“Finally? It—It’s only seven o’clock, and it is not yet light out.”

She shook her head as if it were a great shame. “You missed absolutely everything.”

He had always enjoyed her whimsy, though he’d not always understood it. “Did I?”

“You did, indeed.” With a theatrical drop, she laid herself on the sofa. She pressed the back of her hand to her forehead, striking a pose even the most dramatic characters in Mr. King’s penny dreadfuls would be hard-pressed to match. “A cat snatched itself a dead bird and went on parade outside the kitchen door. Meowed proudly for a full quarter hour, it did. You’d’ve thought it were the very king of tomcats rather than a coldhearted bird murderer.”

He couldn’t hold back the smile, just as he couldn’t remember the last time such a smile had come so easily to him. “You haven’t changed, Gemma.”

In a quiet voice, she answered, “If only that were true.”

He wasn’t certain if she was speaking to herself or to him, but the sudden heaviness in her tone worried him. “Is something the—the matter?”

She hopped up with her usual vigor and energy. “Of course not.”

Gemma crossed to sit in the chair across from his. She propped her elbow, almost visible through the worn fabric of her sleeve, on the tabletop, then rested her chin on her upturned fist. Her gray eyes danced with life and amusement.

“What jig are you dancing today?” she asked. “Doctoring or rescuing?”

“You seem quite convinced that I still undertake rescues.”

She smiled, clearly not the least fooled by his misdirection. “I ain’t the only one who’s not changed, Baz.”

He dipped his head in acknowledgment. “Today is a rescuing day . . . of sorts. Some of my fellow authors and I have started an organization, the Charitable Authors League of London. We bring food and supplies and other things to people who are in need.”

“While still hampering the plans of the madams and macks of London.” She shook her head, still smiling. “Don’t you ever sleep?”

He chuckled quietly. “Not as much as I should.”

Talking to her had always been easier for him than talking with others, though he did stumble about for words now and then. They knew so much of each other’s history. So many of the things they usually kept hidden from others, they’d not needed to hide from each other. He knew about her family, where they came from, what they did. She knew his mother had lived her life trapped by the very sorts of people he’d dedicated himself to thwarting.

Her eyes settled on the parchment in front of him. “Is this your latest tale?”

“Yes. My publisher is hoping I’ll have this installment finished soon.”

“I’ve not yet read your newest story. I’m hoping to, though.”