Chapter Thirty-Three

I jerk upright, gaze flying to where my parents had been standing moments ago. There's no one there. Just a dimly lit room… and the patter of snow against the window glass.

I follow the sound to see the snow, and to feel the chill of November and the dry heat of coal, the smell of it acrid and familiar.

I lift my hands. They're smoother, younger, and yet as familiar as my own. Because they are my own. My own in this world.

The room is silent, and that stops me dead. I'd seen Gray by my bed. Was I imagining that? I turn slowly and inhale sharply as I see him on his feet and staring at me, his expression so guarded that something in me crumples.

Yes, he'd been by my bedside, but he was just watching over a patient, and if some romantic corner of my soul hoped otherwise, here's the truth of it, in his expression, which is hardly any expression at all.

"Dun—" I swallow. "Dr. Gray."

If there was any light in his eyes, it fades now as his shoulders slump.

"Catriona," he says.

"What?" I stare at him, blinking. Then comprehension hits. "No, it's me. Mallory."

I try for a smile, but it falters as I realize the enormity of what I've done. I once took weeks to decide between two condos, knowing once I made the choice, it would be difficult to reverse. Now I've made a decision that is almost certainly irreversible, one that affects my entire life, and I just… did it. Part of me had been so certain it wouldn't work that the choice seemed more symbolic than real.

The voice in my head isn't screaming that I left my real life behind. It's screaming that I took an unbelievable leap of faith in presuming I had a life here. Presuming my home and my job were more than temporary arrangements for a stranded traveler.

I'm about to tell my hosts that I'm here for good, whether they want me or not.

I'm mired in all that fear and indecision, and all Gray says is "Mallory?" and I realize he still isn't sure it's me.

I should start spouting proof. Instead, I hear myself saying, "I came back."

He only looks at me, uncertainty lingering.

How often have I said not to trust whoever comes back? But now I'm here, and proof is easily given—I last saw you when you left me with Queen Mab, outside the vault market, with me carrying the Hand of Glory in a carpetbag.

Yet I don't want to need to prove it. I want him to look in my eyes and see me, and I know that's childish and illogical. But it's what I feel, and when he keeps looking at me as if he's not sure who has woken in this body, I want to flee.

I swing my legs off the bed, only to realize I'm wearing a nightgown and my legs don't "swing" the way I've grown used to again. I curse under my breath, and Gray goes to catch me, but I brush him off.

"I'm fine," I say. "Is Mrs. Wallace all right?"

He nods, slow, still wary.

"I need to speak to Isla," I say.

He still says nothing. Not one damn word, and that hurts more than I ever imagined silence could hurt.

What did I expect?

More than this cautious, guarded stare. The man was sitting by my damn bedside, waiting for me to wake up, and when I did, I got a single word from him.

Catriona.

With that, I realize he wasn't waiting for me to return. I get a closer look at him in the gloom, and he looks like shit, lank hair and stubbled face and a shirt that isn't even buttoned up correctly. But that's not because I was lying on my deathbed.

He has been sitting vigil against Catriona's return.

I don't think Gray had realized he was harboring a sociopath. Catriona had seemed like just another person with a criminal past that his sister was trying to help, and if she wasn't coming along as well as Alice, well, these things took time. Through me, he fully came to understand that Catriona wasn't someone they could help, that she was someone they needed to get out of their house if she ever returned.

So Gray was waiting, ready to deal with a threat to his family.

"Where's Isla?" I say, and there's more snap to my voice than I like.

"Mallory…"

"Yes, it's Mallory. If you want proof—"

"No, I just… I didn't think…" He exhales. "You are back."

"I am. Now, if you can point me—"

"I'm sorry."

I look over at him, and my heart leaps into my throat, my brain running wild at those words. He's sorry? For what? Has Isla been hurt? Did something happen?

"I know…" he begins, and then takes a deep breath. "You said you came back. I presume that means you went… home. After you were hurt."

I give a curt nod. "I did."

"Then I am sorry."

"For what?"

"That you could not stay. I know it is what you wanted, and yet somehow you found yourself back here, and I am sorry."

I shake my head. "That's not how it happened. I came back."

"You…?"

"Came back. I…"

I want to make an excuse. I came back to solve the case. I came back because, if I didn't, Selim Awad would end up on the gallows.

I want to duck and weave and avoid admitting that I came back because I wanted to. How do I say that?

I came back because I'm happy here.

I came back because I belong here.

I came back for Isla, for the investigations, for the work.

I came back for you.

I remember once when I called him a friend, he said I made such admissions sound easy. They can be, if they are straightforward enough. If they don't risk too much.

"I came back," I say simply. "There was an opportunity, and I didn't think it would work, but I made a choice."

"So you can go back and forth now? Travel from your time to ours?"

Can I? Is it possible? I push past that thought. I must commit wholeheartedly to this. "No. It… it was probably a one-way ticket. Can we talk about something else?"

He stares at me. "Something else?"

"Anything else. Please? I just want…" I stand and brush down my nightgown. "I'd like to get back to work."

"You've been unconscious for two days. You were nearly killed."

"But I wasn't. Killed, that is. I should get dressed. We have work to do."

"Mallory? You—"

"Has Selim been accused of attacking me?"

"Yes. He was spotted leaving the tunnel after your attack. You need not worry about that. Hugh is hunting for him and—"

"It wasn't Selim. You said someone spotted him leaving the tunnel? Lord Muir, right? That's who attacked me. We need to get word to Hugh—"

"Mallory, please. Sit down. Let me at least examine you. You've been unconscious—"

"For two days. Got it." I meet his gaze. "I'm moving too fast. I know that. I'm pretending everything is fine, when I've just boomeranged between times and chosen to give up everything to come back here, and that's huge. Really huge. But I can't deal with it right now, okay? To you, I've been unconscious for two days. To me, I woke up in my world, where it was only two days since I left, and my nan was still alive. I sat with her while she died. I went to her funeral. And then my parents told me they'd understand if I wanted to come back here, to maybe never see them again, and I… I did it and that's…"

I inhale sharply. "I can't deal with it, and if you force me to face all that, I'm going to be as useless as I was lying in that bed. I'm back. I'm not going anywhere. Am I fine? Hell, no, I'm absolutely not fine."

I look up at him. "But I need time to work this through, and in the meanwhile, I'd like to solve this case before Selim Awad ends up on the gallows. Okay?"

Silence. The ugly silence that tells me I've overshared. That I've made Gray uncomfortable with my honesty.

"I…" He rubs at his throat, and his gaze shifts to the side, and I'm ready to leap in and make a joke or divert however I can when he says, "I thought you were gone. Really and truly gone. I… I thought I'd lost you."

"Oh."

Shame washes over me. Yes, I've just spent four days in an emotional whirlwind. And yes, I want to lose myself by diving into work. But it's not as if Gray's been here, carrying on as usual. He's spent two days waiting to see whether I'll wake up… and if the person who wakes up is actually me.

I rub my hands over my face. "I'm sorry. Of course, you didn't know who might return, and either way, you've had an unconscious patient for two days. You need rest."

He shakes his head. "I don't. I… I know I may have seemed underwhelmed by your return, and I only wanted to be clear that I was in shock. You are back, and if this is what you chose, then while I know that will be painful, I… May I say I am happy to see you?"

My smile breaks through at the same time that my eyes fill with tears. "You may. I would give you a hug, but I know that's not done—"

He gathers me up in an embrace before I can finish, lifting me clear off the floor in a fierce hug before setting me down again.

"There," he says. "Now, while Isla and my mother would say I should insist you talk about what you have endured and what you are feeling, I do not see the point in demanding someone unburden themselves for their own good. If you wish to talk…"

"I don't. Not now. If I start, I might end up in a puddle of tears, grieving for my grandmother and also for my parents and yet relieved that I actually made it back and—"

Deep breaths as my heart speeds up. "Nope. Pull me back from the abyss, Gray. Preferably with coffee." My stomach growls. "And food. Apparently, I haven't eaten in a while. I should also speak to Isla."

"She is out, but I will get food and let the others know you are awake. Would you like me to keep them at bay?"

"For a while, please."

"Coffee and whisky? Or just coffee?"

I smile up at him. "I won't say no to whisky if the doctor recommends it."

"He does."

I'm back, and it is as if I never left. Or it is once I can fully immerse myself in the case, telling Gray what we'd seen in the papers about Selim and the theory Mom and I came up with, that whoever stole the artifacts—presumably Muir—was framing Selim by spreading word that the seller was the Egyptian brother-in-law of an archaeologist.

Once I'm lost in that, I forget that I left, and even when I remember, I'm reminded that I got to see my grandmother and tell my parents where I am, and that releases a knot I'd been holding inside for six months. I said goodbye to Nan. She doesn't think I abandoned her. Mom and Dad hadn't spent six months dealing with Catriona's treachery. All that is settled. Yet when I feel relief, guilt chases it.

I left my parents behind. Willingly left them. Their only child, gone, right when they also lost Nan. I abandoned my job and my friends and left my parents with the cleanup for a daughter they might never see again.

So, yep, it's really easier to focus on the case. I'll have to deal with the rest, but I will do so the way I dealt with first coming here. Let reality and the emotional turmoil of that reality slowly settle over me, rather than immersing myself in it.

As for someone framing Selim for the antiquity theft, McCreadie has already considered that. When I'd discussed it with Mom, I'd gotten enough distance to realize that, as tips went, the one I got from the underground-market seller was a little on-the-nose. The Selim I met was a well-educated, savvy young man. Would he steal Egyptian artifacts to repatriate? Possibly. Might he even sell the least valuable for a bit of extra cash? Possibly. He's young, and ideals don't buy a round at the pub.

But would he tell his buyers that his brother-in-law was an archaeologist? There are ways to explain where the artifacts came from and prove they're legit without basically handing the buyer a card saying, "Selim Awad, brother-in-law to Sir Alastair Christie."

What kept McCreadie from following up was the fact that, well, Selim really did seem to have stolen the artifacts. Mrs. Wallace and I were in the tunnel looking for them when he attacked us.

He wasn't just spotted by Lord Muir—McCreadie would have found that suspicious. He'd also left fresh boot prints that matched the footwear we'd taken after he was found unconscious in the tunnels after Sir Alastair's murder. Moreover, Selim isn't around to provide an alibi or explanation. Except for being spotted allegedly fleeing the tunnel, he hasn't been seen since the night after Sir Alastair's murder, when he disappeared from the house and didn't return.

"At least we know he's alive," I say as we sit in Gray's office, with coffee, whisky, and an assortment of cold meats and cheeses and bread. "The future articles say he went to trial, and they wouldn't have tried and convicted him in absentia."

"Hmm."

I think Gray's going to argue the point. Would it be possible to frame a random young Egyptian man and say it was Selim? Then I realize what he's really thinking.

"Just because Selim had survived to be hanged doesn't mean he'll stay alive now that I'm back to send the investigation after Muir," I say. "You said the police are hunting for Selim?"

"Yes, Hugh is with them, in hopes that nothing goes wrong."

By "goes wrong" he means that McCreadie will ensure that Selim is alive and well when he's arrested.

"It would be helpful to know where he was found, but all my father could locate was the crime and verdict. Digging deeper would have meant a trip to the archives. Which I suppose I should have done but…" I shrug. "My grandmother made me promise not to look up spoilers."

"Spoilers?"

I sip my coffee. "Anything that could predict the future. What eventually happens to you, Isla, Hugh… There are things I shouldn't know, and if I came back, things I shouldn't share. She did find you, though. In the history books."

"Along with my date of death, I presume, which is exactly the sort of thing she didn't want you seeing."

"Oh, don't worry. Now that I've returned, you'll die much sooner."

His eyes warm at that. "It is good to have you back, Mallory."

"Good to be back, even if it now means I'll almost certainly pay the price by dying of something easily curable in my own time. Also, since I'm apparently staying, I really need to teach Mrs. Wallace how to make a cappuccino." I peer into my cup. "At least a decent café au lait."

"Coffee and milk?"

"Can't be too hard, right? Speaking of Mrs. Wallace…" I sober. "Is she okay?"

"She suffered a blow to her head and… she has not been herself. For a few moments, I almost wondered if it was like you, that she was literally not herself. She is. She's just… distracted. When I told her you were awake, she went very quiet. She only asked if I was certain you were not Catriona. I said yes, beyond any doubt."

"I told her the truth in the tunnels. We had an… altercation."

He stiffens. "Did she threaten you?"

"No, no," I lie. "Her concern was for you and Isla and Alice. In the end, I didn't confess to save my life. I just got frustrated and said screw it. I told her the truth."

He blinks.

"Yep," I say. "Pretty sure I'll end up regretting that. I need to be more careful." Especially since I've now told someone with reason to use it against me. "It was a spur-of-the-moment bad decision."

"We will handle it," he says firmly. "I will ensure she knows that if she misuses that information, she is betraying my trust. Mine and Isla's."

"Anyway, that's when Muir knocked her out. She'd trapped me halfway backed out of a hole, so when Muir grabbed me, I figured it was her. Then I saw him. Also, for the record, he did the same thing to me that Sir Alastair's killer did. Put his foot on my back for leverage."

Gray's eyes narrow. "Making him a suspect for Sir Alastair's murder as well."

"Except Muir has confirmed alibis for the entire time the murder could have taken place. Also, framing Selim means he likely copied the murder on purpose. Would he have known how exactly Sir Alastair died?"

"I believe so, as our supposition about the method made its way into the papers."

"Damn. Okay, so he copied it to frame Selim further. Back to my attempted murder then. It seems Muir went down there to retrieve the stowed antiquities, saw Mrs. Wallace facing the other direction, knocked her out, and then…"

Gray takes a quick belt from his whisky glass. "Saw an opportunity."

"Me with my butt sticking out of a hole, easy to grab, strangle in the same manner as Sir Alastair, and then blame Selim for both deaths."

"Yes."

"Has anything else been uncovered while I was unconscious?"

"Hugh has been focused on Selim Awad, naturally, both locating him and seeking a motive for him to murder Sir Alastair. The obvious one is the stolen antiquities, yet Hugh would need to prove Selim stole them, which seems increasingly unlikely. While I was tending to you, I turned my attention to the objects found under Florence King's mattress. I do not see how they are connected but…" He shrugs as he cuts off a piece of cold ham. "I needed something to occupy my mind."

"Did you solve the cipher?"

"I did. It would, however, be more satisfying if the letter turned out to be anything of importance. It was study notes."

"Study notes? Like for Florence's exams?"

"It seems so. It was nothing more than a list of questions for self-study."

"So why write it out in a cipher?"

"That is the question. I fear, however, that the answer is simple—someone was practicing a cipher and used the study notes. As for the key, Lady Christie was kind enough to allow me to send Simon to the house, where he tested it in every lock. I fear we have stolen a key that has no use to anyone except Florence King."

"And if it turns out to be her only key to something, we're going to feel really shitty. We'll need to get it back to her once this is over. So the key and the cipher—along with Mrs. King herself—are red herrings."

His brows rise.

I take a bite of cheese before explaining, "Clues that aren't related to the case and distract us from it. If I recall correctly, the phrase comes from the strong smell of herring, which could be used to hide another scent. In this case, on the positive side, they weren't completely useless clues. Lord Muir probably intended to send us on a wild-goose chase when he accused Florence King of the murder, but without following up there, we might never have known that Lord Muir was using his leverage with Sir Alastair against the young women."

"Thus giving Sir Alastair another reason to want to sever the patronage arrangement. We—"

The front door opens. Boots click in.

"That will be Isla," Gray says. "Would you like me to speak to her?"

I hesitate. I should do it myself, but even at the thought, I want to crumple in exhaustion.

I was able to blurt everything to Gray and then ask to set it aside. Isla won't allow that. She'll want the full story, and she'll have questions. Like Gray implied earlier, to some people, if you say you don't want to talk about a difficult thing, they think you're "just saying that." You really do want to talk but need to be pushed. Or you don't want to, but you should, for your own good.

"I will speak to her," he murmurs, leaning in to lower his voice. "I will tell her what happened, and that you need time before you are ready to discuss it."

"Will she be insulted if I don't tell her myself?"

As he rises, he squeezes my shoulder, a quick but meaningful touch of reassurance. "She will not. May I bring her to see you after we've spoken?"

"Please."

"Then that will be enough."