She pointed to a cluster of brick buildings skulking along the riverbanks. We could already smell them as we turned off the bridge, the scents exacerbated by the moisture. There was a tannery somewhere in the distance, shit and piss competing to be the most overwhelming assault to the senses. We hurried along the row. The tannery stench faded but was replaced by the sharp metallic reek of old blood. Perhaps a butchery.

“All the things a city needs to survive but would rather not look at—or smell,” Mary said, stepping gingerly around a mysteriously discolored puddle. Outside one of the buildings on the corner were a couple of viciously hungry-looking men. Between them stood a middle-aged woman wearing a suggestively low-cut blouse. She was less alluring than depressing, but the purpose of the establishment was immediately clear.

“Why would Victor live out here?” asked Justine, sounding afraid as she drew closer to my side. In spite of the dreadful circumstance, relief buoyed me. We would be fine. Justine had probably already forgiven me.

Mary stepped around the prone body of a man who was almost definitely sleeping off too much drink and probably not dead, though none of us moved to check. “People come out here for any number of reasons. The city is cramped, and you can find much larger spaces here. The rent is cheaper because of the smells and the distance to the city center and university.” She shrugged. “They also come out here if they want to avoid being noticed or found.”

“Victor is not hiding from us,” I snapped. “He is a genius, and with that comes a level of carelessness about the regular maintenance of life and relationships that most people do not understand.”

“He is fortunate to have you, then. Since you understand.”

“I do.” My raised eyebrow was met with an infuriating smile.

“You might like Henry,” Justine said thoughtfully. “He is nothing like Victor. He loves stories and languages and poetry.”

I squeezed Justine’s arm. “I am certain Mary would like Henry, as everyone likes Henry.” As everyone liked Henry. With his last letter, I was certain Victor no longer did. And I did not, either. He had failed us all.

“Here we are.” Mary stopped, and Justine and I turned to look.