Page 95 of The Art of Theft
“I must also leave soon,” he said. “Remember what I said the other day about having someone inside Moriarty’s organization?”
Her stomach tightened at the mention of that name—it was impossible to entirely disregard Charlotte’s pronouncements. But she trusted him enough that she was willing to believe he wasn’t Moriarty’s son—and that if he were, he would have already told her.
“Yes, I remember,” she said. “Charlotte thought it might have been Madame Desrosiers.”
“Now that Moriarty is back and considers Madame Desrosiers a traitor, our advantage is going to evaporate into thin air. I should find my parents and my sister and tell them what I know firsthand, so that together we can decide what to do next.”
She had thought that might be the case, but still, she wished...
There was so much she wished for.
“Have you... have you ever heard of Andalusia?” he asked, a little hesitantly.
She gazed at him a moment and smiled, her heart as buoyant asa hydrogen balloon. “Andalusia, in the south of Spain, where the Alhambra is? Yes, I’ve heard of it. Why do you ask?”
?That night, Livia dreamed of the Court of the Lions at the Alhambra and of the gardens at the Alcázar in Seville, all balmy and light-drenched. She woke up feeling wistful but not terribly sad. When she descended for breakfast, Mr. Marbleton and Charlotte were already at table, the former staring intently at the paper, the latter finishing up a slice of plain toast with her eggs and looking suitably forlorn about it.
Charlotte rose as Livia sat down. “I’m done. Will you be wanting your usual breakfast?”
“I think so.”
“I’ll let the kitchen know.”
When she’d left, Livia turned her attention to Mr. Marbleton. “Before we say our good-byes, shall we affix some method of communication? Given my parents’ current appreciation for the Openshaws, you can probably write to me directly as young Mr. Openshaw. But if there is to be a fallout between the Holmeses and the Openshaws someday, should we have a second system in place?”
He looked up and slowly set aside the paper, his face unusually wan. “I have done something terrible, Miss Olivia.”
Her stomach lurched. “Oh?”
“I broke my promise to you: I have already read your Sherlock Holmes story.”
This was the last thing she’d expected him to say. “You have?”
Did you—did you like it?
As if he’d heard her question, he said, “You should be enormously proud of yourself. It’s absolutely extraordinary. I could read another hundred stories like that and still want more.”
She should be floating on clouds. She’d imagined him complimenting her story, but not even in her wildest daydreams had she anticipated such extravagant praise. And yet her gladness was like a bird with broken wings, unable to take flight.
His tone. His tone was all wrong. What had she thought of only last night? That he was the most summery man she’d ever met? But now his tone made her think of abandoned cemeteries and snow-covered ruins.
“Do you really think so?” she said, her voice sounding disembodied to her own ears.
“I have never been more truthful.”
Silence fell, a silence with teeth and claws. She knew, didn’t she? She knew it would come to this.
“It has been a lovely two weeks,” he said, sounding forced.
Under the table, her hands clenched. “Yes, very lovely.”
“But I think we both know that we’ve always been on borrowed time. I cannot give you either safety or stability. I can’t even take you away from home except on fraudulent pretenses.”
I don’t mind, she wanted to say.I don’t want safety or stability with someone else. I’m happy with borrowed time and stolen moments with you.
But all that made it past her rapidly closing throat was a croaked, “I see.”
“It would be—I mean, I have already been selfish enough, taking your time. It would be unpardonable for me to continue to do so, knowing that I can offer you nothing of value.”
