While sitting on the bench outside the library, I pulled my notebook out of my bag, but I flipped backward, past the notes about the apothecary, to the first page. I reread the original, planned itinerary with James. My handwriting from weeks earlier was loopy and whimsical, interspersed with miniature hearts. Only a few days ago, this itinerary had left me nauseated, and I’d had no desire to see the sights that James and I meant to experience together. Now, I found myself curious about all the places I’d waited so long to see: the Tower of London, the V&A Museum, Westminster. The idea of visiting these places by myself wasn’t as distasteful as it was a few days ago, and I found myself eager to explore. Besides, I felt sure Gaynor would be happy to join me on a few outings.

But visiting a museum could wait until tomorrow. There was something else I needed to do today.

I took the Underground from the library to Blackfriars station. As I exited the train, I headed east toward Millennium Bridge, strolling along the narrow riverfront walkway. The river, to my right, rolled calmly along its well-worn path.

I followed along the knee-high stone wall for some time, then I spotted the concrete steps leading to the river. They were the same steps I’d taken a few days earlier, just before the mudlarking tour. I made my way down them, then stepped carefully over the smooth, round stones along the river. The silence struck me, as it did my first time here. I was grateful to see that there were no people milling about on the rocks—no sightseers, no children, no tour groups.

Opening my bag, I pulled out the light blue vial; the one, I now knew, which had contained Eliza’s magic tincture. It had rescued her, and in some strange way, it had done the same for me. According to the apothecary’s register, the contents of this vial two hundred years ago had been ingredients unknown. The unknown had once been an unpleasant concept to me, but I realized now the opportunity in it. The excitement in it. Clearly, it had been the same for Eliza.

For both of us, the vial marked the end of one quest and the beginning of another; it represented a crossroads, the abandonment of secrets and pain in favor of embracing the truth—in favor of embracing magic. Magic, with its enchanting, irresistible appeal, just like a fairy tale.

The vial looked exactly as it had when I’d found it, albeit a bit cleaner and smudged with my own fingerprints. I traced the bear with my thumbnail, thinking of all the vial had taught me: that the hardest truths never rest on the surface. They must be dredged up, held to the light and rinsed clean.