I stared at her open-mouthed. My sister, making threats to a ghost? Remarkable. I loved her for it.

She released her grip on the sofa and picked up her teacup. "It would seem nothing can be done before Thursday, anyway, when the peddler returns. The day after tomorrow. Until then, Mr. Beaufort." She nodded and sipped her tea. Dismissed.

He looked like he would argue but thought better of it and returned the daguerreotype to the mantelpiece. "Don’t worry, I can see myself out." He bowed to us then vanished like a bubble that's been popped. There one moment, gone the next.

I flopped back in the sofa in a most unladylike fashion. "Oh Celia, I think we've bitten off more than we can chew."

She handed me my teacup. "We'll conquer this demon, don't fret, my dear."

I hadn't been referring to the demon.

CHAPTER 3

It took me a long time to fall asleep. It was bad enough knowing there was a demon out there hiding in the many shadowy lanes of London searching out something—or someone—to eat, but it was thoughts of Jacob Beaufort that occupied my mind more. Whenever I closed my eyes I could see his bright blue ones staring back at me with unnerving intensity. Now that I was alone I could think of a thousand questions I should have asked him, each one circling my head like a carousel. Finally, when the longcase clock in the entrance hall downstairs struck three, I'd had enough. I got up and threw my shawl around my shoulders then lit a candle and padded barefoot to my writing desk. I sat and pulled a piece of paper and the inkstand closer and wrote every question down, one after the other. Except one. I re-read my list and tried to tell myself it wasn't important, I didn't need to know the answer to it.

I wasn't very good at lying, even to myself. So I gave up and wrote the question at the bottom:

Did he meet Mama in the Waiting Area?

If he answered yes to that then there were so many other follow-up questions but I put the quill down without writing them. It was enough for now.

I fell asleep quickly after that.

Much later, I awoke to the sound of the brass knocker on our front door banging. It was daytime because light edged the curtains. It wasn't bright but then the days never were in London thanks to either the smog or rain or both.

I heard Celia's voice and listened for another but no one else spoke. Perhaps I'd imagined the knocking and she was simply reciting poetry in the kitchen.

But that was as absurd as it sounded. Celia regarded poetry as a useless form of literature read only by deluded romantics.

Then I heard footsteps running up the stairs. Only one set. "Emily! Emily, are you decent?" Celia shouted. "I think he's here."

"She means me," came Jacob's voice from just outside my bedroom door.