

He stopped reading a ledger which tabulated wages and coal sales long enough to smirk at her. "I doubt anyone is waiting to ambush Mrs. Collins with housekeeping apparatus."

An unexpected wave of relief flooded her chest at his sarcasm. Apparently, his ghosts were at bay for the moment.

"One should never discount the tools at hand, Jack." She flashed a flirtatious smile at him. "And it would seem that whomever we're dealing with knew Mr. Tidmuth quite well… His habits, his schedule."

"Or was put up to it by someone who did."

"You suspect Clapp?" she wondered, snapping the file drawer shut and handing over a document which proposed the closure of several unprofitable shafts. It had Harlan Clapp's signature on the bottom.

"There's nothing here to suggest it. In fact, by all accounts, Mr. Clapp appears to be quite a rarity, Miss Fisher… an accountable politician. But I am curious to know what they argued about."

"Perhaps Mr. Tidmuth's office will tell us."

Compared to the ostentatious office kept by Mr. Clapp, Edward Tidmuth's was positively humble. A chair on casters was suspended between two large but plain wooden desks. The one on the far side was little more than a table, home to a typewriter. The one facing the door boasted, by comparison, a brass gooseneck lamp, a black leather blotter, and a pen stand.

Standing upright like soldiers on a bookshelf that ran along the room's shorter side were volumes on government coal mining regulations and ordinances, flanked by a collection of law books that seemed to span every possible topic from corporate to marital dissolution.

"Little wonder they argued. Two very different men, from the look of it," Phryne pronounced.

Jack took in the austerity of the room and couldn't help but agree, watching with fondness as she took the dead man's seat with her usual air of belonging in whatever space she happened to occupy. He followed his natural inclinations to examine the contents of the bookshelf first, and nudged the Australian Coal and Shale Employees' Federation's latest audit report from its place.

Opening random drawers, she found Tidmuth's things well sorted and grouped by function. What she didn't find was anything interesting. "Neat as a pin. You could take a lesson from him, Inspector."

"As I'm the one still breathing, Miss Fisher," he retorted with a tidy snap of his head, "I believe that my methods prevail."

"You've got me there," she admitted, ducking down to sort through the bottom drawer.

"I'm afraid I'll have to collect later." The tome in his hands opened naturally to a place that had been marked with a calling card. He sucked in his breath at the sight of the name. "Look at this."

When no cheeky remark met him, he turned to find the feather of her mauve hat bobbing over the surface of the desk, her attention focused on the tea-coloured file jackets stacked tidily in the drawer. Across the front, each had a case number and dates inscribed in a measured hand.

"The Chief made it clear that any legal communications are strictly off-limits."

"How does he feel about secret compartments?"

"What?"

"He's stacked these notes up instead of filing them across. Not very a very efficient method for such a fastidious man." Phryne extracted the contents with a dramatic flair, revealing a piece of fitted wood several inches higher than where it should be. "But a clever obstruction."

"The drawer has a false bottom," he muttered, catching on at last.

"At last," Miss Fisher quipped, pulling a thin metal slide rule from the desk, "A use for this I can appreciate," and went to work levering the polished plank out of the way.

Chapter 13

"When did you realize Edward Tidmuth was paying off the jurors for a decision in the State's favour?"

Railway Commissioner Harlan Clapp started at the tone of chilled steel that sliced through the silence. He had expected it from the man, not the woman.

Clapp had been remanded hours ago for questioning and left to wait in this dilapidated room. Apparently, a lifetime of friendship with the new chief of police only got one so far. He had actually been glad for the company when the detectives had arrived—a sentiment he no longer harboured.

For a man who prided himself on his ability to read people, Clapp found this pair unnerving—the balance of power shifting interminably between them so he never knew precisely who was in control. It came as a shock despite Chief Tate's warning that while the case would not be handled precisely by the book, his investigators were not to be trifled with.

"Smythe, Miller, Murphy, Jones, Duncan, O'Hanrahan, Nicholsen." For each name she read from the small leather-bound dossier, Clapp's face lost more colour.

Her heels clacked menacingly along the floorboards as she emerged from the corner to stand behind her partner. The Inspector sat, still as a statue, his piercing eyes never leaving Clapp's face when she placed the notebook on the table. Beside each name in the book was a sum or a crime, written in a measured hand.

"I'm sure you recognize the names, don't you Mr. Clapp? All jurors in the latest inquest against the Wonthaggi State Coal Mine. All concluded that the deaths from the explosion were accidental, exonerating the mine of any responsibility. He got to them, didn't he?"

"There were rumours as to why he hadn't yet lost a case," Clapp gulped. "Right out of school, a young man is bound to fall and scrape his knees a few times. But not Edward." He made to look closer at the book but it was snatched just as quickly from his gaze.

"Is that what you argued about yesterday?" Jack asked, sensing that Clapp was off balance. His voice simmered in opposition to Phryne's coldness—an unsuspecting person could almost think it friendly.

Relieved that the Inspector was the one finally asking the questions, he nodded miserably before realizing that he had not spoken a word about his private conversation with Edward Tidmuth. "Wait! How did—"

"But as the Railway Commissioner," the woman interrupted, "It's your job to protect the mine's interests." Honourable, indeed! Clapp thought. "Perhaps you were less than pleased that your solicitor had gotten caught doing your dirty work?"

"I believe in due process, Miss Fisher," he retorted indignantly. "If the State Mine had had any responsibility for those poor men's deaths, then we would have deserved whatever penalties had been levied at us. As it is, we're doing all we can to ensure nothing like this happens again!"

"But it did," Inspector Robinson pressed. "A man died in an explosion minutes after he was heard arguing with you. How do you explain that?"

"I— I can't. I was angry, yes. But you must believe I would never hurt Edward!"

Phryne arched an eyebrow at Jack at the implication of their charge using the decedent's Christian name—twice now in as many days. "According to the employment records, he's only been working for the Commission for a year. You must have grown close in that time."

"He was my nephew," Clapp said softly, tears forming in his eyes. "My sister's only son. I don't think she'll ever forgive me."

"Forgive you for what, exactly, Commissioner Clapp?" Jack asked.

"For luring her boy away from the quiet country life she wanted for him. She'd already lost her husband to the war, and she wasn't happy when I offered to fund Edward's schooling. But I thought he could make a real name for himself. He was a hard worker, bright… ambitious. Too ambitious, it seems."

A salty streak winding its way down his face was wiped angrily away. "I would never have thought him capable of such a thing. But a disaster like this…" Clapp straightened up tall in the hard chair, as if daring them to contradict him. "Perhaps the pressure was simply too much."

Slipping open the interview room door, Miss Fisher whispered something to the constable standing watch. Within moments, a tray was placed on the table. She took the chair next to Inspector Robinson and poured them all tea—giving the shaken man a moment with his brew to collect himself before engaging him again.

"When did you first suspect something untoward was going on?" she asked, her tone much warmer this time.

"About three weeks ago. I needed to see Edward about another matter and overheard him squabbling with our secretary."

Jack extracted the moleskine pad from his coat pocket, his pencil poised in his hand. "Name?"

"Penelope Mitchell," Clapp answered, accepting the offer of a refilled tea cup with a single nod. "I prefer to manage my own correspondence, but once Edward came on board, we needed a girl a few hours a week for typing and filing... errands, that sort of thing. She came highly recommended."

"And then what happened?"

"I saw that book on his desk, Inspector." The older man pursed his lips as though a terrible taste had assaulted his tongue. "Edward hid it very quickly when he noticed I'd spotted it. After that, he hardly ever kept written notes in his office."

"It wasn't until the inquest was over and you saw the same names printed in the newspaper that you knew for certain." Phryne interjected from behind her own teacup.

"I told him he left me no choice but to ask him to look for employment elsewhere." He tugged a crisply pressed handkerchief from his waistcoat pocket to wipe the trailing tears from his wilted moustache. "He was very angry with me. Called me an old fool."

"But he hadn't cleaned out his office," Jack observed.

"The press would have had a field day with his sudden dismissal. And he is… was… family. I thought it was best for all parties if he were to stay on doing until he found another position. Research only—no litigation."

Miss Fisher exchanged a glance with the Inspector. "It appears someone disagreed with you."

"Are you acquainted with a Mister Neville Ferguson?" Jack produced an engraved calling card from his coat pocket.

"Y-yes." Clapp's demeanour seemed to change with the change in topic. "He's with the Union. You think—"

"We have reason to believe that he met with Mr. Tidmuth," the Inspector glanced down to the card to read the inked inscription, "Last Thursday at two o'clock. Can you confirm this?"

"No," the commissioner sighed. "Edward was in court. That appointment was with me. Ferguson usually schedules our business when I'm in Wonthaggi. He's a dedicated sort—prefers to stay down there with his brothers as he calls them. But he was in town on another matter and was concerned about the outcome of the inquest. Under the circumstances, I quite agreed."

"What matter?" Phryne asked.

"He didn't elaborate… and I didn't presume to ask."

"Did you share your suspicions with him?" Jack cut in.

"I hope you don't take me for a fool, Inspector," he spat. "I've fought hard to keep Wonthaggi open since the New South Wales strike ended. I hardly need a scandal on my hands to boot!" Clapp fidgeted with the gold chain of his pocket watch.

"What do you suppose would happen word got out about your nephew's jury-rigging?" asked Miss Fisher.

Clapp scrubbed his brows with both hands. "There are some people who think that the government should get out of the coal-mining business, Miss Fisher."

"People with shares in the private mines," she observed quietly, sharing a pointed look with Jack.

"Quite. I believe that information would be used to shut Wonthaggi down. It's dangerous terrain down there. The managers, the miners, they all must adhere to the strictest regulations at all times in order to work safely. And even then, there's bound to be an accident no one could safeguard against… But an explosion like that… I suppose we should be grateful we only lost four men and not four and twenty."

Jack leaned forward, his palms flat on the interview table. "So if the blast occurred despite the miners taking all proper precautions, and it was proven that the only way the State could maintain its moderate safety record was to bribe the jury—"

"The Wonthaggi mine could be declared unfit for operation," Phryne finished neatly.

"Exactly," Clapp sighed.

"So how did Tidmuth come to be in possession of Mr. Ferguson's card?" Phryne asked.

Clapp shrugged. "He wanted a meeting with Edward. I passed on his wishes and the only card I had to hand."

"Did Ferguson suspect your nephew of breaking the law to win this case?" Jack demanded.

"If he did, he never said. He assured me that he wanted to keep an open dialogue between the Union and the Commission. One thing does strike me as odd, now that I think on it. He wanted to know about Miss Mitchell."

"Your secretary?" Phryne said. "What was his interest?"

"Wanted to know who she was. Asked about her schedule. Nothing nefarious. I suppose he liked the look of her."

Ferguson's interest only underscored Jack's intent to find this woman. "Do you know where he might have gone after meeting with you?"

"No idea. I expect he caught the next train back."

"Hmm. And where did you two meet when you traveled to the State mine?"

"At the mine office, usually. But we have to be careful sometimes… the walls have ears. I keep a suite at the local hotel, we've met there. And once or twice at his guesthouse." Clapp closed his eyes attempting to recall the name of the small but well-kept place. "Run by a half-caste woman… let us take over the parlour whenever we needed. Autumn… no… Spring... yes, that's it. Spring House."

The detectives shared a glance over the man's shoulder. It was the same name Kasi Ferguson had supplied for her brother's last known quarters. They continued to discuss what Mr. Clapp knew of Neville Ferguson but it became quickly apparent that there was nothing more to be learnt.

The Inspector nodded, a neat, well-practised jab of his jaw signaling the end of the interview. "If you think of anything else, Constable Collins knows how to reach me."

"If this was murder, Inspector, I won't shield a killer to protect the State Coal Mine. Legacy be damned." The Railway Commissioner stood, gripping his bowler so tightly, his knuckles were white. "Legacy," he spat bitterly. "Who'll remember my nephew when his mother and I are gone?"

Chapter 14

Phryne huffed, throwing herself into Jack's chair. "He's telling the truth."

Jack perched on the corner of his desk and pinched the bridge of his nose, Clapp's last words still ringing in his ears. She couldn't know how right she was—though he suspected Clapp's worry that the deceased would be forgotten had little to do with her train of thought. He sighed, pushing the roiling sensation away for the moment. "I hate to say it, but your friend Neville Ferguson seems a good place to start."

"I can't imagine he's changed so much as to become a cold-blooded killer, Jack. He's the most gentlemanly socialist I've ever met… Though one never does know about a man. Have you considered the possibility of radicals closer to home?"

"The thought had crossed my mind before Ferguson's card turned up in the deceased's office. City North seized a printing press from Melbourne University not long ago—" wincing as he stretched across the desk for a file. "Used to print a weekly bulletin called The Militant Miner. The Labour Club denied any knowledge of it."

Phryne edged closer to him, looking up through her lashes, "I'm impressed, Jack. You have been keeping on top of things."

Batting her hand away from his knee, he barely managed to stifle a groan before removing himself from his own desk. His door was wide open, for heaven's sake.

"Even if they were involved," he cleared his throat, pointedly ignoring the way she was biting her lip. "Murdering Mr. Tidmuth by fire seems a rather grisly undertaking for a university lad."

"True. But there's bound to be a few men who wouldn't mind making a name for themselves in the Party. I'll ask Bert and Cec to keep their ears to the ground."

Jack had come to terms with the near-constant presence of the two red-raggers in his lover's life—and therefore his own. Phryne trusted them not only with her life but Dot and Jane's as well. They were family. And it was for precisely that reason that he played to caution.

"I'd prefer not to involve any more people than we had to, Phryne," he said seriously. "Chief's orders."

"They know how to be discreet, Jack," she said, slipping from his chair with the grace of a jungle cat. "After all, they learned from the best."

He shot her an incredulous look—an indictment of her particular brand of discretion.

She took it as a dare instead, twisting up on her tiptoes to land a stealthy kiss, sweeping her tongue against his and retreating so quickly, it was over nearly as soon as it had begun. His startled expression fed her ego. The disappointment she read in his still-parted lips fed the hot greedy flame in her belly.

"See?" she teased, her smile widening as she heard familiar footsteps approaching.

"See what, Miss?"

"Nothing Hugh, dear," she simpered, patting the younger man's arm and leading him to sit down—distracting him long enough for Jack to wipe the waxy scarlet residue from his mouth. "Just proving a point to the Inspector."

She watched with fondness as Jack schooled his changeable features into the haughty air of a senior detective inspector. "Collins! I want the whole of your attention on this case while we're gone. Leave the drunk and disorderlies to the others. Is that understood?"

"Yes sir."

Inspector Robinson handed Collins a sheaf of notes and spent the next quarter of an hour bringing him up to speed and barking orders faster than his constable could write them down. "We need to know who had access to Tidmuth's schedule."

Hugh tucked his pencil into his teeth and flipped through his notepad to find a clean page. "Yesh, shir." He remembered to remove the pencil. "Ah, yes sir."

"The first order of business is to track down the secretary. But you'll have to do it quietly. I want to know everything she knows about the deceased and this Neville Ferguson person."

"With resources so limited," Miss Fisher cut in, "Perhaps Dot could assist."

The DI frowned slightly at this. Dorothy Collins was a capable investigator, clever, and the epitome of sound judgment. She was also with child. And, while Doctor MacMillan had pronounced both mother and baby perfectly healthy, he could not help wanting to protect them. Mr. and Mrs. Collins were good and true and the very best of people who he hoped would remain blissfully ignorant of the horrors of miscarriage. Most people would consider this an honourable sentiment.

But as a picture of a round-faced boy—with Hugh's doe eyes and Dorothy's sandy curls, reaching out for his fedora—emerged in his mind, he knew his motivations were selfish. An attempt to safeguard what he could not have for his own.

Jack bit down on the urge to banish Dot to Lilydale for the duration of the investigation. Unfortunately, in addition to her other qualities, she was also rather stubborn—a trait too deeply engrained to credit his lover for it completely. Any orders to keep her away from this investigation would be duly noted and then thoroughly ignored. He also hated to admit that the young secretary would probably be more forthcoming if she were speaking to another woman.

He surrendered his position by way of demanding that Collins telephone him twice a day at the mine office with a report. To his junior, Inspector Robinson's momentary consternation appeared to Hugh as nothing more than a case of pie cart indigestion, but Miss Fisher knew better.

She was silent on the subject until Jack had smoothly turned the police motor car onto St. Kilda Road. "Thank you… for not barring Dot from the case."

"It's not for lack of wanting," he grumbled, doing his level best to appear more annoyed than afraid and failing miserably.

"I know." she said softly, mesmerized by the shadows falling over his handsome face. "That's what makes it even more extraordinary."

Jack swallowed roughly past the lump in his throat, keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the road. Pulling up neatly outside the red iron gates of 221B, Jack extinguished the motor and finally turned to meet her gaze.

The setting sun bathed his pale lashes in flames and Phryne couldn't resist casting a fond hand over his cheek. "Deep as an ocean," she murmured, nestling her thumb softly in the cleft of his chin.

The curl of her finger under his jaw deepened his breath, his chest rising and falling like a merry-go-round horse—galloping madly while pinned in place. It made her feel as giddy as a child thrusting two hard-won pennies into the carnival man's open palm.

She expected him to resist, was prepared, when his tongue darted out to press against the soft undercushion of his lip as if steadying it, for him to eschew her overtures in broad daylight. But when her gaze broke from the plush cavern of his mouth, she met his eyes, clear and blue as an autumn sky. The hand that slid into her hair was gentle and steady and drawing her closer.

"Oh," she breathed in surprise, his warmth and wonderment each making her dizzy in turn. His kiss was chaste and tender and, just like a turn on the carousel, seemed to end just before she was ready.

When last lock of her bob slipped from his fingers, she felt delightedly lopsided. It was a sensation that lingered deliciously over her—the threat of its loss had long propelled a younger Phryne to flirt or fight or scheme her way to more pennies. The stakes were decidedly higher now.

She was considering her next maneuver when a rap of knuckles on the police motor car's glass sent Jack reeling away from her. It was accompanied by an amused bark.

"Oi! What's the world coming to when even a copper can't uphold the laws of public decency?"

Pinching the bridge of his nose with one hand, Jack rolled down the window. "Albert," he muttered in resignation. Considering this wasn't exactly the first time he and Phryne had been caught in a compromising position, he still found it curious that his heart beat no less furiously than when he had been confronted by killers.

"You alright, Miss?" Bert asked with feigned concern—a ploy that might have worked if not for a grin so huge, it threatened to unseat his cigarette. "Wasn't takin' advantage, was he? Be happy to give him what's for."

"Thank you, Bert," Phryne replied coolly. "I'm sure you know me better than that." She merely had to raise an eyebrow to communicate that Bert's fun was officially over.

"Dottie said you wanted a word with me an' Cec? And I'm t' tell you that the train ain't runnin'. Dunno what for." He took a long drag in an effort to hide the smirk that still threatened his twitching lips. "Didn't look like you was goin' anyplace t' me."

Chapter 15

"Come on, Jack," Phryne wheedled as he hefted their modest luggage into the boot. After confirming that the line had been shut down due to a rail end break and not foul play, Jack had consented to going by motor car—the police motor car. "I promised to serve the law, so why don't I get a turn behind the wheel?"

He settled her tapestry bag next to his own weatherworn leather haversack. "Because it would be difficult to explain why I was forced to issue a citation against my own vehicle."

They arrived in Wonthaggi just after nightfall. With the fog rolling in from the coast, it was difficult to see anything but for the haze of light emanating from the mine—which operated in shifts around the clock. When working in a shaft five miles underground, it mattered not if the sun was up.

Phryne accepted his hand gratefully as her heel squelched in the muddy street. "Should we make ourselves known to the local authorities?"

"It can wait til morning," Jack replied, tired from the day and the drive. He rubbed absently at his aching shoulder. Nodding towards the hotel where it had been arranged for him to stay during the course of his inquiries, he gathered up their bags. "Right now, I want a meal, a whisky, and a soft pillow—not necessarily in that order."

"You forgot to mention my dazzling company," she flirted from beneath her eyelashes.

"I'm afraid that your dazzling company will be limited to supper… if I can manage to stay awake that long."

She pulled a face to which he could only shrug resignedly. "It's not the way I'd wish it, Phryne, but we do need to consider the force's reputation when we're on official business. Not everyone is as liberal-minded as you." He nudged her along with an arm around her shoulder while he balanced their luggage in his other hand. "To be honest, I'm surprised Commissioner Tate agreed to this scheme in the first place, though my sources tell me that his wife is well-acquainted with Missus Stanley."

"Aunt Prudence does have her moments—Oh, Jack, look!" Her smile was broad and child-like as she took in the span of the huge whale jaws that adorned the entry of Taberner's Hotel. Reaching out her hand, she petted the bone reverently. "How amazing!"

The corners of Jack's mouth tugged down with irrepressible fondness. "My great-grandfather worked on a whaling station."

"Really?" Her eyes sparkled in the glow of the gaslamps. "That explains the scrimshaw in your office," she murmured, delighted to unravel another of Jack's many mysteries.

"Uncle Ted used to regale me with the stories."

She threaded her hand through his elbow to tug him along, declaring in a voice dripping with pride, "I always knew you came from adventurous stock."

Arm in arm, they made their way through the crowded foyer, where orange crates served as makeshift tables and chairs spilled well beyond the allotted dining area and bar. The beleaguered front desk attendant pushed an errant blonde curl back from her face and greeted them with a thin-lipped smile. "Reservation?" When Jack confirmed their booking, the relief that flooded her face was profound.

"With the train out o' commission, we're full to burstin'," she explained. She waived a ticket at a boy who, once beckoned, trotted forward and relieved Jack of the luggage, patiently awaiting his orders. "The gentleman is in Mr. Clapp's usual room. And two-eleven for the lady. Had to turn away a fair few... an' people can be mean as snakes when they ain't had a proper night's rest. But at least we can feed 'em an' keep 'em in pints."

"The kitchen's still open, then?"

Phryne thought the hope in Jack's voice was wholly adorable—and so must have the attendant, who promised to have tea sent up to their rooms despite being obviously short-handed. The bell boy, who couldn't have been a day over twelve, bowed with a well-honed cheeky panache that Phryne guessed almost always assured him a tidy tip and beckoned them to follow.

Held exclusively for the Railway Commissioner's use when he was in town, Jack's room was by far the grander of the two, possessing a small parlour and a tiny lavatory. The whole of it could have fitted in the Windsor's en suite bathroom with room to spare, but it was obviously tended to with care—the furniture gleaming with freshly laid polish and not a speck of dust upon a surface. One crisply papered wall boasted a framed photograph of a mine shaft taken from an aeroplane; another bore a series of good-natured faces, smeared with grime and dust, and for all the world looking as though there was no place in the world they would rather be than unearthing black coal in the Wonthaggi pits.

Pouting, Phryne settled into one of the wingback chairs and peeled a sandwich from the diminished stack on platter. There was certainly someplace she would rather be—and it wasn't at his table. Jack grinned at her, feeling far more generous with a cup of Darjeeling in his hand and a passable supper in his belly—despite the fact that his lover would soon need to retire to her own room for propriety's sake.

"Twin bed, Miss Fisher. It's lunacy to think I'd have ended up anywhere but on the floor anyhow. At least this way, we'll get a decent night's sleep." Her exaggerated sniff was as close to concession as he could hope to get, so Jack smoothly steered their conversation back to the case and sketched out their plans for the next day.

With an agreement to meet downstairs for breakfast, she stood to take her leave. She glanced back towards his bedroom, a small sigh on her lips, and found herself pulled into his embrace—his palm, still warm from the teacup, cradled her cheek as he pressed tender lips to her mouth. "I've heard that absence makes the heart grow fonder."

"I wasn't thinking of my heart," she clucked.

His lips quirked in restrained amusement. After so many years of enforced celibacy, Jack treasured the physicality of their relationship. Deep down, he knew she would miss him for more than just prurient reasons but his pride could be obstinate.

"In that case," he hummed, ignoring the gnawing sensation chewing on the tendrils of his heart. He nuzzled his lips beneath her hair to find the sensitive patch of skin behind her earlobe and drew his index finger like a bow down her spine—motions designed to remind himself, more than her, of the secrets they now shared. It was enough. "Perhaps you could think of me while you're busy not thinking of your heart."

She shivered in reverberation and arched her neck, inviting him to mouth the lines of her throat so her skin would be haunted with the phantom press of his lips.

"I always do, Jack." Already, she was imagining laying on the small bed in her room, her clothes only half undone in her impatience to get her hands upon herself, driving her body to climax as she recalled this precise moment. "Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Phryne."