Chapter 25
Iwince as the clatter of the horses’ hooves slows and the jostling of the carriage halts. Ichabod climbs out and disappears into the dark, but I can still sense his emotions so he can’t have gone far.
“You alright, Prickles?” Sam whispers under his breath.
I give him a somewhat strained smile in answer.
“We’ll figure this out,” he tries to assure me.
Right now, I’m more worried about developing haemorrhoids from the carriage ride from Islington to Whitechapel.
These carriages may look very posh and elegant inside a museum, but this hard leather-covered bench is brutal on my coccyx.
I never thought I’d miss London black cabs.
Every one I’ve been in has resulted in a case of whiplash and my life literally flashing before my eyes.
Right now, I’m not sure which is worse.
The reality of our situation crashes in on me again, and I swallow down the wave of panic that keeps trying to drown me.
It’s fine. It’s fine. It’s fine. Breathe in. Breathe out. Breathe in. Go to your happy place…
Which is being naked in bed and wrapped around Sam, with none of the events of the past forty-eight hours sitting between us like an anvil.
I try to get a grip before I start to spiral, but I’m so stressed my tentative grasp on my empathic abilities starts to slip.
I’d gotten quite used to maintaining a level of control in all the months I’ve been in London, but my anxiety is skyrocketing and tangling up with Sam’s concern, Cornelius’ confusion, and Ichabod’s suspicion.
I don’t know if I should be grateful when all that is eclipsed by the sudden stabbing in my toes. They’ve moved past being numb and are now so cold that my toenails hurt.
Fucking hell, what if I get frostbite? What if my toes turn black and fall off? None of my shoes back home will fit.
Which is a really stupid thought to be having right now, Harrison.
“Calm down, Prickles,” Sam rumbles quietly. Despite the heavy material of the borrowed overcoat I’m wearing, I feel the weight of his hand as he presses it against my back in comfort.
I draw in a shaky breath and close my eyes, going back to my deep breathing exercises.
It’s fine. Breathe in. Breathe out…
“Is he alright? Does he require a doctor?”
I open my eyes to Cornelius staring at me, his forehead wrinkled in concern. Damn but my great-great-however-many-greats uncle is a total silver fox. He has an air of calmness and authority which is very reassuring.
Serious Daddy energy is rolling off him. I can’t help the giggle that bubbles up at the thought of the very serious and straitlaced Ichabod calling him that.
The others stare at me like I’m heading for a bout of hysteria.
“He’s fine. This is all just…a lot.” Sam raises the hand from my back to my neck and squeezes as Cornelius nods in acknowledgement.
He does it without even thinking and I lean into his touch just as thoughtlessly.
Despite having us tumble out of a cupboard in a Molly house and landing at his feet half dressed, Cornelius can’t really know the exact nature of our relationship.
Not really, especially after we told him we’d been pulled through time and dumped in that particular building rather than being invited guests to the establishment.
But I think we’re well past trying to hide how close Sam and I are, although we’re going to have to get better at hiding it from everyone else.
Everyone. Else.
Fuck. The anxiety slams back into me full force. What if we’re stranded here permanently? Doomed to hide our relationship because to do otherwise would undoubtedly lead to at least hard time in prison under terrible conditions?
Do we even have a relationship anymore?
I catch a glimpse of worry in Sam’s eyes when I look over at him.
“I understand that this situation is most”—Cornelius hesitates, glancing down at our bare feet—“unfortunate,” he decides. “If you require something to calm your nerves, I have laudanum.” He reaches for his jacket pocket.
I’m seriously tempted to say fuck yes, beam me up Scotty, but instead I murmur a polite, “No thank you.”
At that moment, Ichabod opens the carriage door and says in a hushed tone, “Come quickly. The street is clear for the moment, but the constabulary have increased their patrols in this area given how close we are to the Old Nichol. I cannot guarantee how long we have between their rounds.”
Sam climbs out and his hand twitches as he turns toward me like he wants to reach out and help, but I guess the sooner we get used to not touching in public the better. When I step down, my poor feet land on a light dusting of snow covering the freezing paving.
Taking a deep breath, I pause to look up at the property in front of us.
It sits on a wide street flanked by the soot-covered brickwork of tall, narrow Victorian buildings rather than the dark, more modern alleyway we’re used to.
Some of the buildings have survived into our time, but many didn’t, either because they took direct hits during the bombing raids of the Second World War or when they cleared the slums and began to rebuild the most poverty-stricken parts of the city.
Looking up at what will become my biological mother’s bookshop a century and a half from now, it does bear a resemblance to the building that I saw in Cordelia’s memories, with a couple of notable exceptions.
There are now two doors instead of one main entrance and the large bay window on one side of the property is filled with a display of ribbons, rolls of material, and ladies’ hats.
I guess between this point in time and Cordelia’s release from Crowscroft forty years ago, the building was split into the two properties I’m familiar with in our present-day London, with one side already being used as a retail space.
Although I’d always thought it had been a bookshop right from the beginning, the window display suggests it started out as… what is it called…a haberdashery?
After Cornelius climbs out of the carriage and pays the driver, he hurries us all towards the doorway to the right. Within minutes, we’re inside and Cornelius has closed the door firmly behind us and locked it.
“Are you hungry?” he asks as he removes his hat and his gloves.
I shake my head and Sam does the same. “I’m just really tired and cold,” I say honestly.
“We’ll show you where you can sleep,” Ichabod says, and heads toward the staircase.
I recognise this area from my dreams. Turning my head to the right, I see the doorway that leads to Cornelius’ study.
I don’t have time to take inventory of what hasn’t changed, however, because Cornelius encourages us to follow Ichabod, and so we do, up to the second floor and along a narrow corridor lit by gas lighting and carpeted in a deep crimson. Although my feet are still too numb to feel the thick weave.
Ichabod stops beside a door and opens it. “Here you’ll find the water closest.”
I almost cry in relief.
“You alright, Prickles?” Sam says beside me, and I can hear the amusement in his voice. “You have tears in your eyes.”
“A flushing toilet,” I breathe reverently, “and a bath.”
My gaze skims over the walls of dark green subway tiles and the black-and-white patterned floor to the deep porcelain clawfoot bathtub with shiny brass taps. A matching white pedestal sink sits beside it, and next to that is a toilet with a wall-mounted water tank and a pull chain.
“Running water is available for the bathtub, but it’s cold,” Ichabod continues.
“Any hot water must be heated in the kitchen and carried up.” He eyes our dirty feet and wrinkles his nose.
“I’ll bring you some linens so you can wash up, but given the late hour, you’ll have to make do with cold water. ”
“Cold water is fine,” Sam says hurriedly as I open my mouth.
Ichabod nods and then continues on. Sam gives me a little nudge and I take one last longing look at the bathroom before I move along. We stop beside another door, and this time Ichabod opens it and walks inside, leaving us to follow.
It’s a bedroom, with neatly made metal-framed twin beds. In the corner is a chair, a dresser, and a desk.
“I’ll see to the linens,” he says, and disappears back out of the room, leaving us with Cornelius. He studies the pair of us, although I’m not sure what he sees. His lips are pursed as if weighing his next words.
“You are safe here,” he finally says. “We have a small staff. Lord Francis is somewhat gifted when it comes to finding staff that are not only discreet but…sympathetic to certain unusual living situations, shall we say, and shares that gift with those who are lucky enough to call him their friend.”
It’s then that I understand what a big risk Cornelius is taking, a risk that Sam obviously has figured out as well based on his slight nod at Cornelius’ words.
This man has let a pair of complete strangers into his inner sanctum, strangers that pose real danger to him and the person he loves if we’re not who we say we are.
We need to give him something to level the playing field and show him that we have as much to lose as he does if any of us are discovered.
Sam lifts his hand and cups my jaw, drawing me in, then gives me a kiss. One that leaves no doubt whatsoever to the nature of our relationship, rocky as it may currently be. It also, if I’m being honest, makes me feel a little better.
When I pull back and turn to Cornelius, he’s watching us intently.
“Harrison and I are not just lovers, we’re together,” Sam tells him bluntly as he takes my hand and links our fingers.
“We appreciate the trust you’re putting in us, bringing us into your home, protecting us, and we want you to know we’ll do the same for you.
I hope at some point you’ll realise you can trust us. ”
Cornelius stares at our joined hands and considers Sam’s words, then finally nods. “Like I said, we have a small staff. A cook, Mary, and a maid, Sarah. They…share a room in the servants’ quarters on the third floor.”