‘Please be seated, Mrs Fowler.’ The maid is intimidated by the woman’s boldness.
‘Thank you.’
But she does not sit. Instead she stands by the windows, her chin slightly lowered to gain a better view of the canal. As soon as the maid departs, Clovis returns to her review of the sisters’ home. The house is impressive, as she expected. She notes the gas jets and the grand piano. Clovis recalls the day they first met and how the sisters brought to her mind the huldufólk of her country, strange, and condemned to live between heaven and hell.
The paintings that crowd the walls confuse her at first glance. She knows little of art, but surely the frames are worth much more than the amateurish paintings they protect. One is particularly rubescent; a canvas of halos in graded shades of yellow over which the outlines of red bearded men and veiled women seem to float amidst a rich red matrix, as if searching for the halo that belongs particularly to them. Clovis smirks. Something juvenile about them. Ah, she muses, must be the boy’s work.
Footsteps. The door handles turn.
The years stand between them, but they do not make their mark on the women’s faces, or in their movements or postures. There are, however, differences. Though her beauty has not diminished, Clovis has not yet stepped into the new decade. In the silence that follows it is clear how the world has moved forward without her. Her hair is wrong. It is too elaborate, too important in today’s increasingly demure fashions. Her gown is out of date. The skirt is not full enough. Her bodice shoulder line is too high, her arms are too free, and her sleeves are ridiculously full, unlike Constance’s narrow sleeves. Even her waistline is wrong compared to the woman who poses so assuredly in front of her, in a modern, more natural waistline.
Clovis does not expect to be so harshly affected by a bolt of cloth and a head of hair. She has had many years to think upon this moment and now that it has arrived she is angry that she cares too much about the outward signs that scream of her imprisonment. Forget about the goddamned frocks and locks, she tells herself. I mean to parry.
‘I am here to collect my son.’
‘He is with my sister in Hampstead. I do not know when they will return.’
‘I will wait.’
Constance signals the maid to close the doors and takes a position by the fireplace. Elegant in her stance, she looks the picture of calm; the lavender sheen of her dress brilliantly offsets her silvery white hair. She clasps her hands in front of her to conceal the tremors.
‘You have given us no notice. Perhaps, we might bring him to you after we have had time to prepare him and …’ She pauses. ‘And pack his things.’
‘I have only just arrived home last night. I am his mother, and I have a carriage waiting at great expense – you live far from Limehouse. I will take him when he returns.’
‘My sister and I have cared for your son as we would our own.’ She makes an effort to breathe. ‘It will shock him to go so quickly.’
‘Have you not already prepared him for this day, as we agreed?’
‘I do not think a child can ever be fully prepared for this sort of monumental change. To be completely uprooted from everything he knows, surely it is best for him to make a gradual transition.’
‘As his mother, I disagree. It is best that he is with his parents. We have been apart long enough.’ Clovis advances. ‘His best interests, you say. I do not know if it is in his best interests to spend one more moment in the presence of someone who has lied about his health.’
Constance remains steady. ‘He is in perfect health.’
‘Ah, but there was a time when in your care he was not. A time when he came down with a fever, a fever so hot and raw that he dripped pools of moisture.’ She inches closer to Constance. ‘His sweat covered you and your sister until you were as damp as he. And nothing you did or tried to do calmed that fever until it burned itself out, like a flame.’ She snaps her fingers in Constance’s face. ‘And from that point on, you no longer aged.’
The unspeakable has been spoken. After a long, thick pause, Constance recovers.
‘You came to us in the middle of the night, desperate for help. And we have given Rafe the best of care. When you meet him you will find a boy who has been loved and nurtured. What possible importance could you place on anything above that?’
Clovis smiles. ‘All right, Mrs Fitzgerald. We will not speak of the mysterious Benedikt who plies you with phials, or the fact that your body is forced to sleep for fortnights at a time. Or the “miracle” that the boy has brought you.’
‘No. You and I will never speak of such things. I would rather use this time to warn you and to entreat you to be vigilant.
‘For what reason?’ Clovis laughs.
‘For the safety of your child!’ Constance snaps. ‘Have you already forgotten our last meeting at Millbank? There are men, possibly from your country, who have gone to extraordinary lengths to track his whereabouts.’
‘I have it in hand.’ Clovis says coldly. ‘The boy is of no concern to you now.’
‘Whatever do you mean?’
‘You will have no further contact with him after this day.’
The doors are thrown open.
‘There is a carriage outside …’ Rafe begins.
Verity and Rafe are flushed with cold. Their expectant faces drop, their smiles vanish.
Constance rushes to him and kneels down, taking a firm hold of his
