His words hit her first, and anything she might’ve said dies in her throat. The hurt in his voice lands second, because she’s always listening to him, even when it comes to the smallest things. ( Even when she doesn’t want to. ) Her guilt comes third, the final blow in a triad of consequences catching up to her. As he moves past her and into the house, he hands her an envelope, and Feriha knows whatever is in it has been enough to bring Andy right to her doorstep, face graver than she’s ever seen it.
She shuts the door behind her and leans her back against it, putting distance between her and where Andy stands some steps further down the hallway. It crosses her mind to just throw the whole envelope away, but she can’t run from this, not with his indecipherable expression pinning her in place. So she opens it, eyes wide and a chill running down her spine as she takes in just what was on those dry plates Jack so kindly delivered, tied with a bow. I have been watching, he’d written. Both fear and indignant anger flash through her, and something about it makes her bite back a hollow, humorless laugh. The Ripper can post letters all over London and commit gruesome crimes but can’t get photos developed?
Even now, in her own mind, she deflects, though her focus is inevitably torn back to the shots in her hands. A young woman laughs and smiles for the unseen camera, her gaze always to the side, never straight ahead. Her attire is far from the silk dresses Feriha wears to the parties of London’s richest, but it is still unmistakably herself splashed across these photographs, certainly recognizable at first glance to those who know her—
Her gaze travels to Andy’s back, and it hits her just what she’s put him through. I shouldn’t have asked him, she thinks, then— No, I should’ve told him. Should’ve warned him about the dry plates, should’ve told him I was in Whitechapel, shouldn’t have kept it quiet. Whether a misguided attempt at not making him worry or the selfish desire to carry on as she pleased without being discouraged or disapproved of, keeping Andy in the dark has massively backfired. He’s hurt and betrayed and maybe even angry, and she should apologize, she wants to, but she has never been quite so good at taking accountability. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. But then he turns and looks at her, and she flinches. “I didn’t promise!” In the face of his sharp tone, she lashes out.
“I didn’t actually promise anything. And I wasn’t ever alone. I was—” She stops there, refusing to drag Polly and Link down with her, even just by association. This is her fault. “You can guess who.” Her voice goes flat. “They came with a letter. Suppose you should know about that, too.”
He never wanted to be angry with Feriha. It wasn’t just that it wasn’t his place—she had her brother and Daya to do that for her—but because everything he associated with her was light: her laughter brightening up the office of The Tribune, their nearly disastrous boat rides at the nearby park, Feriha lazily draped across a sofa and talking about her day as he sat on the floor giving Zeki the biggest tummy rubs he could ever give a dog. Being upset like this felt strange, wrong, as if he were stepping over the boundary they’d had for so long. Because he was her friend—not her guardian, or her keeper, but her friend.
For a moment after his last words, Andy almost thought he was irrational for being upset—that maybe he’d come on too strong. Then Feriha lashed out, confirming his fears, and he let out a hollow laugh, something jagged lodging itself in his chest at her words. “What—are you really pulling that with me?” I didn’t promise—they were childish words taking advantage of a loophole, and it hurt, somehow, to realize that she had set herself apart from him, as if he were just another authority figure she needed to defy. As if all he wanted was to keep her from doing as she pleased. “It was as good as a promise, Ri. You know it.” You know it.
The rational part of Andy knew that it wasn’t Feriha’s fault that a madman was leaving a bloody trail of bodies around London, or that said madman was fascinated by her. But watching the dry plates develop into images earlier that morning, a confusing jumble of emotions had settled in his stomach like lead—and here, in her home, he exhaled sharply, running his fingers through his hair, pressing his fingers to his forehead as if it would make his head hurt less. When he finally spoke again, his voice was more composed, more measured, though something churned beneath it, raw. “Do you think I’m upset just because you did something I didn’t want you to do?” Andy’s lips twisted into a rueful smile, thinking of the things he knew she hated: society’s norms. People trying to stamp out every ounce of independence she had, in order to transform her into someone she wasn’t. “I just—I don’t like you being in danger, Ri. And perhaps everyone is, but that finger, those photographs... they were directed specifically at you. Call me a coward if you’d like—” He finally raised his eyes to meet hers again, a sardonic chuckle low in his throat as he remembered how the specter haunting him had all but called him one. “—but it frightened me. Sitting there in my darkroom, watching those prints develop one by one. Wondering if one day I would receive more, worse photos in the mail, not from you, but of you. And for what reason?” His heart hurt, and he pushed away the images that arose in his mind—horrible, twisted thoughts that would make their way into his nightmares if he let them stay any longer than a moment. “Help me understand, Ri, because you’re smarter than this.”
Feriha’s courage was truly one of the things Andy liked most about her. But sometimes it made her reckless, even callous, and he let out another sigh, finally leaning against a wall across her. “You know, I think that the photographs speak for themselves, but...” He shrugged, his casualness obviously feigned, but he felt like he’d exposed himself somehow by being so open, even though he was always honest with Feriha. Even if, when he was with her, he always said what he meant. “What did the letter say? And I don’t suppose you’d like to tell me who you asked to escort you around Whitechapel.” There was an unfamiliar hardness in that last sentence, one that he hadn’t expected, but that he let settle in the air between them. “I suppose you trust them more than you trust me.”
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