A Rip Through Time(53)

I’m taking Isla at her word on this. Like her brother, she strikes me as a fair dealer. She says she’ll drop the matter if I return her necklace, and I believe she will. That doesn’t mean she’ll accept that I’ve turned over a new leaf, but she will allow me the space I need to prove that.

When I first arrived, I’d been so sure of what I’d fallen into. I’d assessed at a glance, based on every Victorian-era movie I’ve ever seen, every book I’ve ever read. One sweep of my surroundings, and I formed a narrative. Bachelor doctor and his grief-stricken widowed sister, living together with a few servants. Nothing terribly interesting, and nothing I hadn’t seen before, complete with shy preteen parlormaid and a gorgon of a housekeeper.

Except that the doctor is also an undertaker and a pioneer in forensic science, and the sister is also a scientist and—if I’m interpreting correctly—not all that grief-stricken. Oh, and the servants? Apparently, I’m not the only one with a criminal past. Again, if I’m interpreting right, that’s Isla’s thing. Not the do-gooder intent on “reforming” criminals. Not Lady Bountiful opening her doors to the destitute. She’s providing a leg up the ladder, as she said, but also safety and sanctuary and the chance to start over, if that’s what her employees want. My challenge is to prove that, after my near-death experience, Catriona is finally ready to embrace that second chance. And she’ll start by returning the locket.

I change into a pale lilac dress and find my coat and walking boots. Catriona’s switchblade goes into my pocket. Then I slip out the rear door into the darkness. The clouds have passed, and it’s a clear night with stars overhead.

There’s a garden here, one that I’d first dismissed as “just a garden” and later, realizing it didn’t have any flowers or vegetables, decided was an herbal one. Now, knowing Isla is a chemist, I pause at the garden for a closer look. That’s when I notice the skull and crossbones engraved oh-so-discreetly on the locked gate. Okay, well, that just got a whole lot more interesting.

No time to investigate. Behind the garden is what I’ve heard Mrs. Wallace refer to as “the mews.” Now that I get my first up-close look, it’s kind of fascinating. Gray and Isla live in a town house. So where do they keep their horses and coach? In the mews—a row of stables along the back, on their own lane, with other stables across the lane for homes on the road behind theirs. I wonder what this looks like in the modern world. Have the mews been turned into garages? Or is the “mews lane” now a distinct street, the stables reborn as houses?

I’m passing the stables when I bash into a dark-hooded figure. I scramble back, fists rising. A hiss, and then a spark of flame illuminates Simon. He sees my fists and laughs. “Expecting to be waylaid in your own yard, Cat?”

“What the blazes are you doing, skulking about in the dark?”

“Skulking?” His brows arch as his lips twitch. “I was feeding the horses.” A wave at the stable.

I can see now that the “hood” is just a dark cap atop his dark hair. He’s wearing a long black coat that looks a little too nice for feeding horses. Also, wouldn’t that be done earlier in the day?

I remember what Isla said about Alice. Does Simon have a criminal past of his own? If so, does that mean Catriona isn’t the only one who hasn’t fully retired?

“I might ask the same of you, Cat,” Simon continues. “Where are you off to at this hour?”

“I’m done my chores. My time is my own.”

“That it is. I’m just hoping you aren’t ‘skulking’ off to cause trouble.”

“I’m not.”

“Then you won’t mind me coming along.”

I start to snap my refusal and then swallow it back. Simon is suspicious of my plans, which I’ve earned—or Catriona has. His half smile is nothing but mingled amusement and exasperation, as if for a younger sibling caught sneaking out.

“Another time perhaps?” I say, looking up to meet his eyes. “I’m not getting into trouble, Simon. I’m trying to get out of it.”

Concern touches his dark eyes. “All the more reason to permit me to join you, perhaps?”

I shake my head. “Not tonight. Please. I’ll be fine.”

While he’s obviously reluctant to let me go, he doesn’t argue, just warns me to stay away from the Grassmarket. That’s exactly where I’m going, but I murmur something like agreement. Then he follows me to the lane and watches me go.

When I turn back to check, he seems to be gone, but I swear I see the hem of that long black coat catch the wind, flapping like the wing of a bird. I round the corner at the end of the mews and take the road up, looping me back to Robert Street.

I’m squinting over my shoulder when a double boot clomp has me stopping short. I backpedal behind the shadow of the town-house row. Someone’s coming in the other direction, walking along this side of Robert Street.

It’s barely nine. Not exactly the witching hour. It feels like it, though, being already dark, twilight falling earlier in the pre–daylight savings era. It reminds me of the suburbs, when the sun dropped and the streets emptied, people retreating to their backyards. An eerie silence has fallen over the row of town houses. During the day, it’s much quieter than Princes Street or Queen Street but there are coaches, a few delivery carts, the occasional duo or trio of residents out for a stroll, perhaps a maid or a groom zipping along. Flickering gaslight ripples behind dark windows. Otherwise, it’s silent and still. Except for that man, who has now stopped at 12 Robert Street. Gray’s house.