He cleared his throat. “My thought is to blend in with the gin shop across the road.” He lifted his chin in the direction of Maiden Lane. The shop indicated was packed with patrons, some of whom staggered in a drunken dance or lolled upon the pavement drinking from flagons like the one I held. A few men and women were even locked in louche embraces.

“We will be just another couple of loose fish out to get foxed,” he added.

“I have never tried gin,” I said, and lifted the heavy flagon, glad to have something to focus on other than his lips and the strong traceable line of his stubbled jaw. “I have heard it is quite rough.”

“They call it blue ruin for a reason,” Evan said. “But do not worry. I filled that with lemonade. We need all our faculties and focus.”

Indeed.

He gestured to the recessed doorway of a bookseller, dried brown leaves banked up against the entrance and the display windows on either side shuttered. “Our lookout for the night.”

I sat down on the tiled entrance—the blue and terra-cotta design cracked and worn by decades of foot traffic—and leaned my back against the locked door. Evan sat beside me, our long legs crooked at the same angle.

So close together.

Part of me wanted to press my thigh against his and feel the warmth and solid muscle of his body. A question—an invitation, in truth—I never thought I would ask a man. Yet in my mind I saw the stark image of that couple against the wall. So naked, so primal. Could I ever expose myself in such a way? This forty-two-year-old body with its ungainly limbs, and flesh no longer plump and firm with youth. What if it was too old, too ungainly? What if it was too late? I slid my leg down, stretching it out straight. No, I could not ask the question. Not yet, anyway. Besides, we were not Gus and Evan, but two fellows sharing a quart of gin.

We had a good view of number 2 Bedford Street. It was at the start of the narrower end of the street, which a town carriage could not fit through; anyone arriving would either do so on foot or be dropped at the corner of Maiden Lane, or Chandos Street at the other end.

I lifted the flagon and took a swig of lemonade. Surprisingly good: tart and sweet at the same time.

“Has anyone entered the house yet?” I asked, passing the flagon to Evan.

“Not so far.” He took a mouthful, wincing at the sour aftertaste.

And so began our watch.