“He’s back, too,” I said, keeping a straight face.

“Make sure he stops by to say hello.”

“Oh, I will.”

She left me with a friendly wave. I went inside.

And I was home.

The counter in the corner, worn and familiar. The display tables, laden with jars, beakers, and curios. The stuffed animal specimens, a favorite of Master Benedict’s—and of mine.

But what struck me most was the smell. The heavy scent of spices, herbs, and flowers. It hit me like a wave, a rush of memories. It felt like my master, welcoming me back. Tears came hot and unwelcome.

Don’t be sad, I heard him say. I still live in your heart.

And he did. I knew he watched over me, and that brought me such comfort. Yet at times like this, it never felt enough.

I wiped my eyes and walked around the shop. Bridget flapped from my arms and flew from table to table, saying hello to all the places she’d missed while we were away. I smiled as she found her favorite perch, high on the shelves among the jars. Now everything was just as I’d left it.

Almost.

The first thing that was different was the four-month layer of dust that covered everything. Master Benedict wouldn’t have tolerated this at all. I’d need to give the place a thorough cleaning.

The second thing that was different was the letter.

Someone had placed a letter on the counter. It rested at an angle, propped against one of the antimony cups taken from the display table. They’d moved it onto the counter so I’d be sure to see it.

I picked up the letter, puzzled. On the front were two initials, written in simple calligraphy.

C. R.

C. R. Christopher Rowe. Me.

I flipped it over to see the back was sealed with wax. But there was no mark or crest pressed into the red splotch. Just a simple, featureless circle.

I frowned. Who’d left this here?

And how did they get in?

The front door had been locked. I checked the workshop; the door in the back was still barred, as I’d left it.

It occurred to me that I’d been in a rush last November, when we’d hurried off to France. Had I missed the letter then?

No. There was an empty ring in the dust on the table, from where the antimony cup had been taken. Whoever had left this must have done so recently.

I made to break the seal on the back, but I didn’t get the chance. From behind me, the bell rang overhead as the front door opened.

I assumed it was Dorothy again. “Hey, did you—” I began.

And then I stopped, staring in shocked delight at the man who’d entered my shop.

“Simon!”

It was Simon Chastellain, the dashing young vicomte d’Aviron. He was the nephew of Marin Chastellain, Master Benedict’s oldest friend. I’d met them for the first time in Paris.

I couldn’t believe Simon was here. “What are you doing in London?” I said. “And how did you know I was back?”