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“How … what … that’s absurd. That…” I waved my hand angrily at the closed door, not even pointing out his second attempt at a simile was vastly worse than the first. “That thief is nothing like me.”

He let out an amused laugh, raising his forefinger. “Breaks into private chambers.” Then a second. “Appears affronted when caught in her schemes.” A third and possibly the most irritating digit rose. “Hasn’t the sense of a hoverfly when it comes to danger.”

“Fine. Fine. Perhaps I am not always prudent when investigating, but at least I have good cause for it.”

He raised a dark brow. “And perhaps she believes she does too, I’ve not spent enough time in her company to tell—but you should have heard her out.”

I drew in a slow breath. “There are times, Ruan Kivell, I find I do not like you very much.”

The edge of his mouth curved up, but his retort was swallowed up by an unexpected tap upon the door. I shot to my feet. Had Violet returned so soon?

“Mrs. Vaughn.” The voice called from the other side.

It was Mrs. Wauters, our landlady. My shoulders eased at once. She must have returned when the imposter was here.

Or she let the imposter in.

I shook the thought away. Mrs. Wauters was a lovely woman, I seriously doubted she had any ill intentions toward me. I rushed over, pulling the door open. “Is everything all right?”

“You have a … visitor.” There was uncertainty in the way she said the last word. Almost as if it were a question more than a statement.

“A visitor?” I repeated. Oh no. I was full up on their kind already after seeing Violet.

“A man.” She paused again, a worried look on her face. “He says he’s your father … I wasn’t certain whether to—”

But whatever she was about to say, I didn’t hear it. My mind tripped along ahead of her words. Father? Surely not. I came here seeking my mother. The blood drained from my face.

It wasn’t possible. I never put much stock in my dreams, but I had very clearly seen him die upon the Lusitania. They’d pulled a mangled body from the sea matching his description.

It couldn’t be.

It simply couldn’t.

I must have stood too quickly to answer the door, my head still swimming from whatever it was I’d ingested the day before. My vision grew dark around the edges, and without even laying eyes upon the fellow, I fainted dead away.

CHAPTER EIGHTEENMeddling Booksellers

FROM somewhere outside the midnight waters of my mind, there was arguing. Angry voices just above the surface. The briny green scent filled my lungs as I drew in a breath. I might have stayed here forever …

… Might have …

“You might have told the truth…” A familiar voice intruded upon my peace. I knew that voice. A familiar West Country cadence wrapped itself around me.

Ruan.

I should probably wake up, but it was lovely here as I followed the current along the river. The slippery warmth of water sliding over my skin.

I should open my eyes, and yet I could not quite pull myself from the siren’s call of my unconscious mind.

“And now she’s hit her head on the godsdamned table and needed four stitches before she stopped bleeding all over me.” He was angry.

I didn’t like it when Ruan was angry.

“Well, it’s a good thing she’s bound herself to a pellar now, isn’t it? Keeps her blood inside her veins where it ought to stay,” the old Scot grumbled.

Warmth of the water be damned. I knew that voice too—and it was a vastly less restful one than Ruan’s. I sat bolt upright on the bed, head aching like the very devil. My thoughts struggled to piece together what had happened and how exactly my octogenarian housemate and employer, Mr. Owen, came to be sitting in our cramped attic room in the village of Saint Oda.

I ran my hand over the back of my head, wincing as my fingers found the offending stitches. How long had I been unconscious? It had to be …