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Everything grew still. There was a choked sob, and Rafe realized, a moment later, it had come from him.

He was alone. His limbs were hollow, aching. Solid ground had never looked more imminent, and he let his body unfold over the carpet.

It’s over.

If it was one thing, it was a thousand of them. But the only loss he knew shaped wordlessly on his lips. Sophie.

One of the fallen papers was within his grasp, and he dragged it nearer. Postmarked Hampshire. He only needed to read the first few words to thrust himself to an upright position.

“No.” He smoothed the words over his knee. “No. No, no, no.”

Mr. Thomas Balfour,

Our institution has come under new dominion following the death of our proprietor. We are writing to inform you of what must be an error. Your wife, Mrs. Margaret Balfour, seems to no longer be in residence. If you would please respond with any information—

That explained his father’s unbridled ire. “He’s been in the foulest mood since the post arrived.”

It no longer mattered how long it would take Thomas to unfurl the truth about the missing wool and the falsified logs, or how soon he or Lord Penney might try to remove Rafe’s head at the shoulders.

Because now, Rafe had to run.

Alfie blinked at him.

“I’m s-sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.” Rafe gripped the edge of the crate he sat on. The shouts, odors, and clamor of the dockyard were close at hand, thinly veiled by the walls of the little office they sat in.

“Enough, laddie.” Alfie’s hand came to his shoulder, but mercifully, he didn’t shake him. He’d been sick again as he made his way here, and his forehead still prickled with the cool threat of illness. “No apologizing.”

“I told Sophie, too.” His voice was weak. His whole being was. “Years I’ve kept it all …”

The edges of his vision fuzzed black, creeping inward. His life had undergone utter divulsion. All the pieces that made up his existence were shattered and cast into the air. No matter how they landed, one thing was certain: nothing would ever be the same.

“Lean back.” Alfie’s voice was a warm command. He clomped around the room, and a minute later, he was pressing a cool metal tankard into Rafe’s hands. “Drink.”

God, he didn’t want to. But the bland nourishment of water coating his parched mouth and throat was undeniably pleasing. One sip was enough for now. He leant his head back against the wall, closing his eyes. “I need to leave, you understand. Tonight.”

“Leave?” It was the first time Alfie had sounded nonplussed during this meeting. He had handled the scattered, barely coherent confessions about Rafe’s mother with equanimity.

“Of course.” He braved another meager sip. “Not only will he be hunting her down, he’s going to find out about the missing stock, Alf, and then the botched books. It’ll all come back to me. Our scheme … It’s finally done.”

“’Course he’ll be searching, but not in Greenwich, Rafe. Come, now, clear your head.”

Rafe cracked an eye to see his friend. He sat on his own rough-hewn crate, his elbows propped on his knees and his back arched like a cat’s. His brow was in a deep crease.

“The old man thinks she escaped, more than like,” Alfie said. “His hunt will be in Hampshire. He probably wants the blood of the folks that run the institution as much as he wants hers. His ire for you—well, I suspect that’ll come a bit later. If this secret is as dire to him as you say—”

“It is.”

Alfie drew a deep breath and ran his fingertips up the dark planes of his cheeks. “Well, then, that’s not a good thing, but I believe it means our sins will remain unpunished for a while yet. You got it today because you walked straight into the lion’s den.”

Rafe scoffed dryly. Even the subtle lurch of his stomach was a reminder of sore emptiness. “Call me the fool. Please, God, do. I don’t know what I was thinking, going in there today.”

“I’m proud of you for it.”

Rafe grew very still, and, for reasons he could only lament, not account for, the backs of his eyes began to burn righteously. “Fool’s the word,” he said quietly.

“Enough of this nonsense.” Alfie thumped Rafe’s knee. “You want folks to stop beating you around, laddie, but first, you’ve got to quit abusing yourself. Now, I said I’m proud of you. Outcome aside.”

Rafe kept his eyes closed. He was afraid they might glisten like the surface of the Thames—muddy, virulent green, with a depth no one really wanted to see the heart of. But he smiled.