The sound was a poison needle, piercing the peaceful bubble of the basement. One. Two. Pause. Three. It wasn't an accident. It was a message. A reminder.
I am here. I am watching. I have not forgotten.
For a long, frozen moment, neither of them moved. The only sound was Clara's soft, even breathing, a cruel counterpoint to the hammering of Alistair's heart. He saw the transformation on Elara's face in real time. The softness of the last month evaporated, replaced by the primal terror of the woman who had woken on a slab. The drawing of lavender slipped from her fingers and fluttered to the floor.
Alistair moved first. In three long strides, he was at the lamp, turning the wick down until it sputtered, plunging the basement into near darkness. He then went to the bottom of the stairs, pressing his ear against the cold wood of the door, listening.
Silence.
He could feel Elara behind him, her own breath held. "Is it him?" she whispered, the sound barely audible.
"Who else would it be?" he replied, his voice a low growl.
He crept up the stairs, moving with a caution he hadn't needed in weeks. He unbolted the door with painstaking slowness, easing it open just a crack, just wide enough to see a sliver of the dark, empty street. The air was cold and still. There was no one there.
But the message had been delivered. The illusion of safety was shattered.
He closed the door and rebolted it, the sound of the heavy iron bar sliding into place feeling futile. Locks wouldn't keep out a ghost.
When he turned, Elara was standing exactly where he had left her, her arms wrapped tightly around herself, shivering though the basement was not cold. She looked like she had in the beginning, and the sight of her regression sent a fresh wave of fury through him. Silas Vane had done that with three taps of his boot.
"He's playing with us," Alistair said, descending the steps. "Trying to frighten us into making a mistake."
"He is succeeding," Elara breathed, her voice trembling.
Without thinking, Alistair crossed the space between them and took her hands. They were ice cold. He chafed them between his own, his touch firm, trying to rub warmth and certainty back into them. "Look at me."
She forced her eyes to his, wide with fear.
"He will not win," Alistair said, his voice low and intense, filled with a conviction he willed himself to feel. "We are not the same people we were a month ago. We are stronger. We have each other. And we have Clara to protect."
His words, his touch, seemed to anchor her. The wild panic in her eyes receded, replaced by a hard, determined glint. She gave a sharp, jerky nod. "What do we do?"
"We do nothing," he said. "We change nothing. We continue exactly as we have been. We give him nothing to see. No panic. No strange behavior. He is looking for a crack. We will show him a solid wall."
It was a declaration of war. A cold, silent war fought in the shadows of their own home.
The next day, the atmosphere in the basement was charged with a new, grim purpose. Mrs. Dobbs, blessedly unaware of the nocturnal visitor, chattered on about the shop and the weather. Clara, sensing the tension, was quieter than usual. Alistair and Elara moved around each other with a heightened awareness, their interactions layered with a new, unspoken communication.
A glance from him asked, Are you alright? A slight nod from her answered,For now. Her hand brushing his as she passed him a bandage asked,Is he out there? His fingers lingering a second too long on the scissors she handed him answered,Always.
Their shared secret, once a burden, was now a weapon. Their fictional romance, once a lie, became a vital part of their defense. In front of Mrs. Dobbs, they leaned into the charade. Alistair would let his hand rest on the small of Elara's back as they both looked down at Clara. Elara would laugh at a dry remark of his, the sound a little forced but convincing enough. They were performing a play for an audience of one, but the performance was stitching them together with threads of real, desperate solidarity.
One evening, a week after the signal, Mrs. Dobbs came down with the tea tray, her face pale. "A gentleman was in the shop today," she said, her voice hushed. "Asking after you, Doctor. Said he was an old acquaintance from your university days. A Mr. Sterling."
Alistair's blood ran cold. He had known a Sterling. A loud, boorish man who had barely scraped through his classes. The coincidence was too perfect.
"What did he want?" Alistair asked, keeping his voice even.
"Oh, just to catch up," Mrs. Dobbs said, but she looked uneasy. "Asked a great many questions, though. About your work. If you had taken on any new… assistants." Her eyes flicked to Elara. "I told him you were far too busy with your family obligations to entertain old classmates. He seemed… disappointed."
It was a probe. Silas was testing their defenses, sending a scout to see if the walls were as strong as they appeared.
"Thank you, Mrs. Dobbs," Alistair said. "You handled it perfectly."
After she left, Elara turned to him, her face etched with new worry. "He is getting closer."
"He is getting desperate," Alistair corrected. "He has nothing. No evidence. Only rumors. He is trying to create a crack because he cannot find one."
That night, they devised a plan. It was Elara's idea.
"We need to be seen," she said, her voice steady despite the fear in her eyes. "Not hiding down here. Out there. In the world. We need to make our story real for everyone, not just Mrs. Dobbs."
And so, two days later, Dr. Alistair Finch and his mysterious companion were seen walking through the nearby park. Elara's arm was tucked through his, her head held high, though he could feel the fine tremor that ran through her. She wore a bonnet borrowed from Clara, its brim shielding her face just enough. They walked slowly, like a couple enjoying the crisp air. They spoke to no one, but they made sure they were seen by everyone.
Alistair pointed out a tree, and she nodded, leaning into him slightly. It was an act, a performance for the shopkeepers and nursemaids and passing gentlemen who might report back to a man with cold eyes. But with every step, with every shared, conspiratorial glance, the performance felt less like a lie. The pressure of her arm in his, the way her body moved in sync with his, felt terrifyingly real.
A man tipped his hat to them. Alistair nodded back, his heart thundering. Was he one of Silas's men? Or just a friendly stranger?
They returned to the apothecary an hour later, both emotionally drained. But they had done it. They had faced the world and presented a united front.
Back in the safety of the basement, the tension broke. Elara sagged against the door, letting out a shaky breath. "I thought I would be sick."
"So did I," Alistair admitted, running a hand through his hair. He looked at her, at the resolve still etched on her beautiful face. "You were magnificent."
A faint, weary smile touched her lips. "We were magnificent."
Clara, who had been watching them from her bed, smiled. "You look like a proper couple," she said sleepily. "It's nice."
The simple words hung in the air, another layer of complication.
Later, as Alistair was sorting through his medical journals, he found it. Tucked between the pages of a treatise on lung anatomy was Elara's forgotten drawing of the lavender. He smoothed it out. It was so delicate, so full of a quiet hope for beauty. It was everything Silas Vane wanted to destroy.
He didn't realize she had come up behind him until she spoke.
"I thought it was lost," she said softly.
He turned, holding it out to her. "It survived."
She took it, her fingers brushing his. She didn't look at the drawing. She looked at him. The air between them crackled with all the unspoken things, the fear, the defiance, the shared looks and accidental touches.
"The world thinks we are in love," she whispered, the words a dangerous admission.
Alistair's breath caught in his throat. He could see the same war raging in her eyes that was raging in his own heart. The line between the performance and the truth had become so thin it was almost invisible.
"Elara," he began, but he had no idea what to say.
The sound of the shop bell jangling upstairs made them jump apart. It was too late for customers. Mrs. Dobbs had gone home hours ago.
They stared at each other, the moment shattered, replaced by instant, cold dread. This was not a boot scrape in the night. This was a direct assault.
A fist hammered on the shop door, not with the polite tap of a customer, but with a hard, impatient rhythm that spoke of authority.
Then a voice called out, loud and official, shattering the quiet of the evening.
"Dr. Finch! Open this door! This is the police!"