Jamie,

I never thought to write such a letter as this to you, my dearest friend, but I hope that when it finds you, you are happy. By now you will know that Cordelia and I have gone to Paris. This was not a lightly considered decision. Though I knew what you and Cordelia have was not a real marriage, I had sworn that I would respect it, and respect also what seemed to me the clear possibility that, being Daisy’s husband, you would fall in love with her.

I understand now that you will not be happy unless you are with Miss Blackthorn. I know that you promised Daisy that you would stay away from Grace, and it seems that you cannot, which bespeaks how much you must love her. Cordelia is proud. You know that as well as I do. She would tell herself she must endure the situation, but I love her, and I cannot bear to see her suffer for the next year. I hope you will forgive me—I think you will forgive me. You must see that in the situation we have now, there are four unhappy people. Surely you, too, wish that were not the case. Surely you care for Daisy even if you do not love her, and want her to be happy. And surely you will forgive me for keeping the secret of my feelings for her from you—I had never meant to speak of them to anyone, before tonight.

You’ve always laughed at my idea that Paris is a place of magical healing, but I believe that after some time there Cordelia will smile again, and that then we three will be able to decide the best course of action, without bitterness and sorrow.

Yours,

Matthew

James wanted to throttle Matthew. He also wanted to spill out the whole story of the bracelet to him, to beg his forgiveness for everything he had not noticed for all these years, for the fog that had clung to his every emotion, his every thought, blunting them all. Matthew needed so much, and James had not been there to provide it.

“I’ll get out here,” he yelled to the cabbie, thrusting some money in his direction. He scrambled out of the cab into a sea of Londoners heading up the short hill to the grand arch of Waterloo Station’s main entrance; outside was a crush of carriages and hansoms, unloading passengers and luggage for the overnight trains.

Inside, the massive train station was absolutely heaving with people, the hubbub from the crowds and the trains deafening. Pushing through the crowd, James narrowly missed being crushed by three small boys in Eton uniforms with an enormous trunk on wheels.

“Mind the gentleman!” said a passing porter crossly. “Need help, sir? Any luggage?”