Spell of the Wordsmith

By Alison Williams

Fleeing Briarstone Manor, Sally and her Nephilim spirit, Samdriel, arrive in London on a quest to find the father she never knew. Yet, the young woman becomes frustrated to the point of despair under the coal-blackened skies of the hostile city. Standing on the banks of the River Thames, she is tempted to surrender all hope when help arrives in the form of Adrien Wordsmith and his loyal dog. Together, they save a mysterious woman from the frigid waters of the river and the three find safety and companionship at Adrien's Emporium and home.But their sanctuary soon comes under siege as old enemies, criminal gangs and the mystical Society of Seekers draw them into a growing conflict. For, in the shadows of old London, a deadly supernatural predator hunts other creatures of magic like Sally and her new friends. As the stakes rise and time runs out to find her father, she and Samdriel must take more and more desperate chances. The search for answers and her elusive father may cost the witch's foundling everything—including her life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: Nov 29, 2023
• ISBN: 9781779413123

Alison Williams

Alison Williams holds a degree in Illustration from Sheridan College and a black belt in Seikido. Working with her brother, A. Jaye, under the banner of SillWill Studios, she has illustrated the fantasy graphic novel trilogy The Sorcerer's Children and the sci-fi adventure graphic novels of The Adventures of Astrodog. Then, she discovered the genre of 'Gaslamp Fantasy' and the world of The Witch's Foundling was born. Exploring the themes of family, love and coming of age in a land with ghosts, witches, werewolves and demons, she created a story that offers an adventurous twist on a gothic tale.In addition to writing and illustration, Alison works as a certified Seniors' Fitness Instructor. This gives her a break from the computer and the inspiration to keep moving, if only to keep ahead of her insane, ginger cat named Tars Tarkas.

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Copyright © 2023 by Alison Williams

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

Tellwell Talent

www.tellwell.ca

ISBN

978-1-77941-313-0 (Hardcover)

978-1-77941-311-6 (Paperback)

978-1-77941-312-3 (eBook)

This book is dedicated to all the many people

who have supported my dream and all those

pursuing dreams of their own.

Table of Contents

Trigger Warning

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Afterword

About The Author

Trigger Warning

Welcome to the third book in The Witch’s Foundling series. Things have taken a dark turn for our protagonists. Scenes featuring suicidal ideation, transphobia and violence that sometimes has a sexual overtone, do occur within this story. If you feel this may be triggering for you, please be advised.

Chapter One

I hated London. I hated its blank, grey sky. I hated its sooty, choking air that turned the falling snow into a stained and dirty blanket. I hated the little, dirty room my dwindling finances allowed me, with its sour odours, odd noises and the loneliness enveloping me even as I walked along the strange and crowded streets. Wherever I went, my shaking heart was met with frustration and disappointment. My naïve hopes had revealed themselves as foolishness for thinking I had a chance of finding any family to replace the one I had fled.

I couldn’t help the sad little smile twisting my lips at the dark symmetry of my current situation. To be standing on the banks of the great Thames, its frigid waters akin to the river near my erstwhile home where a transformational relationship that had directed my life beyond the boundaries of normal experience, had first begun. Yet, for all the supernatural advantages and hidden knowledge that glorious change had occasioned, still I found myself alone and despairing, listening to the siren’s call of the great river’s dirty water moving inexorably beneath its veil of fog.

Surely, Sally, not entirely alone or despairing, Samdriel consoled. His comforting voice filled my mind with warmth until it encountered my wall of despairing self-criticism and fell in ghostly tendrils at my feet.

We had left Briarstone with such expectations, such hope. Samdriel, the powerful Nephilim spirit I hosted within my body, had vowed to follow my chosen direction in our escape. He had bequeathed me the golden wings that had brought us to London from our country home. When I landed upon the riverbank this dim wintery evening, I was left struggling with the hope of ever finding Dr. Adam Blackwell, my unknowing father.

At once, I withdrew my golden wings and turned away from the comfort of their soft glow and the delicate music made by the fluttering of their pinions. Now, the fog crept about me, flattening and dulling my surroundings while enhancing the murmur of the water.

Reaching down to the carpetbag at my feet, I rummaged through the meagre contents and pulled out a chipped and singed piece of masonry. As I traced the crudely carved symbol on its surface, I reviewed the last few hours of my search. This piece of brick was from the burnt-out rubble of the last known address for Adam Blackwell. I had been in London a week before finding the address, gleaned from an old letter sent to my mother, Lady Veronica Bellingham. The landlord of that address had shrugged at my enquiry, knowing only that my father had sought other lodgings and he had worked at a clinic in a ‘poor neighbourhood’. The pressing of some coin into his palm had produced the clinic’s address.

I was not at all certain what to expect at a clinic run by a charitable society. The square, dark building with a soup kitchen on the first floor and wards filling the next two, was cleaner than I had anticipated. Samdriel’s gentle support helped me walk up the steps, past a group of ragged men who regarded me with suspicion. Once inside, it became apparent that my sombre yet respectable appearance suggested that I was most likely some rich person’s maid. My expression of confusion must have alerted the matron to the inaccuracy of her assumption but she took the time to hear me out.

Her reply to my questions about Dr. Blackwell elicited a pursing of her lips, evoking uncomfortable memories of Mrs. Tuttle back at Briarstone.

Oh, that one, she pronounced, "so unreliable. At least once every month, he claimed to be occupied elsewhere and would refuse to change his schedule no matter the need. Eventually, Doctor Simonson had to let him go. You just had to look at him to understand his kind couldn’t be trusted."

Her last statement had been uttered while dragging her judgmental gaze over my frame. From my fine bonnet over hastily arranged curls, and my ordinary dark blue ensemble with its soiled hem from walking the slushy streets, she may still have been wondering if I wasn’t what she thought. I had introduced myself as a ‘relation to Dr. Blackwell’ and if she so condemned him, it was not unexpected to find myself included in her poor opinion. I, however, understood perfectly why my father had refused any work once every month. Under a full moon, he had no control over the bestial curse that transformed him into a werewolf. What havoc may have been unloosed had he ever considered compromising his need for isolation?

I may have left without any other news had Dr. Simonson not appeared. Nurse Johnson conveyed my questions to him and I was handed over to another’s less-than-favourable appraisal. The older physician loomed above me like a pillar of white marble and observed me over the rim of lowered eyeglasses.

A waste of talent, I must say, he harrumphed. Couldn’t or wouldn’t take this profession seriously. Can’t have a doctor dashing off at all times. Had to sack him. No choice, really.

I’m sure your reasons were … justifiable, Dr. Simonson, I replied, yet … would you happen to have a current address where I might locate Dr. Blackwell? I-I have news of his … family.

A piercing look that may have intuited more than I preferred was followed by a weary shrug I had witnessed as a common gesture amongst the denizens of London. Well, we weren’t exactly close companions – how could we be when he was … well, who he was? However, I recall he was boarding at an address a few blocks from here.

At that point, he produced a pad of paper from his pocket, scrawled a few lines, then handed me the page.

Thank you, doctor.

Again, the weary shrug as he turned away. Go to the end of the street and turn left … yes, left. A few blocks down you should find 23 Edginton Street. Can’t promise he’ll speak to you. Flighty one, he was. Such a waste of talent.

I spared Dr. Simonson no more heed as I hastened towards the supplied address. Disapprobation concerning my father’s mixed race was something I had encountered repeatedly during my inquiries, and a growing gall had built behind my polite smile. Samdriel had tried to soften the education I was receiving by informing me people always regarded the different with suspicion. It made me poignantly aware despite some of my experiences back at Bellamdale, I had lived a somewhat sheltered life. Living at the country estate of Briarstone, I had visited London before (was it only mere months ago?), in Lady Bellingham’s company and in a decidedly different quarter of the city. Yet, I had still encountered werewolves amongst those glittering elites. How I wanted to laugh at people like Nurse Johnson and Dr. Simonson. They had no conception of the hidden forces existing alongside their ordinary, predictable lives. In that I, the witch’s foundling, was the wiser.

As it turned out, 23 Edginton Street was more than a few blocks away and if I had been in more isolated environs, I could have reached it in a few minutes with the help of Samdriel’s power. I had not foreseen how much the busy streets would restrict my abilities. However, when I reached the stated address, there was nothing more to behold than a burned-out, tumbled wreck. Its roof was caved in and its narrow, shattered windows resembling gaping mouths. The splayed bones of its inner walls hinting at life-threatening destruction, squeezed my heart in an iron grip of despair. It was amongst the rubble I had numbly picked up a stray piece of brick with odd markings. My mind was at a standstill, frozen in place. Where next could I search? Who else could know anything that would help me? If I could not find my father, where else could I turn? What was I to do?

Excuse me, miss, but you seem as though you were looking for someone?

A rough-looking man in a frayed jacket and trousers, addressed me. His expression was guarded but did not display any of the critical suspicion that had followed me all around London.

I was hoping to find a gentleman who once lived here. A Doctor Adam Blackwell, I said hesitantly. Samdriel’s warning buzzed in my ear.

Were he your husband perhaps?

No, he was my … relation. I need … to convey some news about his family.

Well, I do reckon I heard about the doctor you’re speaking of, he answered smoothly. Most of the tenants as lost their homes here found lodging nearby at One-eyed Katie’s place. I could take you there but … well, I do have … work, you see.

I can pay you for your time, I said before I could help myself.

Sally! Samdriel admonished.

What choice do I have? I thought in response. I am sure we can handle anything unexpected.

His eyes are too hungry for honesty, Samdriel answered before assuming a wary silence.

Well, then miss, you just follow along with Ol’ Joseph, and I’ll see you to Katie’s place, the man cajoled as he began to walk back along the way I had come. I decided it was reasonably safe to follow him, though Samdriel maintained a distinct air of mistrust.

Perhaps if I had not been so desperate, so hopeful my emptiness would be filled if only I could find the man who was my father, I would have been more aware of the dark, winding path down which I was led. I proceeded with trembling determination into the shadowed alley Joseph waved me into. Samdriel’s sharp warning spurred me to leap aside just as a large cudgel descended where I would have stepped.

Backing away from Joseph, whose face now reflected a twisted leer of expectation, waves of disappointment, frustration and anger began to rise in me, pushing the air from my lungs in shuddering breaths. Two more men appeared from the shadows of a doorway, their postures and gestures mimicking the predatory mien of their leader. Slowly, the men herded me into the isolated, dead-end alley.

Come now, girl, Joseph wheedled, just give us your money, and I won’t hurt you.

"He won’t hurt you, joked his companion as he exchanged amused glances with the third man. The old man can’t quite get it up like he used to. Course, he might have another use for that cudgel of his. None of us like a lot of talking anyways."

The remark drew guttural laughter from the men as I reached the limit of the alley. Above, the clouds began to release their burden of dirty, soiled snow, and the dull daylight receded along with it.

I shall scream, I warned.

Their laughter expanded to the point they paused their advance as two of them began to tug at the creased leather belts atop their trousers.

You do as you wish, little slut. There’s no one hereabouts to hear you even if they cared, the bigger man sneered.

Oh, I don’t know, Bob. I think I would like a little screaming, the third man stated hungrily. His grimy hand flashed out as he attempted to grasp my arm.

I broke his wrist with a speed he had no hope of avoiding. He staggered backwards, yowling in shock and pain. A dark part of myself agreed with his assessment about the satisfaction of a little screaming.

The man’s sudden cries finally wiped the smug leers from the faces of his companions. Joseph had the experience to hesitate at the unexpected turnaround. Bob was not so astute and leapt at me with a growl. With immense satisfaction, Samdriel imbued my fist with the power to send the ruffian hurling away back down the alley. He did not move after he fell.

Albert, you whiny cur! Be a man for your master’s sake! snarled Joseph, his fear disappearing behind the startled anger of a cornered rat. We’ll both take her on! Don’t stand there pissing yourself like a child!

Joseph’s insults had their intended effect on his minion. With his injured hand clutched against his chest, Albert drew a stained razor from his jacket pocket. He joined his leader, who attempted to circle around me, swinging his rough cudgel. The dirty snow muffled their steps while the wind lifted errant flakes to twirl in distracting waves about our tense forms.

With Samdriel’s aid, though, I could see them quite distinctly. I noted their animalistic movements and the gaunt look of hunger on their faces. They were desperate not to lose anything more. The grasping greed behind their violence abruptly left me feeling drained. An overwhelming sensation of indifference and futility gripped me as I slumped on the spot, seemingly accepting my inevitable defeat. My show of weakness prompted the men to attack, but they were met with the unmatched strength of my wings! They caught my two attackers in their midsections, flinging their limp bodies next to their unconscious friend. I felt disgusted to have touched them at all with my beautiful wings, yet I resisted the urge to continue attacking them as I stared at their gasping, heaving bodies. They were beneath me. I spread my wings and launched myself into the sky without another glance.

For some reason, I was drawn to the riverside. After everything that had happened, the thought of returning to my cramped, dirty room at the inn repulsed me. In my carpetbag I carried all of my possessions; a change of clothes, a rapidly shrinking store of money and a pistol with silver bullets. The last, I had retrieved from Mama Grace’s desk in her beloved little cottage. It had been stored there as a failsafe should the day ever have arisen when it was revealed I carried my father’s lycanthropic curse. Unbeknownst to Mama Grace and Lady Bellingham, Samdriel had burned that curse from my blood the day we had merged ten years ago. But I had never told them I was a Host to a Nephilim. It was a secret matched and overwhelmed by all the ones they had kept from me.

The whisper of the river brought me back to the present, and I shoved the piece of rubble I held back into my carpetbag. Hot, frustrated tears pushed past my clamped lids, and my breathing began to deteriorate into sobs of regret, anger and hopelessness. The river took on a muffling, luring tone, drawing me closer to the bank’s edge as I wept. I could not rouse any sense of optimism for tomorrow. There existed no hope of finding my father in this city of hostile indifference. What was I to do? Where was I to go? I could see no end to the horrible despair of failure. Was there no place for me in all the world, just loneliness and a nameless fate in a back alley?

Despite my efforts to subdue them, thoughts of Ernest formed in my mind. Ernest had only ever hinted at the suffering he had endured after his bonding with Zhamuel. The lightning, the pain, the terror and the confusion following that battle and flight which had cast him out into a threatening world, pursued and pursuing enemies seeking his destruction. Everything he had withstood had driven him to conquer all the obstacles that would have defeated a less resolute and courageous person. For four years I had witnessed some of his suffering through a unique, dream-like bond we shared; never knowing my experiences of another Host were his, until sometime after we met. When our hearts and bodies had joined in love.

Think of him, Samdriel urged. Borrow his courage for your own and have faith. Please, Sally, turn away from these dark thoughts!

What is left for me, Samdriel? What future can I hope for? I was a fool to think I could simply swoop into London and drop into my father’s life. For all I know, he has another family with no space for the reminder of a tragedy from years ago. I left Briarstone and everyone because I was so angry ….

Rightly so.

Yet here I am, standing on the banks of the Thames in the snow and fog, having gained nothing … with no hope left to me tomorrow will be any different.

It will be Sally. I swear it! Trust me. I shall make it so, somehow!

His words both comforted and stung. I felt his love, but it was another example of someone for me to disappoint, to fail. Another day of emptiness.

I feel so tired of it all, Samdriel. I don’t have Ernest’s strength. I’m too weak … I-I could give you back your wings -.

No! I do not want them back! I bequeathed them to you for good reason. They are yours. Summon them and let us fly away from this dank, oppressive place. It is only temporary disappointment and fatigue that drag your thoughts down such dark avenues. Do … do not leave me, my cherished one … I could not bear it.

The poignancy of his plea cut through the whispering call of the water and the blankness of the night. Samdriel had had previous Hosts who had not died peacefully, where he had been incapable, for all his power, of preventing their deaths. Yet, each of their lives had guided him inexorably closer to the light as he now pulled at me. I had left everything else of value in my life. I could not do the same to him.

Perhaps … there is a park somewhere … or a patch of light … to hold onto until the dawn.

Yes! I am certain we shall find a place. I do not understand how I know but –.

Samdriel’s words were abruptly interrupted by the deep-throated bark of a large, black and white dog that appeared out of the mist. With an affable expression on its huge head, it trotted up to me, sat down and regarded me with a satisfied equanimity, startling in its intelligence. A moment later, the figure of a man, his face muffled by his greatcoat and top hat, came following briskly after.

Byron, you confounded beast. Why did you run off in such a – Oh, I beg your pardon, miss. I-I didn’t see you there.

As his clothes proclaimed him, the gentleman doffed his hat to reveal an abundance of fair hair and a pale narrow face with expressive green eyes that currently regarded me with a studied concern. It was obvious that there were few respectable reasons for a young woman to be standing on the banks of the Thames in the dark. Though his gaze was kind, I could only imagine what his thoughts might be. Uncertainty stilled my tongue, and I faltered for a reply. Luckily, he filled the gap while patting his dog’s broad head.

I do hope you were not too disturbed by Byron, miss. He is quite a harmless dog, but he does need some vigorous exercise now and then, which often brings us down this way. It … it can be a rather lonely stretch hereabouts and on nights like this, exceedingly easy to lose one’s way. Wouldn’t you agree?

His emphasis on the words ‘lose one’s way’ revealed his intuition about my state of mind, and I felt ashamed of my previous thoughts. I would only acknowledge to myself how bereft I had been. There was no need to burden this kind gentleman with my problems.

Yes … I did rather lose my way … in the fog.

Ah, I thought as much. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Mr. Adrien Wordsmith. If you would permit me, I would be honoured to escort you back home, Miss …?

Blackwell. Salome Blackwell, I responded with the name I had adopted upon my arrival in London. I-I do not wish to impose.

Thoughts of returning to my dreary room at the old inn dampened any enthusiasm with which I might have greeted his offer.

It would not be the slightest imposition, Miss Blackwell, he declared with a smile. And I know I shall feel extraordinarily relieved to see for myself you are commended to the safe keeping of your loved ones.

‘Loved ones’ did not remotely describe the crude owners of the inn where I had been staying. Their glittering, hard eyes had prompted Samdriel to advise me to prop the single chair in my room against the door at night and never to leave my carpetbag behind when we left to pursue our investigation. My distaste must have shown on my face for an expression of true compassion formed on Mr. Wordsmith’s visage.

You do have a … home, do you not, Miss Blackwell? Again, I could see his thoughts return to the dark reason I might be out here in the cold, foggy night.

I stumbled to answer his question; home meant so many conflicting things in my mind I was momentarily incapable of responding coherently to his inquiry. However, anything I might have said was interrupted by a sharp cry of alarm followed by a loud splash out in the fog-veiled water. Byron released another resounding bark and lunged down the bank and into the water before either Mr. Wordsmith or I could react. His master’s cries went unheeded as we both raced to the water’s edge in an attempt to discern what had driven the dog to such extremes.

In less than a minute, I saw the dog swimming swiftly towards the riverbank. In his mouth was a floundering white shape that could not resist the pull of Byron’s determined jaws. We rushed to greet him and helped pull the drenched and shivering figure from the water. It was a young woman, with cropped red-gold hair clinging in dripping waves to her face and wearing nothing more than a dingy, white shift.

There was no time to contemplate the astounding, inexplicable presence Byron had pulled from the river. Her violent shivering and chattering teeth prevented any intelligible exchange and prompted Mr. Wordsmith to remove his greatcoat and wrap it around her slender form. I could have easily lifted her myself with Samdriel’s power, but before I could offer such aid, the gentleman picked her up in his arms and began to stride hurriedly back up the bank.

Miss Blackwell, I must impose on you for some help in this matter. I have a dogcart for Byron nearby but must rely on you to support the young lady, while I hitch him up again, he exclaimed over his shoulder. I live not too far away. I shall ascertain there what more may be needed.

Of … of course, Mr. Wordsmith, I responded as I hastened after him, pausing only to retrieve my carpetbag.

His long strides swiftly bought us to the aforementioned dogcart. The woman was placed in the narrow seat and I scrambled up beside her. Adrien threw a faded blanket over our knees, and I strove to use some of Samdriel’s power, discreetly, to help warm the poor woman pressed weakly against me. The thought that she was, perhaps, someone who had fallen prey to the dark murmurings of the river and melancholic thoughts as I had very nearly done, provoked a profound sympathy within me. Heaven alone knew from what Samdriel’s care had saved me. Yet, this lost soul did not have the committed support of a loving spirit as I did. I vigorously rubbed her back and arms to add to the warmth that Samdriel shared. Then, with but a word from Adrien, the cart lurched forward, and we were off through the sooty snow and haze.

Chapter Two

It felt longer than Mr. Wordsmith had implied before we turned down a narrow alley behind a three-storied building. I immediately tensed with memories of my recent violent encounter, but the alley opened quickly unto a small courtyard. Mr. Wordsmith halted the cart alongside a back door and, drawing a key from his pocket, unlocked it before returning to us.

If you would please hold the door for us, Miss Blackwell, he instructed as he gathered the woman in his arms once more. I obeyed him instantly and stepped inside after him. We had entered a large kitchen with an impressive oven range beside which Mr. Wordsmith placed his burden. The woman appeared to be drifting into semi-consciousness, so I needed to prop her up to ensure she did not fall from her seat. With my position secure, he turned his attention to the embers in the oven’s chamber and prodded them back to life. He left the door open so that vital heat would emanate outwards more readily, and he even tossed in an extra scoop’s worth of coal. The warmth had an impressive, immediate effect on the pale woman, and she appeared to regain some alertness, though she had yet to utter a word.

Miss Blackwell, I realize after such a brief acquaintance, you have no reason to trust me and are in no way bound to assist me further, but might you make some tea while I attend to Byron at the moment? he inquired earnestly. Byron was letting out increasingly loud barks threatening to disturb the entire neighbourhood.

I shall attend her, Mr. Wordsmith. Do what you must.

Relief spread across his face, Thank you, Miss Blackwell. You will find the tea and cups in the cupboard by the stove.

With a slight bow, he dashed off to attend to his dog. Seeing that the woman had ceased her swaying, and was gazing as though mesmerized at the glow of the fire in the oven, I set about my appointed task. A kettle sat on the stovetop and I filled it with water from the pump at the sink. The other necessities were precisely where he had indicated, and it took but a few moments to have the leaves steeping in the pot. I noticed no presence of cream or sugar, so I presented a dark cup to the silent woman.

Here, drink this in small sips. It will make you feel better.

B-better, she murmured as she proceeded to obey my instructions. As she did so, I took the opportunity to observe her more closely. When I felt it next to me, her frame was thin, almost waifish though I suspected she was somewhat taller than I. Red-gold hair bobbed unexpectedly short, fell in soft waves to her collarbone, framing a lovely oval face, and sparkling hazel eyes moved to gaze in wonder and confusion at our surroundings. The dirty water of the Thames did not appear to cling to her as I expected, and the warmth of the oven seemed to dry her shift swiftly. Unsurprising, I supposed, as it was a light weight fabric, completely unsuitable to the season.

How are you feeling? I inquired softly as I poured cups of tea for myself and Mr. Wordsmith.

Better, she repeated shyly.

She does not appear to be entirely cognizant about what has happened to her, Samdriel noted curiously. Mr. Wordsmith and Byron entered the kitchen.

I proffered the prepared tea and exchanged it for my carpetbag. The dog immediately traipsed to the woman’s side and flopped in a damp heap at her feet to enjoy the oven’s heat. He lifted his large head to watch his rescued damsel, whom he observed with intense scrutiny. It was a scrutiny shared by his master, who stepped closer to the woman in her seat to give her a cursory examination. His regard drew no more response than my own. Indeed, the woman seemed to pay more attention to the dog at her feet than to us. Eventually, Mr. Wordsmith stepped away from her and came to my side.

She has said nothing to you, Miss Blackwell? he asked softly.

Not more than a word, Mr. Wordsmith, I replied in equal measure. She appears to be in a state of shock and confusion, though I did not note any wound upon her. I cannot explain how she came to be in the river.

He nodded slowly in acknowledgement as he stared at the woman. She, in her turn, was blithely bending over to stroke Byron’s massive head, drawing a deep, rumbling sigh from the dog. Mr. Wordsmith continued in his silent regard for the next few minutes until I began to feel uncomfortable. I wondered what excuse I had for remaining though I also felt reluctant to leave. My parting was inevitable now that the woman’s safety and health were secured.

Will you summon a doctor, Mr. Wordsmith? I do not have much, but I shall pay for…

What? Oh no, Miss Blackwell, he stated as his attention snapped back to my presence, I wouldn’t hear of your doing so. Apart from her curious state of mind, I believe all our charge needs is a good night’s rest. I have rooms to let, and at present, one of them is unoccupied. If you will lend me your aid once again, Miss Blackwell, we – Why dash it! What am I thinking? Please forgive me, my good woman. Surely, I have monopolized your service long enough, and your family will be exceedingly distressed by your absence. I must arrange for you to be returned to their embrace.

I-I… uh, I stammered with eyes lowered in shame, I can see to myself, sir. You … you should not trouble yourself further on my account.

My awkward words stilled his commentary, and he turned his piercing gaze upon me. I sensed his mind was once again replaying the moment of our meeting and my obviously distraught state by the river. Perhaps, he thought had he arrived a few moments later, Byron might have had to drag two drowning women from the water. Blissfully, his expression displayed simple, empathetic understanding, with only a trace of pity.

Miss Blackwell, forgive my forwardness but allow me to claim some forthrightness considering our recent activities, he began gently. Would I be correct in assuming that a person of your obvious qualities is not generally found wandering the banks of the Thames at night … alone? You do not have a family waiting upon your return, do you? Do you even have a home?

My throat constricted and prevented any answer I might give him. How was I to explain to him what home meant to me; a sweet-scented cottage with a genial fire in the hearth, a stately manor with a wondrous library or a place I had fled my lover’s embrace to seek a welcome from a father I had never met. Or a noisome inn with only Samdriel as my friend in a cold, inhospitable city that was as foreign to me as living on the moon would be. My silence stretched out, and my eyes remained fixated on the floor.

Miss Blackwell, I am going to propose a solution to your problem, and I insist on your allowing it. I have a room you may share with our friend, he began, stilling any protest as I opened my mouth to object. Do not let pride prompt you to an unwise decision. Let us simply agree that fate has brought us all together for a purpose and we would run a great risk in defying its inclinations. Also, you must surely acknowledge having you remain would do far more to set my conscience at ease than your departure ever could. Please, stay.

It-it is too … generous, sir. How could I repay you?

He paused but a moment before replying, Well, now, Miss Blackwell, I also own a shop decidedly in need of some organization and cataloguing – you see how my comment about fate is not so absurd now? I have been too engaged in various commissions and studies to make any headway in the matter. Such an occupation would be more than sufficient to recompense my generosity, as you term it. Would that be acceptable for you?

It was indeed more than sufficient, though I was left blinking in bewilderment at the swiftness by which my fortunes had turned. I could only nod like a fool and tremble with a relief that threatened to turn my knees to water. He gallantly distracted my overwhelmed nerves by proffering his hand.

Let us shake on it, he proclaimed as he took my limp appendage firmly, For I am quite certain we shall all be good friends.

Better, the woman stated from her seat by the oven.

Yes, much better, I responded with the first sincere smile I had felt in an age.

We were required to walk through the shop to reach the entrance to the apartments above. As we walked, myself as a prop to our damp friend and Mr. Wordsmith leading the way with a kerosene lamp, I could absorb a sense of the crowded area so in need of organizing. Mr. Wordsmith had not exaggerated from what I observed. Boxes of various articles were strewn about the floor, and the long glass counter that ran along one side was cloudy with dust and held a jumble of what appeared to be jewelry and other articles. Another section of shelves held a multitude of bottles and jars, the contents of which I could not discern. The facing wall supported a set of filing drawers that ran from floor to ceiling, out of which overflowed many parchments and assorted papers. All this I could see with Samdriel’s enhancement of my eyesight, and advantageously it allowed me to more efficiently navigate through the crowded and cluttered shop with my less-able partner. She had at least stopped dripping and, at times, would straighten her taller frame away from my smaller one to gaze about her into the shadows, as though she, too, was absorbing the astounding collection.

When we reached the side door, I heard Mr. Wordsmith chuckle. Perhaps you are now regretting agreeing to my offer so readily, Miss Blackwell. From the little you may have been able to see, you would have obtained a sense of the disarray to which I referred.

I am not distressed, Mr. Wordsmith, I replied. Such a task as you described is a small price to pay for the security it presents.

We stepped through the door into a broad hallway with a set of steps leading upwards. Another door closer to the base of the stairs opened to the street. Again, he led the way, pausing only to ensure our companion needed no extra support for the climb. She merely shook her head at his offered hand and continued to lean on me.

We stopped before a