Georgina found her own bedchamber. Heart panging, she locked herself inside and pulled the folded paper out from under her pillow.
Papa’s face stared back at her, his eyes as kind and loving in Simon’s drawing as they had ever been in life. How long had Mamma been so indifferent to the grief? How long ago had her heart released Papa, the library, and the questions?
One of Georgina’s tears splotched the pencil strokes. She dabbed it dry with her sleeve.
Please help me, God.
She didn’t know why she prayed the words. Perhaps because Mamma’s marriage seemed, in so many ways, like a betrayal. As if she’d forgotten her first love. As if life was changing, moving on, and she did not even care.
But perhaps it was more than that. Perhaps it was only that Mamma had done what Georgina had not the strength to do. Maybe never would.
Heal.
And forget.
Smoke.
Simon caught the taste in his mouth as he jogged up the stairwell of Gray’s Inn. On the second floor, he hesitated.
Maids scurried about the hazy corridor, some coughing into their hands, others toting brass buckets. Gentlemen lingered outside Sir Walter’s door—likely fellow barristers—some with pipes jutting out of their mouths and most with arms crossed over their chests, as if in contemplation.
Simon pushed his way through the mayhem. “Excuse me.” He coughed as he squeezed through the stifling swirl of pipe smoke. “Excuse me.”
“Get this fumbling ignoramus out of here!” From a sitting position on the floor, Sir Walter threw a stack of charred papers at his lanky clerk. “Out! Before I lose what little temperance I have left.” He glanced up at Simon with a sooty face. “Get in here, Fancourt. And for sanity’s sake, shut and lock the door—if it still works.”
Simon waited until the clerk fumbled out, then closed the office door before anyone else could squeeze through. What in the name of heaven had happened?
A tall, narrow corner cabinet was black, the top already crumbled into ashes, with ruined parchment and ledgers littered on the rug below. The corner of Sir Walter’s desk was singed. The windows were opened, allowing the afternoon breeze to draw out the overwhelming scent of fire.
“How did it start?”
Sir Walter pushed to his feet, brushing ashes from his white pantaloons. “I had stepped out for a bit of luncheon, and when I returned, my office was aflame. The coward will not own to it, but I imagine that buffle-headed clerk of mine knocked over a lamp or such.”
“In daylight?”
“My eyes are not what they used to be.” Sir Walter removed his smudged spectacles. “The extra light spares me strain.”
“I see.”
“I fear you do not.” Kicking at the ashes and half-burned pages at his feet, Sir Walter cursed. “All my receipts, my notes, my records…gone.”
“I am sorry.”
“As am I to you.”
“Sir?”
“Not only shall I not be able to search for the names you gave me within my own resources”—his mouth curled in frustration—“but with all the additional work this shall cause, I shall have little time to find the information elsewhere.”
“Then you are ending your search.”
“No. It was ended for me.”
“But surely it would not be difficult to find out which barrister represented which name when—”
“I do not tempt the hand of fate, Fancourt. I do not know what you think, but this entire ordeal seems far too coincidental for peace of mind.”
“You think the fire was started deliberately?”
