“Very smart! What would I do without you?” I beamed at her to let her know she was handling this all quite well. I dug a few banknotes out of my purse, my last remaining address cards falling onto the wet steps beneath us. I did not bother to pick them up; the ink would run and stain the silk lining of my bag.

“We will hurry,” Mary said.

I waved at them until they turned toward the bridge. Then I shut the door and locked it once more, not wanting unexpected visitors. I checked on Victor again; he had not moved. His breathing was shallow but steady and unlabored. I drew down the blankets farther. He was wearing breeches and a shirt, as though he had collapsed in the midst of working. He even had shoes on, scuffed and unshined.

I sat next to his head, looking down at him. He was thinner, paler. Judging by the length of his sleeves, he had grown, too. And not purchased new clothes for his changed frame. I wet a cloth that did not smell moldy, then put it over his forehead and sighed. “Look what happens when you are alone. Look how much you need me.”

He stirred, eyes fluttering open but wild and unseeing. “Do not—” he croaked.

“Do not what?” I leaned close to his face.

“Henry. Oh, Henry. Do not tell Elizabeth.”

He was delirious, then. He thought I was Henry, and he did not want Henry to tell me something. He had shifted on the bed, revealing a metal object beneath himself. I eased it free. It was a key, perhaps to the front door. I slipped it into my purse.

“Of course,” I said. “It will be our secret. What should I not tell her, though?”

“It worked.” He closed his eyes, shoulders shaking. I could not say for certain, but I thought he was weeping. I had never seen him cry. Not even when his mother died. Not even when he thought I was going to die. Victor did not cry; he raged. Or, worse, he did not react at all. What could make him cry? “It worked. And it was terrible.”

He settled back into unconsciousness. The only noise was the insistent tap of water dripping on the ceiling, like the knocking of a stranger demanding to be let in.

I looked up. What had worked?

Leaving Victor, I went back to the entry and pondered the ladder. I put out a hand to touch the rough wood. My fingers trembled, then curled in on themselves, away from the rung. I had always considered myself brave. There were not many things that made me squeamish or that I was afraid to face. But my flesh recoiled at the thought of climbing up that ladder. It knew why before my mind fully processed it.

Then I realized:

The smell.