Page 25 of When We Touch

“You haven’t. Don’t start now,” she told him. “Look, Justin, in another few days’ time, I’ll marry Charles. And, not to be rude, or to suggest that you don’t mean the world to me, what you and Sir James think is right or wrong about my behavior will not matter in the least. For the love of God, I swear to you, I have no intention of heading to the East End tonight. Go to your club.”

He looked at her a moment longer, then nodded. “You’re sure you’re all right home alone?”

It was a little late for him to be asking. His nocturnal activities had been questionable for a very long time.

“I’m not alone. Clayton is with me. And Mireau is up in the garret, writing away.”

“Of course.”

“I’m going up. A good book awaits.”

“Good night, then.”

She hurried on up the stairs and closed her door to all but a hair’s breadth. Moments later, she heard Clayton give Justin his hat, coat, and cane, and her brother departed the house.

Mireau heard as well. He was down the stairs from the attic before she had tiptoed to the second floor landing to assure herself that Justin was gone.

They both knew that Justin might have reservations about his sister attending another séance. The last time she’d been to one, she found the string beneath the table, operating the “spectral” manifestations, and Madama Zenobia had threatened her life, cursing and kicking all the way to her trial. A Belgian, she’d been deported.

Maggie had never considered herself to be in danger from the woman, her jowly husband, or even her ridiculous poodle.

“Have you the bags?”

“All set.”

“Let’s slip on out.”

“Shall we wait a minute? Make sure that Justin has caught a cab?”

“No, he’ll have gotten one. Clayton might be about if we wait too long. Let us go.”

They hurried down the stairs together, slipping quickly out the door. Maggie realized that she was sneaking about her own home like a thief when Mireau pushed her back as they exited the house—Justin was just getting into a cab.

They held still for several long seconds, until the cab had disappeared down the street. Then they hurried to the sidewalk and kept going, walking briskly until they saw a number of cabs, and hailed one.

In the cab, Mireau opened the bags. He had a dark wig for each of them, and a mourning hat with a heavy veil for Maggie, a mustache, muttonchops, and a goatee for himself. Satin lined capes finished out their apparel.

The cab moved toward a questionable section of the city just opposite the Tower. She remembered that she had told her brother she wasn’t going to the East End. If she wasn’t in it, she was certainly close.

“He’s stopping,” Mireau said. He quickly opened the door, hopping out, reaching for her hand. He paid the cabby, and they both looked up at the house.

On the outskirts of a very bad area, it was a glorious old home. It was Tudor in design, and in need of repair, but it certainly offered an aura of darkness and mystery.

There was barely space between the front door and the street, and a crumbling walk offered them but a few steps. The front door opened as they approached it.

A man, immensely tall, his pate shiny, appeared. “Lady Walsing?”

“Yes, yes, I’m Amy Walsing. Please, no titles here tonight. I believe we have none beyond the grave, and I’d not hamper any spirit who might influence my poor departed Willie.”

“Ah, yes, I understand!” the man said.

“This gentleman is your . . . brother. Ben.”

“Yes, of course!” she said, delighted. “How did you know?”

“Well, I’d like to say that it was intuition, my dear La—Amy. But Ben came to make the appointment this afternoon.”

“Yes, of course, how silly of me!” Maggie said.