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“She offered to pay my tailor,” he said. His tailor was E. Isaacson Brothers, the ready-made retailers with their fashion guides and their huge gas-lit shop front, or the used clothes shops on Monmouth Street. If a man read the bankruptcy listings, and headed for Monmouth Street in their wake, he could dress fashionably on the cheap in London. Anything saved on tailoring bills could be invested.

“Ye mean ye turned ’er up sweet?”

Lark didn’t answer. He had thought to make a story of it, to have a laugh at how he’d pulled the wool over the eyes of some toffs, but now he wanted the adventure with Vivian Bradish to be his alone, not a shared thing. He concentrated on removing his bloodied waistcoat and shirt. A sudden chill shook him, and he clamped his jaw shut. He might spend the night with Rook for old times’ sake.

“So, is she old or young? Pretty or plain?”

“Young, pretty.” But dangerous. If her guidebook taught other women to go boldly about London, prepared to meet danger with courage and a weapon, his old profession would disappear.

“Yer sure she didn’t twig ye?”

“She didn’t. I’m going to see her again.” He was starting to shake all over, and he could feel his knees going slack. He needed a room, a bed.

“Why? She’s above yer touch, ain’t she?”

“Doing her a favor.” He turned away and crossed the room. It was one half of some ancient lady’s drawing room, bare now of the amenities that had once graced it, no rugs, no sconces on the wall, no paintings, no fine furnishings.

“Wot’s in it then? Yer not thinking of turning cracksman, are ye? Pinching her silver?”

“Don’t be daft. We should take a holiday is all.” He said we, as if they were still partners.

“’oliday?”

“No clicks.” Lark shrugged. He had been trying to persuade Rook to quit since the fire. Now the problem of Rook had become urgent. Lark needed time to see what would come of his arrangement with Vivian Bradish.

“Are ye bosky?”

He wasn’t drunk. He just felt crazy as if he’d climbed into one of Mr. Green’s famous hot air balloons and taken off skyward with no tethers to hold him back. “Tired.”

“Wot ’re ye not telling me?” Rook asked. “If we don’t do clicks, ’ow do we eat?”

“We’ll eat. Don’t worry. Just hold off until … these stitches come out.” He pushed open the door to his old room. Rook had changed nothing as if he had expected Lark’s return to their old life. The room had once been a lady’s boudoir. Now it had a bed, a chair, a makeshift wardrobe, and a trunk bolted to the floor and securely locked. Lark could make it to the bed. He knew he could.

Rook came up behind him. “Wot’s wrong w’ ye? We do clicks. You and me. Ye’ve been taking a bleedin’ holiday since the fire. Ye can’t keep on like ’at. Wot’ll I do?”

“Just a bit more holiday,” Lark said. He reached the bed and pulled back the coverlet. Old and worn as it was, he needed its warmth. He let himself sink down on the bed, and pulled the cover up around him and fell back onto the mattress. He could barely see Rook standing puzzled in the doorway.

“I don’t need a bleedin’ ’oliday,” Rook said.