Chapter 1
London, 1880
After Woolver’s death, Giles took to the streets at night. A gentleman could stay awake through the long night and stare at nothing through longer days—and hear no complaints about his strange habits.
He had nothing important to do with himself except sort through his dead friend’s affairs and offer comfort to the young widow left behind. The widow, only six months married, seemed almost indifferent to her husband’s death, so Giles usually avoided that task laid upon him by Wool. The rest he did methodically and with care.
He had to go through those papers and accounts, in honor of Woolver, dead too young. Wool, the only person Giles had ever loved. Wool, who’d abandoned Giles to fulfill his duty and marry a girl his parents had picked years ago. Wool, who’d killed himself exactly one year after he said good-bye to Giles.
Wool.
The loss plagued Giles during the day and woke him up at night. Each time the truth of Wool’s stupid death hit, it opened him as if he’d been slashed by a knife, and he had to move to avoid the pain.
Thankfully no one, not even the men he saw each day at one of his two clubs, appeared to suspect his deep sorrow. He blamed his paleness and lack of appetite on illness. Conversation carried on as usual—no dropped voices when he passed—so he assumed he had them all convinced.
With time, the stabbing pain turned into a heavy ache, but he’d lost the habit of sleep and he still had no interest in pretending to be jolly. And on occasion he still felt too restless to remain still.
He promised himself he would abandon the indulgence of secret mourning on the second anniversary marking Woolver’s farewell, the first anniversary of his death.
That day in April, Giles started awake at four in the morning—as usual.
The soft light of a streetlamp across the lane filtered through the curtains so he could see the dim shapes of his bedroom. Giles stared at the ceiling, at the humps formed by the overstuffed chairs in the corner, then turned to stare at the reflection in the mirror—and he knew sleep had abandoned him again. Tears threatened and he was heartily sick of them; he got out of the bed, determined to outrun his internal storm.
Giles yanked on his clothes and bounded down the stairs. He didn’t have to sneak about for the servants’ sakes. The butler, housekeeper, cook, three maids, and valet who slept under his roof had learned to sleep through his restlessness.
Still, he closed the front door softly behind him. No need to wake the innocent. He paused at the doorstep and drew in a long breath.
Concentrate on this moment alone.
If he could not think of the past without sorrow or the future without dreary dismay, then he must exist in the moment.
He’d grabbed an overcoat only to hide his lack of tie and collar, for he’d been too impatient to arrange the details of his dress, but he was glad for its warmth. The night air was frosty but almost refreshing and held a hint of early spring. This time of night, the air smelled of damp earth, horse manure with a trace of the ubiquitous dirty coal and dustbins. The only light came from the three lamps burning along his street and the very faint gray distant lights from the rest of the city.
Instead of his usual frantic walk about the empty streets, he decided to concentrate. He would distinguish every sense open to him—although, perhaps not taste. He balked at licking the columns at either side of his door.
That faint bit of humor made him smile.
He lowered himself to the cold granite step and leaned against the elaborate wrought-iron handrail. Closing his eyes, he listened so hard his ears seemed to pick up the faint swish of his own heartbeat.
I am alive.
It has been two years without Wool, but I am still alive.
The thought gave him no particular joy, but it was a nice change from misery.
He listened. The city slept, and not even early morning servants or milkmen stirred. A far away clop of
London, 1880
After Woolver’s death, Giles took to the streets at night. A gentleman could stay awake through the long night and stare at nothing through longer days—and hear no complaints about his strange habits.
He had nothing important to do with himself except sort through his dead friend’s affairs and offer comfort to the young widow left behind. The widow, only six months married, seemed almost indifferent to her husband’s death, so Giles usually avoided that task laid upon him by Wool. The rest he did methodically and with care.
He had to go through those papers and accounts, in honor of Woolver, dead too young. Wool, the only person Giles had ever loved. Wool, who’d abandoned Giles to fulfill his duty and marry a girl his parents had picked years ago. Wool, who’d killed himself exactly one year after he said good-bye to Giles.
Wool.
The loss plagued Giles during the day and woke him up at night. Each time the truth of Wool’s stupid death hit, it opened him as if he’d been slashed by a knife, and he had to move to avoid the pain.
Thankfully no one, not even the men he saw each day at one of his two clubs, appeared to suspect his deep sorrow. He blamed his paleness and lack of appetite on illness. Conversation carried on as usual—no dropped voices when he passed—so he assumed he had them all convinced.
With time, the stabbing pain turned into a heavy ache, but he’d lost the habit of sleep and he still had no interest in pretending to be jolly. And on occasion he still felt too restless to remain still.
He promised himself he would abandon the indulgence of secret mourning on the second anniversary marking Woolver’s farewell, the first anniversary of his death.
That day in April, Giles started awake at four in the morning—as usual.
The soft light of a streetlamp across the lane filtered through the curtains so he could see the dim shapes of his bedroom. Giles stared at the ceiling, at the humps formed by the overstuffed chairs in the corner, then turned to stare at the reflection in the mirror—and he knew sleep had abandoned him again. Tears threatened and he was heartily sick of them; he got out of the bed, determined to outrun his internal storm.
Giles yanked on his clothes and bounded down the stairs. He didn’t have to sneak about for the servants’ sakes. The butler, housekeeper, cook, three maids, and valet who slept under his roof had learned to sleep through his restlessness.
Still, he closed the front door softly behind him. No need to wake the innocent. He paused at the doorstep and drew in a long breath.
Concentrate on this moment alone.
If he could not think of the past without sorrow or the future without dreary dismay, then he must exist in the moment.
He’d grabbed an overcoat only to hide his lack of tie and collar, for he’d been too impatient to arrange the details of his dress, but he was glad for its warmth. The night air was frosty but almost refreshing and held a hint of early spring. This time of night, the air smelled of damp earth, horse manure with a trace of the ubiquitous dirty coal and dustbins. The only light came from the three lamps burning along his street and the very faint gray distant lights from the rest of the city.
Instead of his usual frantic walk about the empty streets, he decided to concentrate. He would distinguish every sense open to him—although, perhaps not taste. He balked at licking the columns at either side of his door.
That faint bit of humor made him smile.
He lowered himself to the cold granite step and leaned against the elaborate wrought-iron handrail. Closing his eyes, he listened so hard his ears seemed to pick up the faint swish of his own heartbeat.
I am alive.
It has been two years without Wool, but I am still alive.
The thought gave him no particular joy, but it was a nice change from misery.
He listened. The city slept, and not even early morning servants or milkmen stirred. A far away clop of
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