The gunshot cracked through the dawn like God's own wrath. Eliza wheeled her horse, heart seizing as Theodore slumped forward, a crimson bloom spreading across his shoulder.
"*Theodore!*"
Corbyn leveled his pistol again, but Jem—quick as a gutter rat—darted from the hedgerow and sank his teeth into the man's wrist. The second shot went wild.
"Go!" Theodore rasped, clutching his wound. "Take the boy!"
Eliza hesitated, torn.
"*Now!*"
She hauled Jem onto her saddle, spurring the horse into a gallop. Behind them, steel clashed—Theodore's blade meeting Corbyn's curses.
* * *
They rode until the horse foundered, collapsing at a hedgerow inn. Eliza bribed the stablemaster with Margaret's serpent ring, securing a garret room and a bottle of gin.
Jem huddled by the fire, eyes hollow. "Is he dead?"
"No," Eliza lied, stitching her voice with a confidence she didn't feel. "He's… indestructible."
The boy's tears fell silently. Eliza pressed the gin to his lips. "Drink. Then sleep."
When he finally stilled, she crept to the window. The road was empty. No sign of Theodore. No sign of hope.
* * *
Dawn's second blush brought hoofbeats. Eliza grabbed the fire poker, shielding Jem as the door crashed open.
Theodore stood in the threshold, bloodied but alive, Corbyn's pistol in his hand.
Eliza's knees buckled.
He caught her, his breath ragged. "Told you… I'm hard to kill."
She kissed him—desperate, salty with tears and blood—then shoved him away. "You *fool*! You could've—"
"Died? It's an old habit." He slumped into a chair, peeling back his coat. The bullet had grazed his shoulder, raw but clean. "Corbyn's fled. For now."
Jem stirred. "You came back."
Theodore's gaze softened. "I always do."
* * *
They pressed north to Liverpool, the *Aurora*'s sails set for Naples. Theodore bribed the captain with the last of Margaret's silver, securing a berth reeking of salt and rat piss.
"Charming," Eliza muttered, swatting a roach.
Theodore leaned against the bulkhead, wincing. "Next time, we elope to Paris."
Her pulse skipped. "Is that a proposal?"
"A threat." But his eyes held hers a beat too long.
* * *
The voyage was a purgatory of storms and stale biscuits. Jem clung to Eliza by day, Theodore by night. In the dark, they whispered plans.
"The convent of Santa Lucia," Theodore said, tracing the ring's serpent. "Margaret sent money yearly, though the child… She never visited."
"Guilt," Eliza murmured.
"Or fear."
A wave crashed, the ship groaning. Eliza steadied herself against him. "What was her name? The girl."
"Alessandra." The word was a prayer, a curse.
* * *
Naples stank of citrus and sewage. The convent perched on a cliff, white walls glaring under a pitiless sun. The Mother Superior received them in a parlor smelling of incense and decay.
"You come for the child," she said, not a question.
Theodore placed the serpent ring on her desk. "We need proof of her death. A lock of hair. The seal."
The nun's eyes narrowed. "Why?"
"To protect her mother," Eliza said.
A pause. Then the nun rose. "Follow me."
* * *
The crypt was a bone-chilled hollow beneath the chapel. The Mother Superior stopped before a tiny sarcophagus. *Alessandra Hale. 1809-1812.*
"Open it," Theodore said.
"No!" Eliza grasped his arm. "It's sacrilege—"
"We need the hair. The seal."
The nun crossed herself. "The child is not here."
Eliza stilled. "What?"
"The coffin is empty. The girl was taken."
Theodore's face drained. "By whom?"
"Men. The night after she died. They left gold. A warning."
Eliza gripped the cold stone. "Where is she?"
The nun's whisper was a shroud. "Only the dead know."
* * *
Back in the sunlight, Theodore staggered. "She's alive. All this time—*alive*."
Eliza steadied him. "Or a corpse sold to anatomists. We don't know—"
"*We* don't." He wrenched free. "But Margaret will. She lied. She *knew*."
Jem tugged Eliza's sleeve. "The bad man's here."
Across the piazza, Corbyn leaned against a fountain, grinning.
* * *
That night, in a dockside tavern, Theodore drank like a man courting death. Eliza watched, her own wine untouched.
"We'll return to Willowmere," she said. "Confront Margaret. Learn the truth."
"Truth?" He laughed bitterly. "My family is a nest of lies. My father, Margaret, *me*."
She grabbed his wrist. "You're not like them."
"Aren't I?" His gaze seared hers. "I brought you here to lie, cheat, steal. For what? A child who's ash? A sister who's a stranger?"
Eliza's voice broke. "For *us*."
He stilled. "There is no *us*. There's only this—the debts, the blood. I'll drown you in it, Eliza."
She kissed him—fierce, furious. "Then drown."
* * *
A scream shattered the night. *Jem.*
They found his room ransacked, a note pinned to the bed with a stiletto:
*"Come home, Ashford. Or the boy meets Alessandra."*