The door of the apothecary clicked shut behind Elara, the sound final and isolating. The world outside was immense, loud, and brutally bright after the contained, lamplit world of the basement. The morning air was chill and damp, carrying the sooty tang of coal smoke and the distant cries of costermongers setting up their carts. Each sound was a jolt to her system, each passerby a potential threat.
She clutched the handle of the small valise, her knuckles white. Inside, nestled beside a spare dress, was the scalpel. Its cool, deadly presence was a secret weight, a sliver of Alistair's will tucked against her side. She could feel the shape of it through the fabric, a hard line of reality in a plan that felt increasingly like madness.
Her heart was a wild, frantic drum against her ribs, so loud she was certain the entire street could hear it. Every instinct screamed at her to turn around, to run back to the basement, to bolt the door and hide in the only safety she had ever known. But she kept walking. One foot in front of the other. Each step was an act of will, a defiance of the fear that threatened to paralyze her.
She followed the route they had planned, her head down, her shoulders hunched, doing her best impression of a woman defeated and alone. She felt a thousand eyes on her. The sweeper pausing to lean on his broom. The maid shaking a rug from an upstairs window. A gentleman on horseback, his gaze lingering a moment too long. Were they all Silas's men? Or were they just Londoners going about their day, oblivious to the terrified woman walking among them?
The paranoia was a living thing, coiling in her gut. She imagined Silas everywhere. In every shadowed doorway, behind every curtained carriage window. His cold, smiling face haunted her, superimposed over the faces of strangers. She felt a hysterical laugh bubble in her throat. This was his power. He didn't need to be here to hold her. His specter did the job just fine.
She forced herself to breathe, to focus on the physical sensations to ground herself. The rough weave of the cheap dress against her skin. The bite of the cold air in her lungs. The solid, reassuring weight of the scalpel in her bag. And beneath it all, a thread of certainty, a lifeline thrown to her across the city.
I will be watching. Always.
Alistair was out here somewhere. He was a part of the shadows, a silent guardian. She couldn't see him, but she could feel his presence like a tangible force. It was the only thing keeping her from shattering.
She reached the designated area, a busy commercial street near the docks. It was a place of commerce and rough activity, where a distressed woman might plausibly seek cheap lodging. The press of bodies was both a comfort and a new terror. She was anonymous here, just another face in the crowd. But in this crowd, a cry for help could be easily swallowed by the din.
She did as she was told. She lingered. She paused outside a chandler's shop, pretending to study the价格牌 with unseeing eyes. She let her shoulders slump, her posture radiating exhaustion and despair. She felt exposed, a rabbit deliberately straying into an open field, waiting for the hawk to strike.
Minutes stretched into an eternity. Her nerves were stretched to their breaking point. Every sudden movement in the periphery of her vision made her jump. Every man of Silas's height and build sent a fresh jolt of adrenaline through her.
Where are you? she thought, a desperate plea aimed at both her hunter and her protector. Show yourself. Let this be over.
She moved on, heading towards the boarding house. The streets grew narrower, dirtier. The air thickened with the smell of fish and unwashed bodies. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird beating itself against its cage. This was it. The final stage.
She found the place, a tall, narrow building squeezed between a tavern and a rag-and-bone shop. It looked as grim and unwelcoming as they had hoped. She pushed open the door and stepped into a dim, narrow hallway that smelled of boiled cabbage and damp.
A weary looking woman with a stained apron looked up from behind a small counter. "Yes?"
"I... I need a room," Elara said, her voice coming out as a reedy whisper. She cleared her throat, trying to sound more convincing. "For a night or two. Just a single."
The woman looked her up and down, her eyes lingering on the cheap dress, her gaze devoid of curiosity. "Five shillings. In advance. No gentlemen callers."
Elara fumbled in her valise, her fingers brushing against the cold metal of the scalpel before closing around the coins Alistair had given her. She placed them on the counter.
The woman scooped them up without a word and handed her a key. "Top of the stairs, last door on the left. Bathroom's down the hall. Don't use all the hot water."
Elara took the key, its cold iron feeling like a sentence. She climbed the stairs, each step groaning in protest under her weight. The hallway on the upper floor was dark, lit only by a single grimy window at the far end. She found the door and unlocked it.
The room was as bleak as she had imagined. A narrow bed with a thin mattress. A rickety chair. A small washstand with a chipped pitcher and bowl. A single window overlooking a grimy courtyard. It was a cell.
She closed the door and leaned against it, finally allowing the full force of her trembling to overtake her. She slid down to the floor, drawing her knees to her chest, and buried her face in her arms. The silence of the room was oppressive, broken only by the sound of her own ragged breathing.
This was the hardest part. The waiting. The not knowing. She was alone in this tiny, horrible room, completely exposed. The plan, which had seemed so bold and clever in the safety of the basement, now felt like a catastrophic mistake.
She stayed like that for a long time, listening to the sounds of the house and the street beyond. A door slamming. Raucous laughter from the tavern next door. The distant cry of a gull. Each noise was a fresh assault on her frayed nerves.
As dusk began to settle, painting the grimy courtyard outside in shades of grey and purple, a new sound reached her. It was not the boisterous noise of the tavern. It was something else. Something deliberate.
Footsteps on the stairs.
They were slow, measured, and heavy. Not the hurried step of another lodger. Not the shuffling gait of the landlady.
They paused on the landing. Then they started again, coming closer down the hallway.
Step. Step. Step.
Each footfall was like a hammer blow on her heart. Her breath caught in her throat. Her hand crept into the valise, her fingers closing around the smooth, bone handle of the scalpel. She pulled it out, holding it tight, the blade hidden in the folds of her sleeve.
The footsteps stopped outside her door.
A long, silent moment passed. She could feel a presence on the other side of the wood. She could almost hear breathing.
Then, a single, firm knock echoed through the tiny room.
Elara froze, her blood turning to ice. She didn't move. She didn't breathe.
The knock came again, louder this time, more impatient.
She knew that knock. It was the same rhythm she had heard on the apothecary door. Authoritative. Expecting to be obeyed.
It was him.
The game was over. The hunt was ended.
She slowly, silently, got to her feet. She backed away from the door, her eyes fixed on the handle, the scalpel held ready in her trembling hand.
She was alone in the room. But she was not unprotected. And she was not unseen.
Somewhere out in the gathering dark, Alistair was watching. And he would be coming.