Who in the nine circles of Hell was Lady Whistledown, and by what rite was one expected to cast her out?
The magistrates had failed to find her, that much was plain; yet surely there must remain some earthly hand capable of reaching where theirs had not. It defied reason that one soul should carry so dreadful a harvest of knowledge. Was she some priest concealed beneath a woman’s skirts, gathering sins beneath the sacred veil of confession only to loose them upon the world? Or a servant drifting from house to house, sweeping hearths whilst collecting the whispered frailties of those foolish enough to mistake silence for solitude? Perhaps he ought to write to His Holiness himself and—
His thoughts broke apart as her fingers met his. Niccolò returned the gesture almost absently, willing the crease between his brows to disappear before she noticed it. Had he already come too late? The dreams had begun with his vengeance, but perhaps they had never been about revenge alone. Perhaps they had been a summons. Ought he to have sought her sooner, before despair had rooted itself so deeply that she regarded every offered kindness as one more delusion? And how was he to rescue a woman who looked upon him as though madness had already claimed him, when he himself scarcely felt sane? He could not have explained the conviction burning within him had his own salvation depended upon it. Some obscure decree, spoken by no earthly voice, insisted that her soul had wandered too near the precipice, and that his own would know no peace whilst he left it there.
“Hm?” The simple question struck him with all the force of a confession demanded. “Oh… you see, Miss Dempsey, I wish to help you because…”
Because I have watched you suffer in dreams more vivid than memory. Because I was taught from infancy that no soul is beyond redemption. Because I believe the heavens have placed your grief in my path to weigh against my own sins.
Every truth sounded more deranged than the last.
“…because you remind me of my mother.”
The falsehood tasted bitter enough to linger. His poor mother—rest her gentle soul—would surely have crossed herself in Heaven at such shameless use of her memory. She had possessed hair pale as wheat and eyes clear as a summer sky, leaving him little save the bridge of her nose and that troublesome conscience which refused to let him sleep. Miss Dempsey resembled her in nothing. She belonged instead to the old fairytales whispered beside winter hearths, with darkness gathered in her hair and eyes deep enough to hide every sorrow that had ever sought refuge within them.
“I lost her not long ago,” he continued quietly. “Forgive me if I seem… overzealous. I have found that grief, if left to itself, grows ambitious. It devours every room in the house until one scarcely remembers how the place appeared before mourning entered. I thought…” He offered a faint, weary smile. “I thought perhaps that in easing yours, I might persuade my own to loosen its hold upon me.”
It was a lie, yet was every lie born equally sinful? If a physician sweetened bitter medicine with honey, was the cure diminished by the deception? If falsehood became the narrow bridge by which another escaped despair, perhaps Heaven, in all its inscrutable wisdom, might condemn the words whilst pardoning the intention. He could endure the stain upon his own conscience if it meant sparing hers another wound.
His soul, after all, was already burdened enough to carry one more.
“Do not mistake me for an opportunist,” he said gently, lifting his hands as though surrendering before an unseen judge. “I seek nothing from you. No obligation, no repayment. Only…” His voice softened until it was scarcely louder than the passing crowd beyond the window. “Only allow me to stand beside you awhile. Sorrow is a cruel companion when it walks alone.”
He leaned forward, resting his temple lightly against his hand, his gaze never straying from hers.
“Will you permit a poor sinner the privilege of listening?” he asked. “There are burdens that grow no lighter for being borne in silence. Sometimes all they require is another pair of shoulders, however unworthy, to keep them from crushing the heart entirely.”
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