In horror, I saw a place on the drawn bed curtains ripple delicately, not by a breeze, but as if a finger had slid gently down the velvet surface.

I held my breath.

After lying frozen for several minutes, not moving, hearing nothing, I made a rash decision. I threw back the curtains.

As I scanned the room, everything seemed dark and quiet. The fire had died down. The windows were shut.

Then I saw that my bedroom door was open. Wide open.

I had not actually locked the door, but it seemed odd that it would have blown open on its own.

Cautiously, I got out of bed and went to close it.

The hall was completely black except for a stream of moonlight. Then I saw that the door at the end of the hall was open. Squinting a bit, I saw a steep set of stairs through the door; they must lead to the attic. My heart beat faster, as I doubted that anyone would need to be up there at this time of night.

Ashamed at my terror, I left my room, shut the door to the attic firmly, and returned to my room, shutting-and this time locking-my bedroom door.

I did not sleep the rest of the night.

They were almost imperceptible, but I heard tiny scratching noises coming from the attic, directly above my head.

Nineteen.

T.

he next morning, Grandmother stopped by my room to let me know that Simon would be at the house for dinner. In spite of having had very little sleep, this was my impetus to make it down the stairs.

I had many questions for him and hoped that we would have a chance to talk alone. I felt desperate to know about William, whether he had heard from him. I also hoped that perhaps Simon would tell me what William sought in the safe abroad.

In the late afternoon, I descended the stairs slowly. The trip was not as difficult or as painful as I had antic.i.p.ated, and I knew that I would probably be walking easily by the next week.

Mariah had gone to the opera with Cecil, so dinner was quite dull. It was only me, Violet, Grandmother, and Simon. Simon was all grace and politeness to the two women, but a few times our eyes met, and I knew he wanted to speak to me.

Sir Bertram was away from London for a few days, so the library was empty that evening. After dinner I retired there, hoping that Simon would soon be able to pull himself away from Violet and Grandmother before too long.

Although still limping a bit, I walked slowly around the library to pa.s.s the time and to exercise my leg. Bookcases with ladders covered every wall, except for the bottom half of a wall with a great fireplace. The ceiling, three stories above me, had floral designs cut into the plaster. I felt too agitated to read so I paced a bit, then sat on a nearby sofa.

When Simon finally came to the library, he sat next to me on the couch. Formal. Polite. Statuesque.

"Simon, where is William?" I asked almost immediately. "And what is he doing?"

If Simon was surprised by my directness, he showed nothing.

"He is on the Continent. In terms of what he is doing, Abbie, that I cannot tell you."

Ever since the Ripper had attacked me and I'd returned to Kensington, I had been forced to process everything alone. I felt haunted by the visions and my suspicions. So in spite of Simon's secrecy, I decided to tell him everything. I did it quickly and quietly, before thinking too much about what I was doing. I told him about what had happened in Church Pa.s.sage, of the visions that I had had in connection with the murders. I even told him about the chalice visions, and then the chalice image I had seen at the hospital, and how Max, that evening in the hothouse, had shown me his chalice tattoo.

As my words poured out, I realized I was crying a little. To tell someone everything brought me a certain amount of relief, but at a great risk. The visions, particularly, might not sit well with rational Simon.

Simon remained perfectly composed at my statements.

His silence was maddening. He was not looking at me as if I were crazed, but the silence made me nervous.

"Talk, please," I pleaded. "Have you seen the chalice picture at the hospital, and on the fountain?"

Another long, unbearable pause. I could read nothing from his expression.

"Yes," he said evenly. "I have seen it in both those places."

"The tattoo?"

Simon said nothing, but handed me a handkerchief.

"And dear G.o.d." I wiped my eyes. "Please tell me you don't think I'm crazy for having the visions. I haven't told anyone about them yet. My mother, I now think, might have seen visions too, and now that these have come to me ... I'm afraid."

"It is all right, Abbie." His voice cooled me like running water. "I do not think you crazed. In my work, I have seen very ... strange things. The human brain is still very unknown, and as a priest and physician, I see so many dimensions of the psyche. In fact, ever since that night at Dr. Bartlett's party, when I found you collapsed upstairs, I have suspected this."

"See," I said quickly. "We're all caught up in this. We have to share everything if we're going to make sense of anything."

He looked into the fire as he said quietly, "William shared some information with me, something that might shed light on these Ripper murders, and confided in me about his trip. Normally we don't speak to each other much, but to his credit, as your friend, he wanted someone working at the hospital who was also your friend to watch over you in his absence."

Suddenly Simon turned to face me, his ice-blue eyes penetrating. "He was going to tell you everything regarding his trip, our suspicions. I told him that I suspected you were having visions, and that he could tell you he was leaving, but nothing else. When he told me on the night of the double murders that you seemed to see visions, this confirmed my suspicions."

The realization swept over me and I felt stricken. Their secrecy had something to do with the visions. "They are real, then, and have something to do with why you cannot tell me more," I said. "Is my mind contaminated in some way?"

Simon looked around the library and lowered his voice to a whisper. He leaned closer to me, his breath like a brush of silk upon my temple. "There is nothing wrong with you. But we are all in danger. Not just William, but you and me, even possibly now. You must be wary of the visions. If you have any more, send me a message quickly."

"What are they?" My voice cracked.

"Be careful, Abbie, and we should not talk about this right now. Just keep in contact with me."

I hardly knew what else to say. We were silent for a few minutes. We tried to talk about the hospital-about the even heavier police presence since the recent murders. He asked about my leg; I told him it was healing well.

But the air was heavy and all of our subsequent conversation felt stifled, unnatural.

Then Simon suddenly smiled, leaning back on the sofa and focusing on the ceiling high above us. He seemed to be debating something in his head. Abruptly, he looked at me, something of mirth in his expression. "Have you picked up any of the novels in here yet?" he asked.

"No, not yet. I have not been in here before now."

"So you know nothing about the famous Chanderly library?"

"No," I said, completely unsure what was coming.

"I feel indecent doing this, but it is quite an extraordinary secret."

He stood and gestured for me to follow him to the nearest wall of the library, the wall with the fireplace.

"Have you noticed this on any of the other books?" Simon pointed to a tiny whisk of white chalk on the spine of a volume of Oliver Twist.

"No."

"Take the book off the shelf and open it."

I obeyed. My mouth dropped open at the ill.u.s.trations and photographs. I felt my face turn hot in a blush as I turned page after page, each photograph seeming more indecent than the previous one. After my initial shock, I let out a laugh. There was not a single word from Oliver Twist on any of the pages. I glanced at all the books around me and saw that many with respectable t.i.tles had the tiny white mark.

"So all of the marked books have these photographs and ... ill.u.s.trations?"

"Yes."

I couldn't believe it. I remembered my conversations with Mariah about the Chanderlys' problems, but concealed p.o.r.nography in the library seemed a bit much.

Simon continued, his voice even. "Sir Bertram has one of the largest, most extensive p.o.r.nography collections in England. Possibly in all of Great Britain. This is general knowledge in Lady Violet's society, though the women never speak of it." He smiled gently. "In terms of the unmarked books, Sir Bertram does have a spectacular array: Shakespeare, Chaucer, Jane Austen, the Brontes. You just have to be certain to check the spine. Unmarked spines are decent; marked ones are not."

I wondered out loud why sophisticated Mariah never told me about this.

"Perhaps she a.s.sumed that you already knew." Simon leaned back against the bookcase and stared at me, a curious expression upon his face. I heard the fire crackling loudly in the background.

The diversion had made me feel better, but the questions still roared in my head.

As if reading my mind, Simon said, "I will tell you more when I know more and when I know that it is safe. I have not heard from William, but if I do, I will tell you. Do not try to visit Whitechapel Hospital or go anywhere near the East End."

"What ... " Alarm coursed through me. I could not imagine giving up my work at the hospital.

"You can return to work later, but it is not ... safe for you there right now."

"Is Dr. Bartlett ... ?" The questions I had about Dr. Bartlett, his friends, and Max stayed with me.

"Dr. Bartlett knows that you're recovering from the mugger's attack. I don't want to say anything now. But I just don't think it would be wise for you to be near the hospital. Be careful everywhere, but stay near Kensington."

"I don't know how much longer I can stand this. I have to know what's going on, and I hate just sitting around here."

"It won't be much longer."

A servant entered the library to attend the fire.

"I promise."

When Simon left a few minutes later, I had a horrible feeling that much was going on around me yet I could do nothing. It was the worst sort of helplessness. One thing at a time, I told myself. First, I had to get my strength back. If I didn't do that, I would never be able to leave this house.

I tried to go to bed early that night, but everything from my conversation with Simon kept me awake. At nearly eleven o'clock, I heard Mariah's door open. She must have taken one of the back servant stairs, because when I left my bed and went to the window, I saw her leave the house with someone. Nosy about this Charles, I tried to see his face, but I couldn't.

Eventually, I fell asleep.

Sometime, not very long after, I sat up in bed, my heart pounding. The scratching noise from the attic above had woken me up. I felt tempted to peek out in the hallway, to see if the attic door was open again, but I chastised myself. The Ripper murders had made me paranoid and fearful. It was probably rats.

Another week pa.s.sed. Simon stopped by twice for tea, but each time, Grandmother and Lady Violet were there, so there was no time to talk. I had been diligent about walking around the house and climbing up and down the stairs. Because of this, my leg was almost entirely recovered.

Finally, a week later, on one of the few evenings when Sir Bertram was out, I retired to the library to look at some of the Chanderlys' "unmarked" collections. I began browsing a Shakespeare collection just as a late October storm raged outside. The wind whipped and whistled against the outside of the house while gusts screamed down the fireplace, swirling some of the ashes out onto the hearth. I walked to the fireplace and pushed the ashes back into the fire with my boot.

The instant I finished this task, I heard the library door open. It was Simon.

His voice was soft as down. "Abbie, I was only just able to leave Whitechapel, and I wanted to talk with you before another day pa.s.sed."

I turned from the fireplace and felt my insides tense at his voice. Something seemed thick in the air. Awkwardly, I stepped away from the fire's heat, my back to a bookcase.

He stopped, as if the words had become too heavy to speak.

Then, in a rush, he kissed me. My head slammed back against the books on the shelf behind me. I kissed him back, vaguely wondering if the books against my hair were marked or unmarked.

My mind turned to a summer when Mother and I had lived in Scotland. I was six years old and had wandered into a meadow behind her employers' home. The gra.s.s had been tall, nearly as tall as I was. I had felt taken by surprise when a small cloud of yellow b.u.t.terflies burst out before me. The absurdity and delight of this memory struck me.

Then, amidst the blooms of pleasure and mirth, I sensed something amiss. I knew that after this moment, for better or for worse, my friendship with Simon could never be exactly as it had before. I felt a lump in my gut, knowing that I did not love him, but I could not bring myself to pull away from his kiss.

It was Simon who ended it. He rested his forehead against my own and stroked my throat with his fingers.

"I have fought my feelings for too long," he said. "I had thought I could do without matrimony, without love. I am too busy. But we fit perfectly, Abbie, and our dedication to the profession goes hand in hand. I have every confidence that you can and will find a way to attain admission to medical school. Then we can continue to work in the Whitechapel area after you complete medical school, or we can go anywhere that you might wish."

I stared back at his handsome face, and I imagined the life he proposed to me.

It did seem perfect. Even Grandmother would approve of the match. But I could attain all that Simon suggested without his help, without marrying him. The only reason I would marry him would be if I loved him. And that was not how I felt, at least in that moment.

A crack of lightning sounded from outside. I had to give Simon an answer, but I did not want the kissing to stop.

"I cannot marry you."

"Why?"

"I don't love you. We don't know each other."

As I spoke the words, I realized the truth of what I said. There was something not quite flesh and blood about Simon. Even in that moment, he was an enigma to me.

I thought about William. I didn't really know him, either, but there was more transparency about him. Furthermore, the very fact that I thought of William during this moment with Simon helped me sort through my feelings.

"We have many years." Simon leaned in to kiss me again.

"I'm sorry, but I still say no."

"But we are so dedicated to the profession."

His words helped me pinpoint another unsettling part of the proposal. "You seem to want a companion for your work rather than a lover, a wife," I told him. "I consider you a friend-a dear friend, Simon-but I do not know you enough or love you enough to marry you. So, my answer must be no."

I hoped that my words didn't hurt him too much. His face remained expressionless. I admired him so much: he was driven and had strong character. But I simply could not accept a proposal from him, and I had to remain firm in that.