until Daniel could dance no more, and he went to the edge of the room to catch his breath. Ellie showed no signs of stopping; she hadn’t left the dance floor all evening, and it seemed to Daniel that this was the happiest he’d seen her look.
A waiter passed by, offering him a goblet.
“What is it?” he asked, trying not to be too distracted by the fact he could see through the waiter.
“Pumpkin mead.”
Daniel took a goblet and sipped the liquid. It warmed his insides, like drinking the memory of an autumn night sat by the bonfire. He had drained the last drop from the glass whenhe turned and clipped the arm of an extremely tall man in a charcoal suit, dropping his goblet with a clatter.
“I’m sorry,” said Daniel, but when he straightened up, the man was already gone.
***
Mr Silver walked the far side of the ballroom, sips of pumpkin mead warming him as he watched his daughter watching everyone else. He cut through circles of chattering guests, dodging waltzing couples, catching snippets of stolen conversation.
He smiled as he passed Caleb, who had cornered several guests from the outside world: “Tell me: is it true that the moon out there is made from cheese? And if so, what sort of cheese? Nothing too crumbly or runny, I’ll bet…”
Silver stopped and finished his mead, glancing up at the chandelier high above.
Something in the corner of his eye bothered him.
He turned his head.
Everything – the music and the chatter, the graceful movement of the dancing guests, the waiters and the gleaming chandelier – seemed to stop.
Mr Silver’s grey eyes fixed upon the blue eyes of the man striding through the crowd towards him. He recognised him at once.
As Vindictus Sharpe approached, he removed his bowler hat, stopping so close to Silver that their chests almost touched. The air crackled and sparked around them.
Mr Silver’s face was as colourless as one of his ghostly waiters. His mouth was shut tight, his expression frozen, unreadable.
“You are a difficult man to find, Lucien,” said Sharpe.
“I do my best,” Mr Silver whispered.
Sharpe’s mouth curled into something that might have been a smile, and might have been a sneer. He leaned in slowly, deliberately, and whispered something in Mr Silver’s ear. Then he straightened up once more. He waited.
At first, Mr Silver did nothing but look at the floor. When he raised his head at last, his face was heavy with sadness.
He managed a slow nod.
Sharpe offered a handshake.
When their hands touched, lights around the hall began to flicker. A few bulbs blew out, spitting shards of glass among the feet of the guests, who gasped and shrieked and laughed, believing it to be part of the entertainment.
A flash of white teeth from Sharpe, and he turned and began to walk away through the crowd.
Mr Silver watched him as he left the ballroom, standing frozen among the sea of sparkling dancers.
CHAPTER 18
A PARTING OF WAYS
Edinburgh, May
1890
Raindrops the size of marbles pelted the fine oak coffin as it was lowered into the soil on an unseasonably cold Edinburgh spring day.
News of Birdie’s passing had taken flight, crossing oceans and continents, and many of the entertainers with whom she had worked over the years had come to pay their respects, shivering together beneath a canopy of black umbrellas.
Lucien Silver stood near the mouth of the grave and listened as the minister delivered Birdie’s eulogy. Vindictus Sharpe stood at Lucien’s side, tall and dark and silent as a shadow. Neither acknowledged the presence of the other.
When the funeral was over, mourners began to filter away towards the shelter of waiting carriages. Lucien stayed by the graveside while Sharpe shook hands and exchanged brief words with a number of guests. When the last of the mourners was gone, he walked back up the hill.
They stood in silence for a time.
Sharpe turned his head, though not enough to make eye contact.
“Your services are no longer
A waiter passed by, offering him a goblet.
“What is it?” he asked, trying not to be too distracted by the fact he could see through the waiter.
“Pumpkin mead.”
Daniel took a goblet and sipped the liquid. It warmed his insides, like drinking the memory of an autumn night sat by the bonfire. He had drained the last drop from the glass whenhe turned and clipped the arm of an extremely tall man in a charcoal suit, dropping his goblet with a clatter.
“I’m sorry,” said Daniel, but when he straightened up, the man was already gone.
***
Mr Silver walked the far side of the ballroom, sips of pumpkin mead warming him as he watched his daughter watching everyone else. He cut through circles of chattering guests, dodging waltzing couples, catching snippets of stolen conversation.
He smiled as he passed Caleb, who had cornered several guests from the outside world: “Tell me: is it true that the moon out there is made from cheese? And if so, what sort of cheese? Nothing too crumbly or runny, I’ll bet…”
Silver stopped and finished his mead, glancing up at the chandelier high above.
Something in the corner of his eye bothered him.
He turned his head.
Everything – the music and the chatter, the graceful movement of the dancing guests, the waiters and the gleaming chandelier – seemed to stop.
Mr Silver’s grey eyes fixed upon the blue eyes of the man striding through the crowd towards him. He recognised him at once.
As Vindictus Sharpe approached, he removed his bowler hat, stopping so close to Silver that their chests almost touched. The air crackled and sparked around them.
Mr Silver’s face was as colourless as one of his ghostly waiters. His mouth was shut tight, his expression frozen, unreadable.
“You are a difficult man to find, Lucien,” said Sharpe.
“I do my best,” Mr Silver whispered.
Sharpe’s mouth curled into something that might have been a smile, and might have been a sneer. He leaned in slowly, deliberately, and whispered something in Mr Silver’s ear. Then he straightened up once more. He waited.
At first, Mr Silver did nothing but look at the floor. When he raised his head at last, his face was heavy with sadness.
He managed a slow nod.
Sharpe offered a handshake.
When their hands touched, lights around the hall began to flicker. A few bulbs blew out, spitting shards of glass among the feet of the guests, who gasped and shrieked and laughed, believing it to be part of the entertainment.
A flash of white teeth from Sharpe, and he turned and began to walk away through the crowd.
Mr Silver watched him as he left the ballroom, standing frozen among the sea of sparkling dancers.
CHAPTER 18
A PARTING OF WAYS
Edinburgh, May
1890
Raindrops the size of marbles pelted the fine oak coffin as it was lowered into the soil on an unseasonably cold Edinburgh spring day.
News of Birdie’s passing had taken flight, crossing oceans and continents, and many of the entertainers with whom she had worked over the years had come to pay their respects, shivering together beneath a canopy of black umbrellas.
Lucien Silver stood near the mouth of the grave and listened as the minister delivered Birdie’s eulogy. Vindictus Sharpe stood at Lucien’s side, tall and dark and silent as a shadow. Neither acknowledged the presence of the other.
When the funeral was over, mourners began to filter away towards the shelter of waiting carriages. Lucien stayed by the graveside while Sharpe shook hands and exchanged brief words with a number of guests. When the last of the mourners was gone, he walked back up the hill.
They stood in silence for a time.
Sharpe turned his head, though not enough to make eye contact.
“Your services are no longer
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