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“I have to leave, baby,” she said. “I have to fly away for a while, like you do. Someone will take care of you, I promise, but for now this is goodbye.”
He raised his head. “Bye-bye, baby.”
She laughed through tears and when Gloom flew away, she imagined he was taking her with him.
In a daze she returned to her office and picked up the phone.
“Yes, Boss,” Zoot said when she answered.
“Would you mind feeding Gloom for me? I’ll be…I’ll be gone for a bit.”
“Whatever you want, Boss. Where you going?”
“Paris.”
“Paris? What’s in Paris?”
“Art,” Regan said. “Loads and loads and loads of art.”
Part III
14
Morning Star and Evening Star
Arthur was in Hell.
Two weeks had passed since he’d last seen Regan, and she wasn’t answering his calls. He’d even gone by The Pearl twice to see if she was there. Zoot said she wasn’t, and couldn’t—or wouldn’t—say where she’d gone.
All he could do was wait while Regan did whatever it was she needed to do. Wait and hope and trust that his dead great-grandfather wouldn’t cross planes of existence to put them together just to let them fall apart.
December came and suddenly Christmas was everywhere Arthur looked. Outside the window of the Piccadilly townhouse, he spied greenery hanging from streetlamps, white lights on Christmas trees glowing through windows. His parents would be home in one week and they’d all convene at Wingthorn, now fully renovated.
Arthur tried to look forward to it, to his last Christmas with his family before he joined the army and left home for good. But he’d happily skip the whole season and all the gifts and parties if it meant knowing where Regan was, that she was safe and still wanted him. Every time it rained—which was nearly every day now—he was plagued with sightings of Regan on the shining sidewalks, but it never was her under those black umbrellas.
These were the wistful thoughts in his head as he put the last of the decorations on the Christmas tree he’d bought for the townhouse. Rather than cheering him up, the decorating made him miss Regan more. Would they ever have the chance to do this together as a couple? To choose a tree for their home—just the thought of “their home” made his breath quicken—and decorate together, arguing over the placement of the nutcrackers and the fat little robins and the golden bells?
He knew her life might be cut short. No matter how many times he told himself that fact should scare him away, it never did. If anything, it only made him love her more, want her more.
God, if only she’d call or text. He’d take a single note or a message from Zoot delivered to his doorstep along with a few dozen insults. She could call him Lord Dogshit and the Rude Baron all she wanted if she also told him where Regan was hiding herself. Hiding herself to find herself.
The front door of the townhouse opened and slammed shut. He stood up straight, tiny ceramic robin in hand.
Nobody slammed the door of the eighteenth-century townhouse except for one person.
“In here, Charlie,” Arthur called out. “Sitting room.”
Charlie came in, looking better than the last time Arthur had seen him. Wide awake, not hungover, cloud lifted. He held up a large wrapped rectangle.
“Got old Thirteen back,” he said.
In all the madness, Arthur had almost forgotten about Lord Malcolm’s portrait. He set the robin on the coffee table and took the portrait from his brother, uncovered it. There he was, in all his smirking glory.
“You’re out of the doghouse,” Arthur said. “Congratulations. How did you get it?”
“Some weirdly hostile blonde who called me ‘Lord Dogshit’s brother’ brought it by the flat where I was staying. She brought this one, too.”
He passed Arthur another wrapped rectangle, about the same size.
