February 22, 1889
The delicate tones of the piano filled the sitting room of Swan Walk, London.
Uncle Cyrus had purchased the instrument when Mira and Walker were still young, but it hadn’t ever been played properly.
A few stray notes here and there when they would play act being musicians, but neither of them had taken much interest in learning the instrument.
It was mostly there for show. For propriety.
Byron played it now and for the first time in a long time he wasn’t playing from memory. He’d taken the Austrian’s cipher and used it as inspiration for something entirely new. It was beautiful and haunting, but full of so much hope as he played the final notes.
Warm applause sounded from the other occupants of the room: Uncle Cyrus and Loretta, their children on their laps and at their feet; Mamma and Mary straight-backed but smiling widely; Walker and Liza covertly holding hands; Mr. and Mrs. Renaldi, Aunt Eleanor having stayed behind at Davenguard; and Mira, sitting closest to the piano in a high-backed armchair.
“That was wonderful!” Mrs. Renaldi said. “Just wonderful.”
Byron smiled, moving to stand next to Mira, taking her hand. “I did have some help in arranging it.”
“You never let me listen to the completed piece,” Mira teased. “It was lovely.”
Landon, who had been listening from the doorway, stepped in. “Dinner is served, sir, whenever you are ready.”
“Thank you, Landon,” Cyrus said, standing. “Shall we all adjourn?”
The table had far more people sitting around it than at the beginning of the month, and yet it didn’t feel crowded at all.
There was safety and connection in being surrounded by loved ones, old and new.
It was one of the best nights of Mira’s life.
The whole family celebrating two engagements together—Walker had proposed to Liza the night before they had left Bath.
Or, rather, almost the whole family was present.
Halfway through the first course Castel came in, offering his apologies. “I had a meeting with the Under-Secretary of the Minister of Foreign Affairs.”
“Oh?” Byron raised an eyebrow.
“Yes, and I finally found the right person to hand the documents over to. A Mr. Jonathan Wallace.”
Mira frowned. There was something familiar about that name. Byron’s expression suggested he had a similar recollection.
“Wallace, you say?” Byron pulled out his journal.
“Oh, stop your detective work,” Mary said in jest, for once, instead of her usual scorn. “We’re at dinner.”
Byron stilled.
“What’s wrong?” Mira leaned closer to peer over his shoulder.
“You’re sure it was Jonathan Wallace?” he said, voice shaky.
“I’m certain of it. Why?”
Mira read the line above Byron’s finger and her blood froze. It was the list of names that Selene had sent them. Operatives of the Crescent.
Byron snapped the journal closed and forced a smile. “Oh, nothing. Might someone pass me the mashed potatoes?”
***
After dinner everyone settled into various occupations and conversations. Mira snuck away to the parlor, trying and failing to not feel nauseated from the revelation. It wasn’t long before Byron found her there.
“And who are you hiding from?” he teased.
“Not who. What.” She sighed. “I can’t believe it. After everything we did . . .”
He held out a hand. “Why don’t we go for a walk?”
They quietly took their coats from the hall and slipped out the door. The sun was starting to set, bathing everything in golden light.
“What are we going to do?” she asked after a few minutes.
“There’s nothing we can do,” he said. “And even if the documents had reached the right hands, what could the government do about it? The treaty has been signed for a decade. Circe’s plan has already been put in motion.”
“Then why did we go to all that effort if it didn’t matter?”
“The truth always matters, Mira. The overall outcome, a perfect ending, is never my goal. And yes, this war Circe is planning will likely still happen. But if our efforts may delay it a bit longer, I think it is worth it.”
Mira sighed. It all felt so futile. Every time they took a step towards stopping Circe once and for all, another plot would surface. It was like a hydra. With every head they cut away, more took its place.
“By the way,” Byron said, “Sibyl Hand came to Bolton Street yesterday. Castel related their conversation to me after dinner.”
“Is Bolton the address you gave her?”
Byron nodded. “We’ve arranged for her and her son, along with Elvina and Lucille, to go to America. According to Castel, she seemed in earnest about leaving the thieving lifestyle behind.”
Mira looked up at him. “First Grace Trimbell, now Sibyl. How many ex-Circe members have you two helped to escape?”
His eyes twinkled. “A handful over the years. But don’t you see?
This case had so much more to it than Circe and the treaty?
If we had left it alone, Sibyl Hand wouldn’t have had the opportunity to escape the Crescent.
Miss Harris would likely have been sent to an asylum.
She never would have learned why her father was killed.
The truth mattered a great deal for them.
” He took her hand in his. “My work as a detective may have started because I wanted to stop Circe, but I have continued to do it because of the people I am able to help. It’s impossible to right every wrong, but I will always chase the truth. ”
“And fight for it?” Mira asked.
“Exactly.”
They fell silent, walking down the streets of London hand in hand. It wasn’t long before they came to Westminster Bridge where the sunset was in full force, colors rippling over the Thames. It made her want to paint again.
“You know,” Byron said, leaning over the balustrade. “This was where I wanted to propose to you.”
“Oh?”
“When we are apart and I think of you, I like to think of you here. Of us, here. When it’s just the two of us and the light shines through your hair making a golden shining halo. It’s my favorite memory.” He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her face, his hand brushing her cheek.
Her face flushed, unexpected tears pricking at the corners of her eyes.
He pulled his hand away, the warmth lingering. “I’d been planning it for weeks and then lost the opportunity because of that silly spat with Mary.”
“It’s all right,” she said, placing her hand on top of his on the balustrade.
He shook his head. “No. It isn’t. But I suppose there’s nothing to be done. The important thing is, we’re going to be married.”
Mira looked out over the Thames. It was beautiful. The perfect place. She took his hand and turned it over, pulling the ruby ring from her finger and placing it into his palm.
His brow furrowed.
“Are we engaged?” she said, trying to hide her smile. “I don’t remember you ever proposing.”
He stared at her for a moment. His confusion soon turned to realization, and his smile soon devolved into a hearty laugh. For a moment she was scared he would drop the ring. But then he smiled at her and tucked it away.
“You are quite extraordinary, aren’t you? You anticipate my every move.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a box.
“Samira Blayse,” he said. “I may not remember every moment we’ve shared, but because of you I know that love does not persist in memory or even in the heart, but in the soul.”
He kneeled and opened the box, revealing an intricate ring with three hexagonal cut sapphires in a row, with dozens of diamonds following the edge of the band. The position of the stones formed a rhombus that curved along her finger as he slipped it into place.
“The very essence of my being longs for you and I cannot imagine living without you. Will you marry me?”
“You already know the answer.”
“What if I’ve forgotten?”
She cupped his cheek with her hand, leaning down to kiss him on the forehead. “Of course I will.”
He stood, pulling her closer. Mira admired her engagement ring.
“Where did you get this? It’s beautiful,” she said.
“It belonged to my mother’s mother, Lady Catherine Clarke. And one of the stolen goods we happened to buy back from Sibyl.”
Mira laughed. “A family ring.” She held it out in front of her and it sparkled in the dwindling sunlight.
“I thought it was appropriate,” his gaze softened, eyes trailing over her features, “as you are to become Mrs. Byron Sherard.”
Her stomach fluttered, her pulse racing. “And here I thought we would be Mr. and Mrs. Byron Constantine.”
He leaned closer, voice barely a whisper. “We can be anything you like. As long as we’re together.”
Her breath hitched as his lips found hers, fervent and tender.
Her legs fell limp beneath her, dizziness coming over her, but he caught her and pulled her closer to him with a touch on the small of her back.
She fell deeper into his embrace and the heat of a thousand sunsets was nothing compared to the warmth between them.
It was not their first kiss, nor would it be their last, but the memory would always burn within her.