The room tilted. Henri caught me and lowered me to the floor, where I lay stretched at length upon the carpet. He took out his handkerchief and pressed it to the left side of my chest with bloodied hands.

Something hit the rug with a muffled thud. I turned my head a little at the sound, fearing Paul might yet carry out his threat, but the gun lay abandoned at his feet.

"I've killed him. Oh, God..."

Paul sounded duly stricken at the thought, lending me a small measure of satisfaction, though it came at enormous cost.

Henri rose quickly and retrieved the pistol.

"You haven't, yet," he said, heedless of his suit as he knelt at my side again. "But if he dies, Barrington, I swear I will see you get the chair for it."

I did not doubt Henri would see it done, and Paul's uneasy silence proved he shared my conviction.

"Well, don't just stand there, you fool," Henri snapped. "Call a doctor!"

Paul startled. "I — of course."

He retreated into his study. I feared he might fetch another weapon, but a moment later I heard his voice through the wall.

"Yes, Operator. Get me Doctor Mason. At once."

That was the imperious Paul I knew. It seemed the trouble of my dying had dawned on him, and he had as much, or perhaps more, interest in saving himself as he had in saving me.

Henri leaned over me.

"Is it... very bad?" I asked.

"A shoulder wound," he said, which did not answer my question.

Paul returned, pale and looking everywhere but at me. "The doctor's on his way. Fifteen minutes, tops."

"Pray he arrives sooner," Henri murmured.

"I suppose you'll be wanting the police, as well," Paul said, beginning to pace.

Henri glanced up at him. "There will be time enough for that, if they are needed."

If Paul had murdered me, he meant.

I wasn't sure he hadn't, yet. My thoughts came slowly and were strange. I felt not so much pain, but a heat and pressure spreading from my shoulder and throbbing with the beat of my heart. Small things held my attention. One of Henri's springy curls had broken free and dangled above his left eye; I had no time at all, yet time enough to count the freckles that dusted his cheeks.

More distantly, I registered that the pressure bearing down on me was his hands as he tried to staunch the flow of blood.

The heat receded; a creeping chill took its place. I began to tremble.

"Why did you do that, Alec?" he asked, his measured tone edged with grief. "Why?"

My breath lacked the power to give my voice sound, and my words came in whispers. "I couldn't let him... hurt you. Couldn't let him... anyone else... I love."

He dared to touch my face.

"It hurts more on this side, mon amour, I assure you," he said with a trace of wry humor.

I smiled, or thought I did. Henri's expression shifted towards urgency. "Alec, stay with me." He turned and shouted at Paul. "Fetch a blanket. He's gone into shock."

Paul's footsteps retreated. My gaze slid past Henri to a figure who stood at his back. Imagined, I knew; but I smiled anyway as the darkness took me in its embrace.

"Thomas..."

***

I did not die, of course. How else would I record all this? But I am told it was a very close thing.

I awoke on a sofa in Paul's sitting room, propped up on pillows. Bandages swathed my chest, and my head swam with the lingering effects of morphine. The night had passed into the early hours of the following day, and the guests had gone home.

Henri sat near at hand, watching over me. In another part of the house, loud voices argued, one of which I recognized as Paul's.

I tried to sit up; Henri prevented me.

"Alec! Dieu merci. No, no — don't move." He sprang up, went to the door, and called for someone, returning swiftly to my side.

Moments later, a man appeared, whom I didn't recognize. He was quite red in the face and mopped at his brow.

"Ah, the patient is awake!" he exclaimed, shedding anger for a measure of relief I found rather strange from someone I'd never seen before. Henri rose, making way, and the man took his chair. His next words made things clear. "I am Dr. William Mason," he said, grasping my wrist in one hand and his pocket watch in the other, "and you are a very lucky man."

"I don't feel so lucky," I whispered hoarsely, and winced. My chest and left side, including my arm, burned as if on fire.

"The anesthetic will be wearing off," Dr. Mason said. "I will give you more, but it will make you drowsy again. You may want to hold off until you are at home in Mr. Deschamps's care."

"I will take responsibility for my friend," Henri said, "but is it safe to move him so soon?"

Dr. Mason's face darkened. "Not at all! But safer than to remain here. I'm supposed to report a gunshot wound, you know. Mr. Barrington has advised me against it. I've told him I will leave it to the victim to decide."

I looked up at Henri. He gave me a nod of encouragement.

"No. There's no need. It was an accident."

The doctor's brows bristled. "You were nearly killed, young man," he said gravely. "The bullet grazed an artery. One fraction of an inch more to the right and I'd be speaking to the coroner. Now, are you certain you don't want me to give a report?"

"I'm certain," I said.

Unhappily, he nodded. "Very well, very well. I will leave you to rest, then." He stood and handed Henri his card. "Call me if there is any change," he said, by which I gathered he meant for the worse, and took his leave.

With the help of Arthur and Paul's valet, Henri and I left soon after. We did not encounter Paul, for which I was grateful, and for which I was certain I owed Henri.

The ride to Spruce Street passed in a nightmare haze of confusion and pain, but as soon as I gained the safety of Henri's home, I felt at ease. I could not manage the stairs in my condition, but Arthur — hale and hearty despite his years — carried me up to my room. I would have been mortified, were I not suffering.

Once I'd been laid in bed and tended to, Henri administered another merciful dose of morphine. I knew, even as I slipped into unconsciousness, that I might not wake again, but the thought did not trouble me. My heart, like Thomas, was finally at rest.

***

Some ten days later, I lay propped up in bed, a breakfast tray resting on my lap, while Henri sat in a chair by the window, reading the morning paper. The pain in my shoulder had receded to a dull ache, only intensifying to a sharp stab when I moved my arm the wrong way. I wore a sling to keep from irritating the wound and weathered the discomfort rather than risk becoming addicted to the morphine that dulled it.

Henri had scarcely left my side. I always woke with my hand in his, and he hadn't styled his hair in days. Without oil or pomade to hold it in place, it surrounded his head in a fluffy cloud, which I found quite charming.

Both Dr. Mason and Dr. Katz visited me almost daily. The former watched for signs of infection; the latter listened to my heart and clucked his tongue, as if getting myself shot were merely an example of youth neglecting health.

As of yesterday afternoon, both doctors had decided I was sufficiently on the mend that the funeral could be postponed, for now.

With my mind my own once more, I steeled myself to ask for the details Henri had so far withheld.

"You haven't told me what deal it is you've made with Paul," I began, as I broke the top of my egg with the back of my spoon. "I'm assuming our silence in exchange for his cooperation?"

The paper rustled as Henri folded it and set it aside. "Ironically, yes. The séance has made Thomas's paintings unsellable — at least as undiscovered masterworks. That, of course, was our intent." He looked at me over the top of his cup as he sipped his tea.

"What about Harold's confession?" I asked.

Henri sighed. "It is clear enough what happened. Thomas objected to Paul's plans; Paul struck him a blow with some object, probably from behind, and killed him."

"Paul doesn't do well under pressure, as you've seen," I said. "He would have regretted it as soon as it was done."

Henri's mouth tightened. "If you mean to say he is an impulsive child and a coward, then I must agree. He is lucky there were cooler minds at hand."

"Rachel or Lucy proposed the bridge," I murmured, lost in the pattern of the blue and white quilt that covered me. "And Harold took the body and threw it over. It was all too believable. Even I never questioned it."

A small silence passed.

"Sadly, it is unprovable," Henri concluded. "But they know that we know the truth, and at least half of them believe Thomas was really in that room. You put on a magnificent performance."

I raised my eyes to his. "I'm half convinced he was there, myself. I saw him, you know. When..."

I gave my attention to my egg and toast. Henri refilled his cup.

He cleared his throat. "At any rate, the good news is that Paul confessed it was the Durhams who possessed the stolen art. Rachel's brother — the one running the estate back in England now — was a captain in the British army, and not at all averse to profits of opportunity. He amassed quite a collection over the course of the war. Rachel and her father turned this into a brisk little business on the black market to keep the estate afloat. Then, when Rachel learned of Paul's troubles, she offered her expertise rather than throw him over."

I snorted into my teacup. "It's not as if Paul is any less wealthy for his debts," I said. "It was only his reputation at stake. Rachel still gets a fortune by marrying him. And yet..." I shook my head. "I never would have suspected her."

"It is the great tragedy of our sex that we underestimate the other," Henri remarked. "Women who cannot express their brilliance learn to hide it well. Rachel has the mind of a general, but a body that society forbids its potential. I cannot even condemn her, really."

I set my cup on the tray. "What about the art?"

"It has all been turned over. All that was in their possession this side of the Atlantic, anyway. The rest is another matter, for another day."

"And Thomas's?"

Henri smiled. "Recovered as well. It is yours, now — yours to do with as you will."

I rested on that for a moment, thinking. Then, "And Paul's debts?"

Henri arched an eyebrow at me. "If you really care to know, Harold Bowman dropped the matter like a lit stick of dynamite the moment a whisper of 'murder' touched the air. It turns out it was Lucy who bet on the winning horse, not Harold, and she who offered her winnings to Paul in exchange for backing Harold's career. The lot of them want nothing to do with each other now."

I finished my breakfast, lost in thought. Finally, as I set aside the tray, I looked back at Henri, who had given his attention to the view beyond the windowpanes.

"The mystery is solved, then. What will you do now?" I asked.

"I will return to France, at least temporarily."

"Temporarily?"

"Oui. If you will not come with me, I will make a life for myself here."

I looked at my hands, my mouth twisted with nameless emotion. "I... don't want you to give anything up for me," I said.

"No?"

I shook my head. "No. I don't want anything from you. The same way you don't want anything from me."

"You do not understand." Henri rose and came to my side, surprising me as he knelt beside the bed and took my hand in his. "I do want something from you, Alec. The difference, I hope, is that I only want what is freely given. Your love, if I am worthy; your time, if you will spare it; your life, if you will spend it with me."

At a loss for words, I stared at him. It was fine to say as much; fine to believe it, even, but a lot to ask.

I withdrew my hand. "I don't know what I have to give, yet." I said.

He did not hide his hurt or disappointment, but he nodded his assent. "Of course. Your time is your own to take, and I am a patient man."

***

A month later, I went home, one more time, to Mantua Avenue. The key grated in the lock; the door opened with a swish of stale air, coughing dusty memories in my face. Ever since my second brush with death, it was as if I saw the past more clearly than ever: myself and Eddie as children, dashing up and down the stairs, before illness left its mark on me; Mother and Father, faded to snippets of caricature, moving from love to what led to parting. Eddie filling the void as best he could; a Christmas dinner of tinned ham and bread, which was nonetheless a joyous one. The draft letter in the mail; my stagnant loneliness; the fragile house of cards I'd built myself to live in.

I made the climb to the attic, minding each step, and opened Eddie's sea chest again. I removed the contents one at a time. Held each. Breathed them in. Packed them away again.

Downstairs, I stood for a long time in the silence, listening to the past, letting it speak to me and say what it would, until I had absorbed its message.

When there was nothing more to say, I donned my hat and coat, careful of the sling I still wore, and let myself out.

"Goodbye, Eddie," I said, and locked the door.

***

At the docks, Henri greeted me with quiet warmth, his elegance framed by the morning light. I returned his smile. Porters loaded our trunks aboard the steamer, bound for France, and we mounted the gangplank, leaving Philadelphia behind. As the ship's engines chugged to life, carrying us from the mouth of the Delaware and into the Atlantic, I stood at the bow with Henri at my side, and did not look back.

~ Fin ~