“Yes,” Alva said, her voice steadier. “Please. Thank you.”

Now she was the one with the pause. At least she no longer had the bruises.

The Hyde Park railroad station, located on the edge of the Hudson River, was a small one-story wooden building that had more in common with a schoolhouse than the grand stations going up in New York City. Sam stood on the platform and watched the train from the city grow larger in the distance. It was another wintry, muddy day, and the puffs of breath from the people on the platform were small versions of the steam from the train.

There were a few other people waiting, a handful of chauffeurs from the big houses standing around in a cluster and smoking, an elderly couple sitting patiently on a wooden bench, two men with duffels tossed over their shoulders. As the train pulled up, in a crescendo of screaming metal and whistles and smoke, station employees swarmed over the platform, opening doors, tossing luggage, shouting at people to herd them into place. Sam watched the employees work, trying to understand each movement, each tool they relied upon. There was always something that could be made better, more efficient, safer. He made some notes in his book.

Henry was one of seven people disembarking. He grabbed a suitcase from the luggage pile and walked crisply over.

“I have ten different contracts in my bag needing signatures,” he said, by way of greeting, “and Winchester upped the offer for a rifle design.”

Sam grinned. It was good to have Henry back. “I don’t design guns in peacetime,” he said as they started walking towards town.

Henry wasn’t paying attention. “Obviously I declined, but you should know the amount mentioned was truly flattering. How’s the new lamp coming?”

“It’s promising. I’m experimenting with plaster of Paris—so far I like it.”

“Good. Why the hell are we here, Sam?”

“I’m doing research,” Sam replied reproachfully. “You know that.”

“I know you were looking into the Webster woman’s house, but you’ve already been here a week. I thought this was an overnight, not a bloody trip down the Amazon.”

“Don’t call her ‘the Webster woman.’ She doesn’t like it.”

“Oh, she doesn’t, does she?” Henry eyed him. “What should I call her, then?”

Sam knew he couldn’t very well say, Alva, Alva with the firm chin and the snapping dark eyes. “I don’t know. But not ‘the Webster woman.’ And as for why I’ve been staying longer than expected—”

“I retract the question,” Henry said. “I understand completely. I once stayed in an awful town in Florida for much the same reason.” His eyes turned uncharacteristically soft. “Her name was Mrs. Burns.”

“I had no idea,” Sam said, much struck. “What happened?”