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Wales. Better there for people like him.
People like us." His fingers suddenly stilled and he clenched an
onion in his fist. His head jerked up and his pitch-black gaze
drilled into me. "Go! Now! Leave Louis be. He is my only son."
    "But Papa," Cara begged, "tell us where to
find him. He is my brother and Emily's father."
    François shook the onion at her. "Go away!
You not my daughter no more. You be with them now. They trouble,"
he muttered. "Girls always bring trouble."
    I clasped Cara's hand and drew her away from
my grandfather, her father. It was a mistake to come to the market.
We weren't going to get answers from him. We would simply have to
wait for Louis to come to us. He had once, hopefully he would
again.
    "How did you live with him for as long as you
did?" I asked Cara as we wended our way through the stalls selling
everything from eels to hair combs, sherbet to Dutch dolls.
    "We didn't talk much. He brought home food
and I kept out of his way. He wasn't like a real father. He didn't
even know about me until I was eight."
    That she could speak so calmly about her
father's disregard amazed me. He had not asked her how she fared
with us, people who'd been complete strangers to her mere weeks
ago. Then again, Cara was quite detached. Her eyes lit up at all
the usual things, like new clothes or toys or a plate full of
cakes, but when it came to more serious emotions, she seemed
incapable of feeling anything.
    I took her hand and was
surprised that it trembled. It seemed I was wrong. She was upset by the
encounter. It amazed me that it didn't show on her face.
    I squeezed her fingers and she squeezed back
but neither of us spoke of François Moreau again.
    We dodged the early morning shoppers and
loafers and made our way up Leather Lane. Street sellers shouted
over each other to catch our attention, but we ignored them. The
man with shrimps poking out of his hat-band crying, "Shrimps at a
penny a pint," smelled particularly foul. We gave him the widest
berth of all.
    "I must get to George's," I said, hurrying
Cara through the maze. "I'll see you home safely first."
    "I can go on my own."
    "I know, but I would be a terrible niece if I
allowed my aunt to roam the streets unattended."
    She giggled and I grinned. We both saw the
absurdity of an aunt being seven years younger than the niece.
    "Are you going to look through Mr. Culvert's
books to find out why Mr. Beaufort is fading in and out?" she asked
when her giggles subsided.
    "Yes." It was nice not to be the only one
able to see and hear spirits anymore, even though it meant I
couldn't have secret conversations with Jacob when she was near.
Cara's very existence made me feel less of a freak.
    As luck would have it, an omnibus was letting
off passengers and continuing in our direction. It had seats inside
where it was warmer than riding on top, and I informed the
conductor we wished to travel as far as Chelsea.
    "Can I help you and Mr. Culvert?" Cara asked
as we took our seats.
    "Not yet," I said. "But I'll be sure to let
you know if there's something you can do."
    "Good. I don't like being
left out. I am ten, you know, not a baby."
    ***
    I made sure Cara arrived home safely, then I
set off again before Celia could stop me. No doubt Cara would tell
her where we'd been and I would get a lecture about my disobedience
later. So be it.
    George was just stepping out of his carriage
when I strolled up to his Wilton Crescent house. "Emily!" he said,
beaming. "What a lovely surprise." Then he suddenly frowned. "Or is
it? You look a little anxious."
    "I am." I decided not to tell him about my
father's return. That could wait until after I'd spoken to Louis
and learned of his plans. Besides, there were more troubling
matters to address. "Something's happened in the Waiting Area. If
I'd known you were going to be out and about early I would have
come straight after breakfast. I thought you might sleep late." The
Belgravia set often didn't rise until late in the morning, or so
I'd