Clara stood very still. Three pounds: that would have paid the rent; that would have paid the doctor; that would have bought medicine and coal and good food for Polly for weeks. And Lady Cecilia Marlowe had thrown it into the fire, laughing.
"Thank you," Clara said quietly. She took the coins and walked out into the cold evening.
*You will pay for every strand.*
She had said it that night in the great hall. Now, walking home through the dark, foggy street, she whispered it again: "You will pay for every strand."
She climbed the dark stairs of the boarding house, paid the doctor, paid Mrs. Crabbe for one more week, bought a little coal and a little beef broth, and sat beside Polly, spooning it carefully between her sister's cracked lips.
Late that night, when Polly had finally fallen asleep, Clara sat at the narrow window and looked down into the street. The fog was thick, the lamps glowing yellow through it, and the street was empty.
And then it was not.
A carriage came slowly out of the fog: a large, black carriage, very fine, pulled by two gray horses—the kind of carriage that never came to streets like this one. It stopped right outside the boarding house.
Clara's heart began to pound.
A footman in dark livery jumped down and opened the carriage door. A gentleman stepped out: tall and heavy, about sixty years old, wearing a long black coat with a fur collar and carrying a silver-topped cane. He looked up at the boarding house, his eyes moving slowly across the windows, then stopping at hers.
Clara knew that face. She had seen it eight years ago across a crowded courtroom while her father stood in chains; she had seen it in her nightmares ever since: the Earl of Marlowe.
He lifted his hat to her, and he smiled.
A minute later, there was a soft knock on the door. Clara did not move. Behind her, Polly stirred in her sleep and coughed. The knock came again, and then a deep, smooth voice spoke through the wood: "Good evening, Miss Hartley. I believe it is time you and I had a little talk."
Clara opened the door. She did not want to—every part of her wanted to bolt it and push the bed against it—but Polly was asleep behind her, and Clara would not let this man frighten her sister awake with his knocking.
The Earl of Marlowe stood in the dark little hallway, seeming far too large for it. He looked around at the peeling walls and the damp stains on the ceiling, wrinkling his nose as if he had smelled something rotten.
"May I come in, Miss Hartley?"
"No," said Clara. "Whatever you have to say, you can say it here."
The Earl smiled. It was his daughter's smile: lovely on the outside, and empty beneath.
"As you wish." He leaned on his silver-topped cane. "You have grown up, Miss Hartley. The last time I saw you, you were a skinny little thing in a courtroom crying for your papa. I must say, you have your father's look about you—the same stubborn chin."