fingers fumbled with the hat pin.
“He’s amusing. I think you’ll like him.”
I dropped the pin; my hands were shaking too badly to keep hold of it. I lifted my hat from my hair, pretending it didn’t matter. “What is this paragon’s name?”
But Joseph had seen—he always did. He put aside his sketchbook. “What happened? You’re white as a ghost.”
A ghost. I couldn’t help it; I laughed. Even I heard the edge of hysteria in it.
“Sophie, for God’s sake . . .” He moved to sit beside me. “Tell me.”
“It’s nothing to worry about. The police said it was a suicide—”
“A suicide? What do you mean? Who was a suicide?”
“Mr. Stafford. Oh, Joseph, it would have been so perfect! The sala was so bright and your room was to overlook the canal and he was a writer—”
“Sophie. Look at me.” As he spoke, he turned me firmly to face him. “You’re not making sense. Who is Mr. Stafford? What sala are you talking about? Start from the beginning.”
He reached for my hands, gripping them hard, stilling my trembling, and I felt myself regain my composure, moment by moment returned to myself.
I explained it to him, the search for lodgings, the landlady. But I could not bring myself to leave it so bare and ugly and meaningless, and so I tempered it, my imagination painting it in different colors, ones I could bear. “She said he died for love. It’s so romantic really, don’t you think? Something kept them apart, perhaps, and there was no way to be together. He couldn’t live without her. Or perhaps . . . perhaps there was a reason she had to leave him, but she refused to be parted, and so he made the most honorable of sacrifices. For her. It was all for her.”
Joseph gave me a thoughtful look, and then he said quietly, “You’ve had a shock. Let me get you something—chocolate, perhaps? W ould that help? Or no . . . sherry.” He released me, getting to his feet. “Damn me, but there’s nothing in this room, is there? I’ll have to go downstairs—”
I grabbed at his arm before he’d gone a step. “No. No, please, I don’t want anything. Don’t leave me.”
I thought he would protest, but then he looked at me, and his expression softened. He sat beside me again on the bed, drawing me into his arms, pulling me back with him until we were leaning against the carved, gilded headboard, my head on his chest. Gently he smoothed a loose tendril from my cheek.
“We’ll stay in tonight,” he whispered, brushing his lips across my forehead. “I’ll have someone bring food up.”
“It’s too expensive,” I murmured.
He ignored me. His caress was mesmerizing, soothing. “We’ll save Florian’s for tomorrow. I wanted you to meet Dane, but it can wait.”
It was what I wanted to do. To lie here and be comforted and think of nothing and go nowhere. To not have to pretend at something I did not feel. But a whole night, wasted. . . . We could not afford it. I pushed myself away. “No. No, I’ll be all right. We should go to the cafe.”
“A night won’t change anything.”
“You say he can help us?”
“I think so.”
“Then we shouldn’t lose him.”
“Are you certain? We could stay here. I don’t mind it. I could send him a message. It’s not much of a delay.”
“But I do mind it. I want to go,” I told him earnestly, and it was what I wanted just then; the specter of poor Mr. Stafford drifted away for the first time since I’d laid eyes on his corpse. “We haven’t a choice. Our money won’t last long. We have to take every opportunity. You’ve found him; now I must do my part.”
Joseph was quiet for a moment, measuring me. He sighed. “Very well. If you insist.”
“I do,” I said firmly. “Now, tell me all about him. Is he handsome?”
“You’ll find nothing to complain of, I think. And it shouldn’t be difficult to snag him. He’s half in love with you already, thanks to me.”
That too had been part of the plan. A man was
“He’s amusing. I think you’ll like him.”
I dropped the pin; my hands were shaking too badly to keep hold of it. I lifted my hat from my hair, pretending it didn’t matter. “What is this paragon’s name?”
But Joseph had seen—he always did. He put aside his sketchbook. “What happened? You’re white as a ghost.”
A ghost. I couldn’t help it; I laughed. Even I heard the edge of hysteria in it.
“Sophie, for God’s sake . . .” He moved to sit beside me. “Tell me.”
“It’s nothing to worry about. The police said it was a suicide—”
“A suicide? What do you mean? Who was a suicide?”
“Mr. Stafford. Oh, Joseph, it would have been so perfect! The sala was so bright and your room was to overlook the canal and he was a writer—”
“Sophie. Look at me.” As he spoke, he turned me firmly to face him. “You’re not making sense. Who is Mr. Stafford? What sala are you talking about? Start from the beginning.”
He reached for my hands, gripping them hard, stilling my trembling, and I felt myself regain my composure, moment by moment returned to myself.
I explained it to him, the search for lodgings, the landlady. But I could not bring myself to leave it so bare and ugly and meaningless, and so I tempered it, my imagination painting it in different colors, ones I could bear. “She said he died for love. It’s so romantic really, don’t you think? Something kept them apart, perhaps, and there was no way to be together. He couldn’t live without her. Or perhaps . . . perhaps there was a reason she had to leave him, but she refused to be parted, and so he made the most honorable of sacrifices. For her. It was all for her.”
Joseph gave me a thoughtful look, and then he said quietly, “You’ve had a shock. Let me get you something—chocolate, perhaps? W ould that help? Or no . . . sherry.” He released me, getting to his feet. “Damn me, but there’s nothing in this room, is there? I’ll have to go downstairs—”
I grabbed at his arm before he’d gone a step. “No. No, please, I don’t want anything. Don’t leave me.”
I thought he would protest, but then he looked at me, and his expression softened. He sat beside me again on the bed, drawing me into his arms, pulling me back with him until we were leaning against the carved, gilded headboard, my head on his chest. Gently he smoothed a loose tendril from my cheek.
“We’ll stay in tonight,” he whispered, brushing his lips across my forehead. “I’ll have someone bring food up.”
“It’s too expensive,” I murmured.
He ignored me. His caress was mesmerizing, soothing. “We’ll save Florian’s for tomorrow. I wanted you to meet Dane, but it can wait.”
It was what I wanted to do. To lie here and be comforted and think of nothing and go nowhere. To not have to pretend at something I did not feel. But a whole night, wasted. . . . We could not afford it. I pushed myself away. “No. No, I’ll be all right. We should go to the cafe.”
“A night won’t change anything.”
“You say he can help us?”
“I think so.”
“Then we shouldn’t lose him.”
“Are you certain? We could stay here. I don’t mind it. I could send him a message. It’s not much of a delay.”
“But I do mind it. I want to go,” I told him earnestly, and it was what I wanted just then; the specter of poor Mr. Stafford drifted away for the first time since I’d laid eyes on his corpse. “We haven’t a choice. Our money won’t last long. We have to take every opportunity. You’ve found him; now I must do my part.”
Joseph was quiet for a moment, measuring me. He sighed. “Very well. If you insist.”
“I do,” I said firmly. “Now, tell me all about him. Is he handsome?”
“You’ll find nothing to complain of, I think. And it shouldn’t be difficult to snag him. He’s half in love with you already, thanks to me.”
That too had been part of the plan. A man was
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