From here he counts the stars of winter and marks the Synodic Cycle. He believes that trade and markets move in a circular direction rather than up and down. When the new moon reaches its waxing crescent he begins calculating his next big sale, and when the moon wanes, any transaction that is not complete must wait until it waxes again. He’s never lost a client using this method, though they are sometimes perplexed by his refusal to rush through an agreement on their behalf that would, in the end, handsomely line his pockets. He waits like a patient lover, following the lunar calendar for the right moment to woo, to approach, to fondle, to mount.
On the nights when the moon passes through the earth’s umbral shadow he makes important decisions, like the one he made – he forgets what year it was, but quite a long time past – when he moved out of his marriage bed.
A few years ago, when life and death were imperfectly balanced, he made another vital decision. It was the night of the longest lunar eclipse in more than a decade. On the 16th of June 2011, the shadow began to fall at nine o’clock in the evening. The moon passed very deeply into the darker umbra, making it an especially Cimmerian and long eclipse. The cloud coverage that evening obstructed the view, but Finn waited patiently until an hour later, when the clouds shifted for a few moments and there, like a wise counsellor over the conservatory roof, a blood-red moon burst into view. He had been filling his pipe, which he then let slip from his hand, the tobacco falling in flecks on his lap. His upward gaze swollen and fixed towards the crimson globe, he felt its magnetic pull, much in the same way he still feels the power of the Thames tide at London Bridge.
On that midsummer night when the clouds once again curtained the remainder of the eclipse, his decision was resolute. He left the opium bed and stole upstairs, knocked gently on first Willa’s door, and then Rafe’s. He’d asked Rafe to sleep at home that night, certain that after such an auspicious event he would know how to advise them.
They closed their doors quietly and stepped lightly across the landing and downstairs, following Finn to his workroom. Rafe guided Willa through the rows of furniture with a light hand on her back.
Willa and Rafe waited silently that night while Finn paced up and down between a marble dining table and a stack of portmanteaus. Regardless of the sticky night air, Finn had closed the windows for complete privacy. Their faces were damp and shiny. For a moment he wavered. Is suicide really suicide when they’d lived this long? He struggled to find words that would appeal to whatever inkling of desire they had left in them to remain alive.
‘Here it is,’ he said. ‘We cannot do it. It’s not the right time. As long as there is any hope, we remain as we are.’
Willa let out a sigh of weary relief, weary regret. And Rafe – Finn could never look at Rafe without a welling of remorse – Rafe seemed resigned and just nodded.
They weren’t going to die on June the 16th, the night of the total lunar eclipse. Instead, Willa and Rafe would go back to their rooms and Finn would crawl back into his private house of a bed.
Clovis had already returned to her bedroom by the time Rafe and Willa made their way back upstairs. She had been aware that the three were coming to a decision that evening. It wasn’t the first time. Society always debated whether or not the act of suicide was cowardly or brave. Finn, Rafe and Willa were weak in her eyes. Their consideration of such an act was preposterous anyway, because they couldn’t achieve it without her, and she’d never give her consent. But it was amusing to watch them play with the idea. She took a drink of water from the carafe on her bedside table, opened the window, and climbed back into bed. Content with the results of her eavesdropping, she slept deeply and without dreams.
Now Finn is stirred from his memory of that night by the sound of a few drunken men singing in the most appalling off-key fashion, a raucous ringing through Tooley Street. The streets leading to Tower Bridge are filled with the Christmas-party office throngs that spill onto the side streets at this time of year.
December 17th – a night on which the moon is a slice of yellow in the sky, when all those in this house are still alive and each of their hearts thump with a power that is against every rule of the universe.
CHAPTER SIX
… Any such behaviour will instigate a review of your circumstances. This, again, is for your safety, and is necessary for Benedikt to perform his duties to the best of his ability.
Please remember to maintain your letterbox to ensure safe delivery of future communication.
It’s signed, as usual,
Regards, S.
Constance folds the letter and places it in the large writing slope that sits on her desk. The box is filled with letters, and the handwriting is that of the person they know only as ‘S’ – the man who seems to act as an overseer of some sort.
‘What in the world does this “S” person think we would do to hinder Benedikt? We’ve never even seen the man! Not really – just a glimpse of his coat-tails, or a peek at the top of his hat. He’s a phantom, for the love of God.’
‘You forget, sister. I’ve seen him.’ Constance motions for Verity to sit beside her in one of the two armchairs by the fire. ‘But
