One of the stones at her eye level had gouges in the surface, the sort made by a chisel rather than by time or accident.

“The words written in paint could’ve been there ages,” Baz said. “It could be people making a point of rewriting it, a tradition or rite of passage or something.”

Gemma ran her fingers over the grooves, tracing them. A portion of one “The Tempest is coming” in blue paint crossed over the etching, atop it. Touching the carving, she followed it with her finger.

KII

“The painted words ain’t more than three years old,” she said, her hand frozen against the wall.

“How’d you twig that?” Fletcher asked from somewhere behind her.

“The man who would’ve left this mark made his churchyard journey three years ago, and the words were painted over his mark.”

Baz moved to stand beside her. “Your father’s K came first.”

She nodded. “I ain’t never seen his mark left permanently, not on a building, leastwise. Something about this spot is significant.”

“And that means it’s likely also dangerous,” Baz whispered.

She nodded.

He slipped his hand around hers, gently pulling it away from the wall. “Your father isn’t here anymore, but we are. Fletch and me, Móirín, Brogan, Stone, Hollis, Parkington, Ana, Elizabeth, Vera—”

“An extensive list, Baz,” she said with a smile. “But brown to this if you will: my uncles are still on this side of the grave. My cousins as well. They’ve people loyal to them who ain’t exactly gentle kittens.”

“You slipped from their grasp once before.” Baz kept his hand around hers.

“Your home is the first place I ever felt safe.” She took a deep breath, then stepped back, out of his arms. “But I won’t willingly return that danger to your doorstep. Less than three weeks, Baz, and you’ll be free of it.”

“What if I don’t want to be?”

He was being very gallant, insisting on yet another rescue. Dare she ask him if there was anything else underlying his question? In the moment, the fear of what she’d hear—again—overcame her hope of receiving a different answer. Her hesitation was more than that now, though. The Kincaids were searching for her. She couldn’t risk bringing them to his house. She couldn’t put his life in further danger. The sooner she was no longer part of that life, the better for him.

“Parkington will be watching Welbeck Street. The Donnellys’ flat is safe and tucked out of notice. We’ll leave things as they are until I’m out of London,” she said.

He looked disappointed. Did he have any idea how difficult he was making this?

“Are you still willing to let me come call on you?”