Chapter 12: The Rain

Piers walked me home in the rain with one umbrella.

Tristan had gone back to his hotel. Rosalind had locked the shop and sat down in the dark with her crate on her knees.

I had not been able to eat. Hugh's text was still on my mind: I land tomorrow morning.

"He's coming to stop her," I said. "And he knows I was in that shop."

"Then we will not be alone with him," Piers said. "Rosalind has her crate. You have a locked door and a porter."

"That's your plan?"

"It's the start of one."

We walked a little way in silence.

"You've gone quiet," Piers said.

"I'm always quiet."

"No. You're polite and quiet."

"This is the other kind."

We turned into the lane behind the department. The lamps made yellow circles on the wet stone.

He held the umbrella over me and not over himself, and a cold line of water ran down the back of his collar.

I noticed that.

I noticed it a great deal.

"He's sorry," I said. "He means it."

"I know."

"It doesn't change anything."

"I know that too."

"Then why do I feel like I should do something?"

"Because he's good at looking like a man who needs to be forgiven."

Piers glanced at me. "I've watched him for an hour. It's a talent."

I laughed.

It came out wet and short, and I covered my mouth.

He stopped walking.

We were standing under the awning of a shuttered bookshop, with the rain loud on the canvas.

"Miss Quillen," he said. "Ellery."

I looked up.

It was the first time he had said my first name.

"You told Mr. Brevoort you want nothing," he said. "I believe you."

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