Chapter Eighteen

P eter wrapped his arms around his knees, trying to take up as little space as possible on the filthy, straw-stuffed pad of the prison cell. The air was damp and cold and smelled of rot, and the walls were streaked with grime. There were no windows, just a dim, perpetual twilight, so that Peter couldn't be sure if it was day or night. From the corner, he heard the unmistakable scuffling of a rat's tiny, delicate feet.

Peter rested his forehead against his knees and closed his eyes. Once a constable had arrived at the townhouse and seen the wealthy owner nursing a bloody lip, Peter had been hauled up and marched directly to jail. He had only the clothes on his back, which bore a collection of fragrant stains, and no way of knowing if he would ever be let back in to collect the rest of his things. Worse, he didn't care. He felt numb, staggered by the enormity of what he'd lost. And beyond that, the hint that the real scope of the tragedy, and its implications for the rest of his life, had not yet begun to register.

Peter sat for countless hours and was just dozing when the door to the cell opened with a clang. He jerked his head up to find a guard standing in the entryway, a bored expression barely discernable on his shadowy face.

"You've been released." The man shifted impatiently and gestured at Peter with a wave of his hand. Peter scrabbled up from the straw pad, pausing for a moment to make sure his legs would hold him. He limped past the guard, who slammed the iron door behind him. There was a little gray light at the end of the hall, and Peter made his way toward it, tugging his coat around him as he passed through the entrance to the prison and out into the street.

Outside, Peter shivered. It was the hour before dawn; London was sunk in fog and gloom, the yellow glow of streetlamps bleeding through the mist and reflecting off the wet cobblestones. The air was chilly, but he swallowed it gratefully, filling his lungs with cool, crisp draughts. He was considering which direction to take when he saw a figure in a dark cloak standing just a few yards away. The hood of the cloak was pulled low, obscuring the wearer's face. Peter approached, and when he neared, the figure raised pale hands and slipped off the hood. It was Heloise, her face shining like the moon in the lamplight.

Peter had been sure that he would never see her again. Being with her now felt like a priceless gift, and also not nearly enough. He stood before her, drinking in her lovely face like a man dying of thirst. Then he heard the snort and stomp of an impatient horse. He squinted into the gloom and made out the bulky shape of a wagon waiting ready in the street. It was loaded to the brim with crates, secured with a tarp, and two black horses stood breathing steam into the air.

Heloise followed his gaze. "I'm traveling."

"Where?" There was too much to say, so he only asked the most obvious question.

"I'd like to visit the countryside. Hampshire, perhaps, or Derbyshire. After that…," she shrugged, her cloak shifting like rippling water. "Italy? Greece?"

"You're leaving England?"

"I've seen so little of the world. It didn't used to bother me. But now, I find I've a taste for new experiences. So, I packed my things." Heloise nodded to the wagon, and the crates which Peter suspected held a great many books. She turned back to him, and there was no anger in her face, or recrimination. She looked a little sad, but her brown eyes were bright and resolute. When he only stared at her, mouth parted like a fool, she closed the distance between them.

"Here." She withdrew a piece of paper from a hidden pocket in her cloak. Peter took it and saw it was a bank note written out for a ludicrous sum. "Your salary for the year." Her other hand emerged holding a book. He ran his thumb over the gold lettering on the spine.

" Summa Logicae ," he read aloud.

"I saw that you admired it." Heloise pushed it into his hands, and Peter felt something crack open in his chest. He gripped the little book, emotion prickling in his throat.

Heloise straightened her shoulders and met his gaze. "I didn't care for the way we parted. Before I left, I wanted to thank you for the lessons." She cleared her throat, and Peter could see she was fighting for composure. "I learned more than I expected. Thank you for your time, and your patience, and—"

"For Christ's sake! Stop thanking me and say you'll take me with you."