infinitely more precious to her, another loss that she could not afford.
She dragged the wooden locking box out from under the bed.
From the candle compartment she took what she was looking for: a small packet of paper. She opened it, and gazed at the tiny curl of dark brown hair there. She had retained just a strand or two, for she wanted some always before her eyes so that she would not forget the colour. She had given the larger lock of hair up for setting; it had been in Mr Renard’s possession, and now she feared it was lost. She folded up the packet and kissed it, stifling the sob which had taken hold of her throat. She had no time to grieve, not now. She must go back to Harriet, and behave as though everything was normal.
She went to her window and looked out over Berkeley Square, trying to think herself out of sorrow, and the view did offer some relief. She had waited for snow for a long time, and now it was getting colder, she had the hope of it. Disciplining her focus, she imagined Berkeley Square blanketed in white, the young trees bowing with snow, the black prints of animals and early risers criss-crossing it. There will be beauty, she thought, for the snow made everything new, transforming dirt into purity and muffling the harsh noises of the city. The places she had long grown tired of seeing would seem lit up by some internal light, redeemed by the silent fall of snowflakes.
Without thinking, her arms formed a cradle against her chest, and she looked down upon the face of an imaginary baby, her right thumb stroking the cheek. ‘Maybe there will be a Frost Fair, my love,’ she said, out loud, then caught herself. But she only felt foolish for a moment. What did it matter if she spoke out loud, in an empty room?
As Digby emerged from the pawnbroker’s shop he told himself it was impossible that anyone could have followed him. The place was so hidden in the maze of alleyways off the Strand that he would be hard-pressed to find it again. So disturbed was he that he even passed a tavern without pausing, keeping his eyes on the ground and pushing forwards to the main thoroughfare. He wanted a drink, and badly, but he also wanted to find his way out of this place, the light falling like mist into the dark and polluted air. If he felt guilty, he didn’t want to admit it.
The pawnbroker had a tiny room, with a barred window, and a few meagre trays of seals and rings set out there. It seemed strange to Digby that the man even bothered with those trays, for surely to find him you would have to know where he dwelt. You wouldn’t simply pass by such a place. The man, his eyeglass permanently held in his eye socket with a spasm-like squint, had looked over the seals and the small gold pendant with its lock of hair set under crystal. Then he had dropped the eyeglass from his eye and caught it in one smooth movement. When he first named a price Digby didn’t hear him; he was too busy looking at the man’s face, disliking the cynical expression there, the one raised eyebrow.
He hit the Strand. His hand was clenched around the watch; he was stewing it with his own sweat. He let go, feeling its weight in the depths of his pocket, thinking perhaps the heat and moisture would hurt the precious thing in some way. He had meant to lay it on the table, for the man would have given him such a price for it. He had half-relished the idea of seeing the man’s expression at that. Such a masterwork would never have ordinarily found its way into this back alleyway full of greasy brooches and rings. But when the moment had come, he had not done it. There was the doubt, after all – if the pawnbroker had seen the handbills circulated by Taylor telling of the watch’s theft, Digby could not count on the man’s dishonesty to save him. Before he had left his room, he had separated off Renard’s seals and pendants in his other pocket, making them easy to hand over separately, so now he wondered whether he had ever meant to do it
She dragged the wooden locking box out from under the bed.
From the candle compartment she took what she was looking for: a small packet of paper. She opened it, and gazed at the tiny curl of dark brown hair there. She had retained just a strand or two, for she wanted some always before her eyes so that she would not forget the colour. She had given the larger lock of hair up for setting; it had been in Mr Renard’s possession, and now she feared it was lost. She folded up the packet and kissed it, stifling the sob which had taken hold of her throat. She had no time to grieve, not now. She must go back to Harriet, and behave as though everything was normal.
She went to her window and looked out over Berkeley Square, trying to think herself out of sorrow, and the view did offer some relief. She had waited for snow for a long time, and now it was getting colder, she had the hope of it. Disciplining her focus, she imagined Berkeley Square blanketed in white, the young trees bowing with snow, the black prints of animals and early risers criss-crossing it. There will be beauty, she thought, for the snow made everything new, transforming dirt into purity and muffling the harsh noises of the city. The places she had long grown tired of seeing would seem lit up by some internal light, redeemed by the silent fall of snowflakes.
Without thinking, her arms formed a cradle against her chest, and she looked down upon the face of an imaginary baby, her right thumb stroking the cheek. ‘Maybe there will be a Frost Fair, my love,’ she said, out loud, then caught herself. But she only felt foolish for a moment. What did it matter if she spoke out loud, in an empty room?
As Digby emerged from the pawnbroker’s shop he told himself it was impossible that anyone could have followed him. The place was so hidden in the maze of alleyways off the Strand that he would be hard-pressed to find it again. So disturbed was he that he even passed a tavern without pausing, keeping his eyes on the ground and pushing forwards to the main thoroughfare. He wanted a drink, and badly, but he also wanted to find his way out of this place, the light falling like mist into the dark and polluted air. If he felt guilty, he didn’t want to admit it.
The pawnbroker had a tiny room, with a barred window, and a few meagre trays of seals and rings set out there. It seemed strange to Digby that the man even bothered with those trays, for surely to find him you would have to know where he dwelt. You wouldn’t simply pass by such a place. The man, his eyeglass permanently held in his eye socket with a spasm-like squint, had looked over the seals and the small gold pendant with its lock of hair set under crystal. Then he had dropped the eyeglass from his eye and caught it in one smooth movement. When he first named a price Digby didn’t hear him; he was too busy looking at the man’s face, disliking the cynical expression there, the one raised eyebrow.
He hit the Strand. His hand was clenched around the watch; he was stewing it with his own sweat. He let go, feeling its weight in the depths of his pocket, thinking perhaps the heat and moisture would hurt the precious thing in some way. He had meant to lay it on the table, for the man would have given him such a price for it. He had half-relished the idea of seeing the man’s expression at that. Such a masterwork would never have ordinarily found its way into this back alleyway full of greasy brooches and rings. But when the moment had come, he had not done it. There was the doubt, after all – if the pawnbroker had seen the handbills circulated by Taylor telling of the watch’s theft, Digby could not count on the man’s dishonesty to save him. Before he had left his room, he had separated off Renard’s seals and pendants in his other pocket, making them easy to hand over separately, so now he wondered whether he had ever meant to do it
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