Chapter 4
ALICE
Once the clamor of the day finally ebbs, I carry a tray with a bowl of broth down the dim hallway, my pulse thudding hard enough to feel in my throat. At his door, I knock once before easing my way in.
He lies exactly as I left him—flat on his back, chain secured to the bedframe, sunk deep in the kind of sleep that borders on unconsciousness. He hasn’t stirred in days. I set the tray on the table and step to his side.
The bandages are clean. Scabs have begun to form. Bruises are shifting from purple to yellow along his ribs. His breathing is even beneath the blankets, and when my fingers brush his forehead—warm with fever, but not dangerously so—he doesn’t react.
“Time for some broth,” I murmur.
His eyes snap open—a quick, fluttering blink of hazel fractured with brown and green.
His right hand jerks to his hip on instinct, reaching for a gun that isn’t there.
He scans the room like a man waking in hostile country.
Then I sit on the edge of his bed, and some of that tight-held caution eases.
“Easy,” I whisper, resting a steadying hand on his shoulder. “Try to sit up. You need food.”
He pushes himself upright by degrees, breath catching as the chain drags across the iron frame. His gaze cuts from the restraint to me, dark with accusation.
Guilt crawls under my skin. “I’m sorry, sir. My husband insisted on the irons—for our safety, he said. I hope you’ll understand.”
I lift the spoon, and after a moment’s hesitation, he leans forward enough to accept it. He swallows, exhales, and some of the hard edges in his face soften. By the fourth spoonful, he speaks, his voice rough, low, and controlled. “Where am I?”
“The Sherman Inn. Larkspur, Ohio. You’re safe.”
He doesn’t blink. He simply lifts his arm and pulls, testing the restraint with a hard, deliberate jerk. The metal rattles. He lowers his arm again.
“I know,” I say quietly. “And I’m sorry. How do you feel?”
Another spoonful. He swallows. “Alive.”
“I’m glad. Can I bring you anything?”
He lifts the shackle. “A key would be nice.”
Something in me curls tight. “Mister, if I had the key, I swear I’d use it. This wasn’t my doing. I’m only here to care for you.”
He studies me a moment. “Whiskey wouldn’t hurt.”
A surprised breath escapes me. “That I can manage. I’ll return shortly.”
“I won’t go anywhere.”
I hurry downstairs, snatch a bottle of rye and a glass from behind the bar, and climb back up. When I push the door open, he’s on his feet, braced unsteadily, shirt open, shoulder twisting as he studies the sutures in the mirror.
“I’ll fetch a fresh dressing,” I say, guilt tightening in my throat. I wish I could give him clean clothes as well, but the irons make that impossible.
I set the whiskey down on the end table and turn to leave.
“Alice.”
I freeze. Turn slowly. “How—how do you know my name?”
He perks up an eyebrow, mimicking a chorus of voices: “Miss Alice, Miss Alice…”
I stifle a reluctant smile. The walls must be thinner than I realized.
I wait. If he knows mine, it seems fair he gives his. After a silence that stretches a breath too long, I ask, “And you are?”
“William Archer. Arch, if you like.”
He says it without hesitation, but something about it rings hollow. I smile anyway. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Archer.”
“Thank you. For the drink. And for stitchin’ me up.”
“You’re most welcome.”
He pours a measure, winces as he tips it back, then lets the rye sit a moment on his tongue. I clasp my hands behind me.
“Where are you from, Mr. Archer?”
He laughs—not unkindly, but as if the question itself were a jest. The sound is low, rusty. “I move around. Wherever there’s work.”
“Do you have people who will worry for you?”
“People?” He rolls the word around like a pebble. “Oh, I suppose folks don’t count on me bein’ in a place long enough to miss me.”
“That is a lonely answer.”
He glances at me over the rim of the glass. “Lonely ain’t the worst thing. Easier on others.”
I busy my hands with the tray, though there’s nothing left to straighten. “Do you prefer cities, or the open country?”
“Country,” he says, easy as breath. “So you run this inn?”
He seems eager to turn the talk, so I let him. “I suppose you could say that. I manage the staff. Keep the books, the linens, the kitchen when needed.”
“Busy hands,” he says, as if approving the notion. “You make a fair broth.”
“You’ve Mrs. Baxter to thank for that.”
“I’ll be sure to thank her next I see her.”
He’s wry. It startles a laugh out of me. Awkward, this—making small talk with a man my husband has chained in irons. I ought to ask what happened on the road, but before I can, he nods at the shackles.
“You said this weren’t your notion. Whose was it?”
“My husband’s,” I say, smoothing a napkin that needs no smoothing. “For the safety of the house.”
“Safety of the house,” he repeats, turning it over once. He sets the glass down. “How long you reckon I’m to wear ’em?”
“Until you’re mended I suppose,” I say. “Or until he decides.” I hate the sound of it.
He studies me a beat, nodding pensively.
“I’ll be right back with that dressing, Mr. Archer,” I say, and step out.
That night, after tending to him again, I steal away to the observatory. I pray he’ll be free before the Astral Society arrives. Their visit is the one bright ember in this gray life I lead. I need that peaceful reunion with the stars. Not a sickroom.
I adjust the telescope and lean in. Aquarius glitters across the darkness.
Then, a streak.
A flash so bright it seems to strike my chest. A star tearing across the lens, brilliant and immediate before it vanishes. I blink, breath caught halfway. In all my nights at this telescope, I’ve never seen anything so close.
It feels aimed at me.
July 30th
Lo! A beautiful sight unlike one I’ve ever seen. While peering through the telescope at Aquarius, a bright star fell from the sky and crossed my path. Is it a sign? A warning? In mythology, shooting stars were thought to be men thrown from heaven for their sins. Satan, too, fell like a star.
Arch’s eyes flash in my mind.
My pen stills.
Who is he, really? Why was he bleeding out in the back of Joseph’s wagon? Who would want him dead? Why would Joseph bring him here?
This cannot be a coincidence. Something bigger is at work.
I feel it in my bones.
The next morning, Joseph sits behind the front desk, hovering over the ledgers. His presence alone sets dread stirring in my stomach. Hoofbeats clip-clop outside, wheels grinding over the dirt. I glance out the window—Fred has arrived.
I hurry to open the door as he and Lucas unload the supplies. Fred hands me a cloth bag.
“Bills you asked for, Miss Alice.”
“Thank you.”
Joseph watches the exchange. When Fred departs, he steps toward me.
“What’s this?”
“Last week’s takings, sir,” I answer, calm as I can manage. I loosen the drawstring and show the stack of bills inside. “I had Fred exchange the coins. Easier to manage.”
Joseph studies me—too long—before saying, “As long as it’s accounted for.”
“Of course, sir.” I smile, though dread blows cold through my spirit.
He snaps the ledger shut. “Our patient must be relocated. Lucas will escort him to the residence after dark.”
“In our home?” The falling star flashes through my mind—bright, sudden—and Arch’s haunted eyes with it.
He scoffs. “Those rooms are for paying guests. That conference is far too important to risk any shortages. It’s shameful enough we’ve been left with this country post while Virgil runs the city hotels.”
“We’re the only location with an observatory,” I say calmly. “That counts for something.”
“It counts for little—this piddly post with a farmer’s daughter for a wife.” His voice drips scorn.
The insult stings, but I swallow it. “I’ve done all that has been asked.”
“A chair does what it’s asked, Alice. Doesn’t make it remarkable.” He waves toward the ledger. “Now—enough. That wounded man goes to the residence. The room is needed.”
I press a steadying palm to the desk. “Couldn’t you simply let him go?”
“I’m not asking permission,” he snaps. “And he stays restrained.”
Questions burn in my throat, but I swallow them all. There’s a wall around Joseph no one breaches.
“I should check on him,” I say softly.
I plate his lunch and climb the stairs, schooling my expression at his door.
“Mr. Archer,” I say as I enter the room.
He sits upright now, boots on the floor, color returned to his cheeks.
“I’ve brought stew and bread. Something heartier than broth.”
His focus moves from the food to me, gratitude softening his expression.
“You look well,” I say, touching his forehead. Warm, but no fever.
“All thanks to you.” He clears his throat. “I mean no disrespect, but I reckon I’ve mended long enough. I’d like out of these irons.”
“Yes, of course, Mr.—”
“Arch.”
“Arch,” I correct. The word feels unfamiliar, weighty. “I don’t rightly know why my husband insists on keeping you here,” I admit.
Something shifts in him—dark, deep.
“What happened out there?” I ask. “Do you remember?”
He drops his attention to his hands. “Nothin’ worth burdenin’ you with.”
“Maybe not. But it might explain why he won’t let you go. You could be in danger.”
“Your husband,” he says slowly. “Who is he?”
I hesitate. “We are the Sherman family. This is the Sherman Inn.”
“Sherman,” he echoes. “Didn’t realize I was patched up by their heir.”
“You’ve heard of them.” The moment it slips out, I regret it.
Them, not us.
Recognition flickers behind those hazel eyes.
“Hard not to,” he says. “Shermans own half the hotels from here to…a long ways.”
“Yes. It’s the family business.”
“Business,” he repeats, bitter. “If that’s what you call it.”
I press a hand to my corset. “What else would I call it?”
“Your husband always send you to do his dirty work?”
“I beg your pardon?”
His tone sharpens, slicing the air. “You his diplomat, or is he just too much a coward to face me?” He leans back with a hardened look. The breadth of his shoulders, the strong-cut jaw—dangerous things for a lonely woman to notice.
I breathe slowly. “I’m not here for him,” I say. “You need to eat.”
“Men like your husband don’t chain up strangers for their health,” he says. “Why hasn’t he shown his face?”
“I don’t know.” I steal a quick glance toward the door. “I shouldn’t be discussing this.”
“Alice,” he says quietly, “you’re already in it. You’ve been tendin’ to the man he’s got chained. Question now is, are you goin’ to let me go?”
My hands twist in my skirt. “I would if I could. But I don’t have the key.”
“Then get it,” he says. Not threatening, simply tired of waiting.
“I’m sorry. I must speak to my husband first.”
Before I can turn to leave, he grabs my wrist, grip hot, strong. After a moment, he eases—just enough to show me the choice in it.
“Alice.”
My body stiffens.
“Free me, and I promise I won’t let harm come to you. You have my word.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper. I pull free and flee the room.