“Good, my dear. He needs a magician such as you beside him.”

A creak on the steps caught my attention. Phelan was descending the stairwell, drawn by the sound of my laughter. But he stopped when I looked up at him, and he seemed hung by uncertainty, to see me standing in his foyer. He had changed since our meeting earlier. His clothes were, once again, finely tailored and cut from the latest fashion, and his hair was damp, tamed by a ribbon. I could smell his aftershave from where I stood—a medley of pine and meadow grass, a fragrance that instantly stirred my homesickness—and I had to distract myself with my own raiment. I had chosen to wear the same clothes from before and had ensured they were wrinkled, and that my hair was unbrushed and loose, tangled down my back. I was quite disheveled in comparison to him, but it was deliberate.

I cast a bet as to how long it would take him to begin purchasing new garments for me. It was my intention to steal from his coffer, bit by bit, without him even realizing it. Just as he had stolen my home and livelihood. Just as he had made me pack up everything in a whirlwind with hardly a day to grieve over what I had lost.

“Miss Neven,” Phelan said, and continued his descent. “Welcome. I do hope you’re hungry. Mrs. Stirling has cooked all afternoon to impress you.”

“Then she is in luck,” I said, glancing at her. “I don’t remember the last meal I ate.”

“Oh, dear child! I have plenty for you, then, but I need to return to the kitchen. Phelan? Why don’t you give her a tour, and then bring our guest into the dining room.”

“Of course, Mrs. Stirling,” he said.

We watched as she hurried down the hallway, and then I glanced sidelong at Phelan.

“Is this your house, or hers?”

That coaxed a slight grin from him. “It’s mine by law, but it answers to her, I think.” He noticed my clothes, wrinkled and gilded in dust, and the long snarls in my hair. I waited for him to say something about it—add another mark against him in my ledger—but he managed to quell his objection and said in a pleasant tone, “Come, Miss Neven. Let me show you around.”

I followed him into the drawing room, a wide chamber with wainscoting and striped wallpaper, a plush rug that swallowed footsteps, a marble hearth, and an assortment of furniture. The tang of lemon haunted the air, as if Mrs. Stirling had just polished all the wood.