The aroma of her ginger tea is pleasantly warm. She has not drunk it in a while, but she remembers now it was always her sister’s favourite. That kick of spice, just like the woman herself. Simon has ordered coffee, proving that physicians never follow their own advice. To be fair, he looks as if he requires a whole vat of the liquid. Despite his attempts to dress smartly and oil the remains of his hair, Agnes can see his fatigue. In the moment he pauses to lift his cup, the mask slips, and what she glimpses beneath is exhaustion.

It frightens her. She has become so reliant upon him.

Morpheus’s round eyes grow large at the sight of the apple tart. Agnes pulls it to her side of the table.

‘Simon,’ she begins. She does not look directly at him but stirs her tea, round and round. ‘I did wonder if … With it being my birthday … I might ask a favour from you?’

‘As ever, I am at your service.’

Her heart flutters its wings inside her chest. It is only Simon; she should not be afraid to speak candidly before him. But the problem is, Simon knows her better than anyone; he sees the things she keeps hidden, even from herself.

‘There was a man. He drowned in the Avon not long ago. You may have read of it.’

He clears his throat. ‘I did, yes.’

Her spoon is moving very fast. Morpheus watches it, his eyes flicking forward and back. ‘With your medical connections, I wondered if you might … make some enquiries for me. See if they are any closer to establishing his identity.’

The sound of cups and plates moving only exaggerates Simon’s silence.

He is so quiet that she thinks he may have stopped breathing.

At last, he says, ‘And may I ask why … ?’

She must concentrate. She cannot let either feature or voice betray her. ‘He was a naval man, it seems. I very much doubt he ever served with Papa, but I should like to know if—’

‘Miss Darken, it is not him.’

Her cheeks scald, as if he had thrown his coffee in her face.

‘You mistake me,’ she snaps.

‘Do I?’

Morpheus whines.

Agnes lets go of her spoon. It chimes loudly against the cup. Without it to clench, she notices that her hand is unsteady. ‘Yes. This is not about Montague, precisely. But I was not being wholly honest when I said it was about Papa, either. The truth is, Simon … Something very strange is happening. Do you remember when the policeman came around? Asking about Mr Boyle?’

‘Naturally, I recall it.’

‘That very same day, I took a study of a naval officer by Sydney Gardens. Do you understand? The silhouette – and then – the man – he drowned! What if it was him, Simon? What if it was the same man?’

She pants, short of breath.