He didn’t take them, even though his hands itched to hold them all. “And I suppose you’ll send a number occasionally? I won’t be able to get them until we are connected to the cable at Myriad Island, you know.” He frowned. “And if you’re in Shanghai, there will be quite a bit of delay.”
“I’ll send my usual notes.” She smiled at him. “And I’ll be in Hong Kong for these next weeks anyway. But don’t wait for me. Count something when you need it. Breezes. Seagulls. Whatever you wish. There are numbers enough in the world. Whichever number you choose, that’s the one I want you to have.”
He reached and took the stack against his better judgment. He fanned the corners of the envelopes, felt a gentle breeze arise as he did. The last one was numbered ninety-seven. That was so many.
I want you to be happy. It was the hardest thing she could have asked for, and he didn’t know what to do with her wish. I feel it. Here.
A rap sounded at the door. He shut his eyes. “That will be Lao. The Celerity is supposed to leave this afternoon.”
“I know.”
“I must go make sure she is ready.”
“I know,” Amelia said again softly.
Grayson had neither the words nor the time to tell her what he was thinking. He wasn’t even sure he knew it himself. Instead, he took her face in his hands and kissed her. He kissed her gently, tongue running against the seam of her lips, then deeper as she opened to him. He kissed her, searching, not knowing what he was looking for. He kissed her over and over until the rap sounded at his door again.
“Captain Hunter?” Lao called.
He nodded, pulling away from her. “Coming.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
The indistinct green silhouette of Victoria Peak stood in counterpoint to the rolling gray-blue waters of Victoria Harbor. Benedict stood at the pier watching passengers disembark in ones and threes and sixes. He only set forward when his eyes lit on a two: two women, one young, the other graying, talking to a Chinese porter about the disposition of their luggage.
He came to stand behind the two women, hands clasped behind his back, waiting for them to notice him.
“I’m so nervous,” the younger woman was saying. “It’s been more than a decade. She won’t recognize me. She might not even remember me.”
She shook her head, and as she did, she turned enough to see Benedict watching her and obviously listening to their conversation.
Their hair was not the exact same shade of blond. Hers was sun-bleached at the ends to something paler than his sandy curls. But their eyes were the same shade of blue. They had the same nose. The same mouth, even if hers scrunched in annoyance while his broadened into a grin.
Benedict raised one hand in greeting. “Hullo, there.”
It had been years since they’d seen each other, and yet his sister rolled her eyes. “We don’t want whatever you’re selling,” she called, turning away from him. “We have neither time nor interest.”
He had one moment of shock, followed by a swell of unholy amusement.
“Are you sure?” Benedict asked. “I’m selling—” He stuck a hand in his pocket, fishing about. “This fine linen handkerchief. A mere five hundred pounds. It’s only slightly used.”
She stared at him in utter disbelief and he burst into laughter. “She really won’t recognize you,” he managed to get out between guffaws. “It’s been three years since you saw me, and you already don’t know me.”
A pause. Benedict saw Theresa’s shoulders draw together. She raised one hand, finger already pointing, ready to jab.
He caught her hand before she could manage so much as a single poke.
“You!” She snatched her hand away from him entirely. “Did you not get my telegram? Did you not see my words? I said under no circumstances were you to be present.”
“Oh,” Benedict said cheerily, “I got it.”
“Explain yourself! These are definite circumstances. How can you be here? Have you any defense?”
“The best defense.” Benedict motioned her to lean in closer.
She did so.
He whispered, “I decided you were being ridiculous.”
The older woman—the Dowager Marchioness of Trent—simply sighed. “Good afternoon, Benedict.”
“Oh.” He straightened and turned to her. “My lady. Um. It’s been a while. I hope you are well?”
“As you can see.” She shrugged. “Theresa, talk to your brother. I’ll go find transportation.”
Theresa nodded before rounding on Benedict. “What’s this about me being ridiculous? I’ll tell you what’s ridiculous. It’s ridiculous how tall you’ve become. And your voice. What is that thing?” She dropped hers an octave. “You sound like a brute.”
“I’ve grown a bit.”
“You seem to have outgrown basic facts alongside everything else. Must I remind you? I have indulged in fugitation! And you have been allowed outside of England only to bring me home. If we meet and are discovered, the jig is up. We are finished.” She made a slash with her hand across his chest.
Benedict shrugged. “Why?”
“Why? Why, he asks. We agreed! Has your head become a turnip?”
“It’s a serious question,” Benedict said. “Explain to me how we are finished. Suppose I sent Judith a letter six months ago saying that I have no intention of going back to England and doing my duty. Then what happens?”
“Why are you asking?” Theresa stomped her foot. “Judith would be upset and angry and then…” She trailed off. “Um.”
Benedict couldn’t help himself. He laughed. “Ah, see. I always thought you were so clever.”
“I am clever.”
“But you were hung up on this longer than I was! It makes sense that you ran away from home. If you hadn’t, Judith would have sat on you.”
“Exactly.” Theresa nodded.
“And it makes sense that I used you as an excuse to get her permission to leave. I was fourteen and had no money at the time. It makes sense that we had to do ridiculous things to get out.”
She nodded slowly. “Yes.”
“But she can’t actually make us go back. And I did send her a letter months ago. You can do the same. You’re only fugitating for the fun of it.”
Theresa took this in, biting her lip. Finally, she looked up at him. “My God.” She shook her head. “You have grown. Ridiculous.”
He had grown. He could feel it in him, a sureness of purpose he had once lacked. He wasn’t sure he could communicate all the ways he had changed yet. He wasn’t sure he understood them himself.
“You’re about to go introduce yourself to a sister I’ve never met,” Benedict said. “It’s absurd that you think I can’t come with you.”
Theresa met his gaze. Then she gave him a sharp nod. “Very well. Let’s go. I suppose it’s lucky we met. Without you, I would have had to hire someone to show me the way.”
Myriad Island in mid-September was a chilly—but not yet freezing—spit of rock and ice. From Grayson’s vantage point on board the Victory, half a mile away, the island where they had built the telegraphic junction was scarcely more than a dark blob the size of his fist.