Waking up, Five decided, had become the hardest part of his day. Blinking into an existence that included no word from Saira or the messenger they'd sent almost a week ago made him want to boycott mornings. If he stilled enough, he could imagine the harsh light piercing the curtains was Puffing Billy arriving early to run over the tracks he'd attached himself to and take him out of his misery.
The long nights came in a close second, when his brain hijacked any reassurances he'd pretended to build up during the day. The total absence of updates on whether Saira and her aunties had run into trouble on the streets of London… some kind of unnamed trouble he was incapable of shielding her from, resulted in hours of conjuring worst-case-scenario hallucinations onto the shadowed library walls.
Today would be a particularly brutal twenty-four hours, since it was his second Tuesday where neither tea, nor Saira was to be had anywhere. Five busied himself with tending his wound, staunchly ignoring the tray of Turkish coffee from Carraways (thoughtfully gained by Mr. Smithers, who had forgiven him for the black eye) near his bed. Five couldn't bring himself to look at it, much less indulge in the small comfort. Instead, he dried himself with the towel and struggled with the legs of his trousers, hell-bent on doing it himself this time.
The ache of solitude weighed down his limbs and made it even harder to maneuver off the bed and straighten his suspenders. Truthfully, he wasn't entirely on his own. He practically lived in Sir Newman's library, surrounded by bustling servants, re-stacking, sweeping, and scrubbing while Sir Newman sat across the hall, surrounded by documents to review and strategies to hash through. By the time Five grabbed his crutch and hobbled out to the parlor, Sir Newman had readied several piles of paper on his desk, waiting for his opinion.
Newman knew better than to utter anything good about the morning. "Smithers, could you bring that coffee into the parlor? We shouldn't let it go to waste."
The old man's love of research shone in his unparalleled attention to detail. Good thing too, because Newman's most recent discovery of a toe fungus salve from an old cookery book had helped to clear Five's leg infection in days, instead of weeks as he'd expected.
Five settled into the chair opposite the writing desk and they quickly fell into the familiar rhythm of Newman spewing words and drinking Five's coffee, followed by small shifts in Five's posture in silent response.
"How soon do you think we should implement the new investment strategies towards Blenkinsop's rack-and-pinion production?"
Five rapidly tapped the table.
As soon as possible. The railway will reap far greater rewards than national debt shares you're currently backing.
"Knapp's Guide to Toll Guard Training is going to the printers next Monday. An official connection to Lord Knapp would bring clout to any future enterprises. Are you sure you don't want your name mentioned in the manual? "
His eyes narrowed.
I'm damned sure. Too many people know my name already.
"I completed a draft on this contract. Could you proof it for me?"
Five stuck out a hand.
Piece of cake. Hand it over.
Halfway through the contract, Five caught himself staring out the window.
"You're thinking about her again," Newman said.
Newman's sympathetic tone sounded as if he understood what it felt like to wake up every morning under a blanket of past regrets. But seriously, when was Five not thinking about Saira? The possibility of living without her in his future would be much worse than that post-apocalyptic wasteland, where he only had memories of his past and a fever-dream fantasy to soothe him. Because in this timeline, just for a short while, the fantasy had been real.
Newman had been talking, and Five hadn't been listening until Newman stopped, letting the silence hang between them. "Sorry. You were saying?"
"I said that I need to assign a legal heir to the estate."
"Reasonable, given your age. I'd be happy to give you my unapologetic opinion of your list of candidates."
Newman smiled as if Five had just told a bawdy joke. He pushed another stack of papers over to Five's side of the desk. "I'd certainly like your opinion before the solicitor and his colleague arrive to witness signatures."
Five's eyes scanned over the opening statement. The document struck him as a typical agreement for a will… though transferring partial assets before the death of the owner of the estate seemed unorthodox, especially for an era when rulers waited until the power of death permanently pried their clenched fists from their titles.
He rewound to the top of the page, finally noticing that the beneficiary had already been filled in. Five squinted at the old man. "I would gladly serve as your executor, but you've listed my name as the sole heir… You know I have my own plans."
"How are those plans working for you?"
Fiscally, Five's portfolio was thriving. Gate job residuals flowed in like a steady stream. Most of Russell's creditors had come forward to negotiate settlements, and, according to Garfield, there would be enough for Five to receive a small brokerage fee (Those maritime insurance policies had become an ace investment strategy). No one would dare use Garfield's name as a punchline for their jokes after he bought out the manors surrounding Avonburg, becoming the second-richest landholder in Bath.
Take that, Society.
Maybe Five would feel bad about blackmailing Garfield into his success… if one could call their arrangement 'blackmail'. It was a hell of a penance to rid a drunkard of the demons he didn't want to part with, but Five felt obligated to make sure Garfield saw the task through.
For Saira, even if she wasn't there to witness it.
"My finances are sound, thank you. No offense, Newman, but I've only recently returned to wearing a full pair of trousers, and this morning put them on myself for the first time. I'm in no position to take over your estate."
"You're a savvy entrepreneur," Newman said, "and I want to settle this inheritance business before the courts declare me too feeble to know my own mind. Too many middle-aged marauders want to run my life's work into the ground. The people of this town rely on my good faith. They need someone young. A protector, not an opportunist."
Five bristled. Newman had called him "young".
Sure, he still looked the part of an amateur adult, finally outgrowing the dismissive looks every time he said or did something beyond whatever people perceived him capable of. At least his youthful body helped speed along his recovery, and he expected his leg to be fully functional in a matter of months.
But was he young enough to play the long game that Newman expected of him? Was he capable of learning the people skills necessary to pull it off, or was he just another old dog, too resentful to apply himself to learning a new trick?
Mr. Smithers appeared in the doorway, and Five shot to his feet, nearly upsetting the chair with his crutch.
"Apologies, Mr. Quintus. No word from the post, yet. The solicitor has arrived."
Behind the butler, two businessmen appeared. The solicitor tipped his hat in greeting as he entered the room. "Sir Newman. Mr. Quintus, a pleasure."
Five's leg protested as he collapsed back into his chair. He waved away Newman's offer of the gin bottle.
"Are we really doing this, Newman?"
Newman set down the gin and licked the nib of his quill. "Indubitably."
The solicitor pulled up a chair to Newman's desk as if making himself at home. Apparently, he had done business here before. "Will you be making the announcement public at your upcoming celebration?"
"Ah, yes. The Ball," Newman said, twirling his quill between his fingers.
Five had heard Newman in discussions with the Master of Ceremonies about a soiree at the Assembly Rooms. The man was turning eighty. He deserved a celebration, followed by a quiet retirement of his own, once he passed the torch of his holdings to someone else.
Entirely unlike Five, whose ass (if he accepted this deal) would be kissed so many times there might not be a rock in all of Somerset he could hide under. The whole hubbub might die down in a decade or three, if he played his cards right. Until then, he'd be living in a whole new version of hell. Is that what he really wanted?
The churning in his gut told him that if he didn't act now, the situation would spin wildly out of his control. Five pushed the document away. "I don't want this, Newman. The lot in the back of the property is sufficient."
"Better to secure the property it's sitting on, so no one sweeps it out from under you."
The idea of securing a hundred-year lease with himself appealed on many levels. Hell, the whole thing was a dream he never thought he'd have, and Newman knew it. This was wealth beyond a lifetime of retirement. This was property ownership, the pinnacle of acceptance. More importantly, Newman's offer secured him a permanent place in the future of this town. He would no longer require fictional proof of his past. He could finally offer Saira and her family security and safety. And openly offer himself as an option.
But that was just it. She wasn't here. Having everything he needed after the purpose for the need had been ripped away… This was the cruelest joke the universe had ever played on him.
"I don't think I can do this, not even for you." Five's head felt heavy from the lack of sleep. His leg ached. Maybe he could excuse himself to go lie down and think about how he was going to convince Newman to find someone else to act as his progeny. Tomorrow. Next week. Hell, Newman was healthy. He could wait another year…
Newman stuck the feathered end of his quill in Five's face and waved it around. "Let me ask you a question."
Reluctantly, Five met Newman's gaze across the table.
"Have you done anything to betray Miss Russell's trust?"
The answer was a resounding "No". Five had gone out of his way to support Saira, but he never tried to stand in the way of whatever he knew she wanted. He shook his head, unable to say it out loud.
"That ship won't set sail for another two weeks. Why have you stopped working for the future you want?"
Five sighed heavily. Newman's question made him feel like a morose ass, but the man was right. There was no reason to throw a hand grenade at his life just yet. He fingered the top sheet of the stack in front of him, running his fingers along the edge to line it up with the papers underneath.
"Guess it won't hurt to read it through again."
Neither of them had voiced it out loud, but Five owed Newman a large share of the credit for his recent successes. Without the old man, who was the first to take a chance on the toll road guard scheme, Five wouldn't be near as financially sound as he was right now. He at least owed the man serious consideration.
Under Newman's silent gaze, Five took his time, flipping pages slowly, considering every word. The solicitor and his assistant nervously shifted in their seats, probably unaccustomed to the waiting. When he got to the end, he sighed. "It's a solid agreement." It was more than solid. The contract outlined Five's plan, but much bigger. With more assurances, and a chance to make this small part of the world a better place.
Newman cleared his throat. Then he cracked his knuckles. When Five still didn't respond, he pounded his fist against the desk.
"Well, Quintus, three things remain. Trust the messenger. Trust Miss Russell to understand the message." He pushed the quill towards Five, followed by the inkpot.
"And by God, I'm not getting any younger, so sign the damned contract."
"Ah, you're back."
Saira froze at the bottom of the stairs, caught by the declaration from her hostess at Number Twelve Albemarle Street.
Mrs. Charlotte Bean of London was everything and nothing like Mrs. Lanchester of Bath. Their similarities began and ended with dressing like a Duchess and commanding a bevy of seamstresses like strict colonels. But unlike the near-retirement-aged seamstress who ran the Modern Modiste in Bath, Mrs. Bean was a mere six years ahead of Saira and knew many things Saira had once thought to be above a young lady's level of expertise. Those things that Mrs. Bean did not know, she found out quickly enough.
Like now, with her staring down from the second landing at Saira dressed in her boy's outfit.
"It's likely that you have another appointment this evening, which is why I've arranged a luncheon. There are people here with whom you simply must make acquaintance."
Ahh, she'd noticed the evening excursions as well. Saira brushed her sweaty hands on her trousers and started up the stairs. She held her chin firm and tried to keep her gaze steady, as if she wasn't returning from clandestine errands. "I should change, first," she murmured.
"Oh, there is no need!" Mrs. Bean said amiably. "They will love you in this, just as much as they would a dress. In fact, you'd make a much better impression this way!"
Her smile remained pleasant, but Saira had known Mrs. Bean for only a week, so she wasn't sure how to interpret her sly expression. Curiously, she and her aunties still hadn't met the elusive Mr. Bean, either.
Saira's stomach growled, having skipped a morning meal in order to deliver a confirmation to her evening Sitting. "I suppose I am hungry," she said.
"Fantastic!" Mrs. Bean exclaimed. "Meet us in the Dining room in ten minutes. Your aunts are already there."
After Mrs. Bean disappeared into the Drawing room, Saira trekked up to the guest suite on the third level and splashed water onto her face from the washbasin. Who exactly was she supposed to meet at this luncheon without changing her present clothes? And how was she to earn and then rely on Mrs. Bean's discretion after this?
Like Mrs. Lanchester, no one had told Mrs. Bean of Saira's business, nor was she privy to the costume that Saira guarded in her satchel. But every morning when Saira had presented Mrs. Bean with coins after her supposed secret evenings out, the savvy seamstress had looked at her sideways with a keen glint in her eyes.
Saira repositioned her braid with pins and then adjusted her cap, tucking the stray hairs underneath the brim. She loved exploring the streets of London in her trousers, and she marveled at how much clearer her visions were becoming as she learned to focus her questions. But every street adventure and filled appointment closed the gap between the days she had left in London and The Shroud's expiry date. What use was honing her Gift if she was going to give it all up in a matter of weeks? Her spirits hung around her like heavy drapes, tempting her to cancel her remaining Sittings and crawl under the covers of the guest bed until the HMS Malabar pulled up anchor and sailed her away. Perhaps that would be less exhausting than trying to live out her dream of independence for the short while she had left in England.
And she still hadn't secured the tickets.
Downstairs in the Dining room, Mrs. Bean introduced Saira to a curious array of women seated around the table. Rosy cheek powder and dark liner around her eyes highlighted Madame Archambeau's generous smile. She had draped herself in a brocade robe that hung to the floor. "I could not pass up Mrs. Bean's apple cake, nor the opportunity to meet her curious guest, but I must not stay too long. I've got an afternoon show at the Pantheon."
"If there isn't another fire," injected a willowy lady across the table. She patted her tight curls with a graceful hand.
"Miss Whiteshade is the premier nude model for the Royal Academy," Mrs. Bean told Saira.
"I wear a mask when I'm working, if that helps your sensibilities," the lady added, though her tone suggested that she wouldn't care if anyone knew who she was. "Please call me Mary. Mrs. Archambeau is such a talented stage conjurer that she packs the house every time she performs. The sentinel beside me who refuses to remove her overcoat is Mrs. Gateau. Her sternness comes with her profession."
Mrs. Gateau, introduced as 'an informant for the Prince Regent', wordlessly stared at Saira as if she was committing every feature on her face to memory.
"Your aunts have regaled us with lively stories of India! But we are all curious about you. Tell us about yourself, Miss Saira of Bath." Mrs. Bean said.
No one seemed to care that Saira was sitting at a formal luncheon in a boy's outfit, so she told the story of how her father had attempted to marry her away to pay off his debts. They listened intently as she described her plight of having to leave her home. But when she got to the part about leaving the country altogether, the table broke out into a barrage of questions.
"Is he a landed Baron? Those bastards always carry jurisdiction issues!" Mary exclaimed.
"Any relation to the Crown? Royalty always thinks they can lay claim to anything on this whole godforsaken island!" Madame Archambeau added.
When Saira shook her head, Mrs. Bean asked, "Who is he, that he has this much power over you?"
George Russell's name drew just as many blank stares as bafflement.
"Never heard of him."
"Don't know any Russells."
"He's not on the List." Everyone turned curious stares towards Mrs. Gateau, who, until now, had remained silent. "You know, the List of the most wanted criminals by the Crown. Like your ex-fiancee'," she said, looking pointedly at the conjurer. "He's likely risen in the ranks to number fifteen by now." She turned to address Saira. "There have never been any Russells. It's unnecessary to sail half a world away to hide from a man," she said. "London is a large town. The whole of England is even larger."
"If it's money, we can solve that for you," Mary offered. "The Academy is always looking for shapely bodies."
Madame Archambeau raised a penciled eyebrow. "My show needs an opening act. Can you juggle?"
Saira exchanged looks with her aunts. Who were these people, poking holes in her plans?
"Saira earns her keep," Rameswari said, surprising Saira and Bavagna with her candor. "After tonight, we should be able to pay Mrs. Bean for her hospitality in full."
Saira knew her aunt was proud of her and her Gift, but she didn't know why Rameswari would announce it to strangers. Not after all the years of carefully concealing The Shroud's identity from the world. "What are you doing?" she whispered to her aunt.
"These people can help us. I think we should let them. London is a big place, as they said."
Bavagna shuddered. "This city is too big. I much prefer Bath."
"We should consider what we have before us," Rameswari continued. "These ladies seem to do well for themselves, and we aren't here for much longer."
"Are you a tradeswoman like Mrs. Bean?" Mary asked.
"Why would a tradeswoman have evening appointments?" Mrs. Gateau asked. She gave Saira a knowing look. "What is your talent, Miss Russell?"
Saira hesitated. They were all looking at her. But her aunt was right. Everything, all of who she was and what she did would go away soon. She would leave her independence behind, and when she married in India, she would undergo the ceremony that relieved her of her Gift. What would it matter if she shared it with these women?
At a nod from Rameswari and an encouraging smile from Bavagna, Saira took a deep breath and turned to face Mary, who was the nearest to her. "I can show you. May I have your hand?"
"Why certainly!" Mary smoothed down her skirts with her palm and held out meticulously manicured fingers, palm facing upwards. "Will you tell me about my future, now?"
Saira loosely wrapped her hand around Mary's and had to close her eyes to slow the flurry of sudden images, each one a pretty picture of Mary in various outfits, several had her in no outfit at all, wearing a feathered mask that concealed her face. There was a sense of pride, concealed by a shadowed past of a man who had tried to lock her away from the world.
She hadn't even asked a question, but her Gift continued to show her with utter clarity all the ways that Mary was living on her own terms, within her own means. Earning her own keep and being appreciated for her talents.
An ache welled up within Saira, as if she was staring at the broken furniture in her room all over again. She wanted that future, so badly. The more images Saira Saw, the more questions she had herself, and her Gift kept answering them with more images of a life that Saira barely knew was possible.
Finally, she shook herself out of her own head and blinked the table back into view. "I'm sorry," she said to the expectant women.
"Ask her a question," Bavagna urged Mary.
That's right. A question. An answer. That was what she was here for.
Mary squeezed Saira's hand. "I have an opportunity to travel, and I was wondering if I should take it."
Saira Saw more. A series of shows through a series of cities, great rewards and benefits, and offers for more shows. Her Gift was much stronger than before and reached for the real question beneath the surface. She could See it clearly now.
Mrs. Gateau wrangling someone into custody. Madame Archambeau developing a new sleight of hand. Mary, singing, "The Soldier Tir'd of War", from Artaxerxes and receiving a standing ovation from a full house. She Saw the friendship and trust between these women, and wished it all for herself.
Tears sprang up in her eyes. "The man in Brixton has done well by you and offers an honorable contract. You are all very talented, and very lucky to have each other."
The women exchanged glances with one another. "Did you tell her of our tour, Mrs. Bean?" Madame Archambeau declared.
Mrs. Bean threw up her hands. "I said nothing!" she exclaimed.
Madame Archambeau set down her napkin. "You are much more valuable than an assistant. You could run an entire show!"
"I already do," Saira said. She got up and went to a sitting table and turned the London Times paper to the Society page. "I'll be here tonight."
She showed them the announcement of The Shroud's upcoming Sitting in Berkeley Square. Mrs. Bean gave her a knowing nod, and Saira wondered how much the woman had guessed already. "I wish…" she fell silent, not wanting to burst into tears about the life she had wished for herself.
"Why are you running from a matterless man, when you have such a gift?" Mary asked.
"We are no longer safe," Saira said softly.
"If you don't take the reins of your own life, you're only allowing someone else to pick them up for you." Mary pursed her lips together. "I used to be safe. Now, I am rich and free."
"Ah, but she cannot See her own future," Mrs. Gateau concluded. "I'll never see the knife at my back, either. But invisible threats aren't enough to stop me from putting my best foot forward."
That evening as they stood outside the grand house on Berkeley Square, the evening guests surrounded Saira in her boy's clothes while they all waited for the coaches, knowing nothing of standing next to the woman who had Seen their futures. All around her, comments of amazement and awe floated in the air, while Mrs. Bean's friends smiled knowingly at her. Tonight, Saira had received more offers than she knew what to do with.
Bavagna's skirts rattled with the earned money as they all boarded the coach in a light rain. Madame Archambeau commented on the cards Saira had collected from prospective clients. "With those, you can book yourself solid for months. This could be a good life for you."
"If you rent out the Olympic," Mrs. Gateau declared, "you'd fill the house and earn ten times the pull for a house party."
Her aunts joined the conversation, talking about Bath and London, and the conversation turned from 'when' to 'if' they left the country, and how they would miss everyone and everything they had come to know and love.
They stopped at each of the lady's residences, and at Albemarle Street, Saira and her aunts climbed the stairs, Rameswari and Bavagna talking to each other about the accolades she received from the women who had come to see her, talking about her as if she was a fantastic celebrity.
But she wasn't, not really. Saira had first done the London Sittings to pay back Mrs. Lanchester for her kindness. Then, to pay back Mrs. Bean. And then, to keep her mind off the thing that she had come to London to do, which was to leave.
And what if she didn't leave? Could Saira provide enough security for her aunties if they stayed in England?
But that was just a dream. She should wake herself up to the reality that once she arrived in India, her world would grow smaller. Her life would become simpler. Her Gift would go silent, and they would all be safe.
She would miss Bath. The Assembly Rooms. And she would miss everyone on Market Street who had helped her grow and supported her in all their ways. She would miss tea on Tuesdays and the man who had made her life so exciting and new in just a manner of weeks.
All the while, Saira wondered if her guaranteed safety was worth all the things she was leaving behind. All the things she feared, were they truly worth running away?