Category:

"I—we had an argument." Stokes raised an eyebrow.

"It was brief, and then he was gone."

Stokes tapped his fingers against his trouser leg. "Can I ask, what is in Denmark?"

She shook her head. "He has a cousin there, I think."

"His name?" He pulled out a small piece of paper to capture her words in ink.

Harriet shook her head again. "I don't know..."

"Hmm." He dropped his hands to his sides and tipped his head slightly, never taking his eyes off her. "Not close with your father's family then?"

"No." Other than an unnamed cousin referenced when her father was particularly incensed, she didn't think he had any family. The only kin she had ever known was her cousin Eunice—a second cousin, really—and she was related on her mother's side. Harriet could sense Stokes's gaze on her.

She didn't like the way it made her feel. Like a liar, somehow. She wished she knew what exactly he wanted.

She suddenly noticed the thorns peeling away from the garden wall, creeping up behind Stokes at shoulder level. Her eyes widened, and she tried to breathe slowly—hoping that the plants would sense her calm—but she could only manage quick, shallow breaths. She stared down the brambles, and the spindly arms paused, appearing to decide something. Stokes swiveled around to see what she was looking at, but thankfully, the thicket had eased back against the garden wall, just in time. Seeing nothing amiss, he turned slowly to face Harriet. She tried to force a confident, polite smile though she could feel the sweat—simultaneously hot and cold—collecting at the back of her neck.

Harriet chanced a reluctant glance behind his other shoulder, worried that she would see watchful vines wriggling and curious rose blooms craning their necks to see what was to come. Inspector Stokes turned again. All was still. The house stood weakly behind the vines, like a drunkard leaning into the arms of a steady companion. The ivy pressed up innocently against the house and the roses looked perfectly demure.

Though when the man turned his back on the house again, they peeled themselves out of their stillness and began to hover.

Stop it, she mouthed at the vines. They did not retreat. Instead, she saw the ivy twisting and curling overhead, gathering momentum. Don't you dare.

Stokes was looking at her. "Your neighbors say you have a history of... strange behavior, Miss Hunt." He punctuated the word strange. She pulled her eyes from the garden, her attention snagging on his tone. He had spoken to the neighbors, then. About her. She could feel him searching her, as if she were an interesting object, a curiosity, or something even more rare.

Stokes looked her up and down with squinting eyes, as if bringing her stained dress and mussed-up hair into focus. "Where did you get that scar?"

She blinked to bring him into focus now too. There was a flash in his eyes that made her pause. Was it contempt? No, she knew quite clearly what that looked like. It was more like cunning. She could not pinpoint it, exactly, but it made her skin prickle. It also made the thorns on the cabbage roses thicken and sharpen. The garden had sensed it too, then.

"It's from when I was a girl."

Hearing a rustling behind her, Harriet took a panicked sidestep toward the front garden, hoping he would turn away from the roses. The pale blossoms of the Madame Audots bobbed, leaned in, listened.

Thankfully, Stokes swiveled to follow her. She closed her eyes tightly, willing the garden to relax. Stop it. Stop it. Stop it she mouthed silently again.

"Have you been living here alone, Miss Hunt?" Stokes asked.

Harriet barely heard him. Leave it, she muttered through clenched teeth, her eyes still on the roses. The advancing stems hesitated, and she dipped her face to try to hide her hard glare. After a beat, which felt surreally like disappointment, the garden subsided, and she watched the flowers settle back into place.

"Miss Hunt." His impatience was unveiled now, as if he were addressing an unmanageable child.

"Sorry?" A single bead of sweat dripped down Harriet's back, but she let her shoulders release.

"Who supports you? How are you able to live here on your own, a young woman, with no husband or father?" He had his pen and paper out again.

Now that the garden was still, she could finally think. Who supported her? She supported herself. What choice did she have? A monthly trip to the pawnbrokers was how she had gotten by so far, but she would soon run out of carpets, dishes, trinkets, ornaments, candlesticks, and her mother's jewelry—all of it. Thankfully, she had convinced her landlord to allow monthly, rather than annual payments. Her father had been quite fond of expensive things, for better or worse, and it had been helpful for the past several months, but by now, the interior of the house was all but bare. Just a few necessities remained in Harriet's possession: one chair in the parlor, a breakfast table, a few dishes given to her by Eunice, a worn-down, old-fashioned kitchen table. There was the Dutch clock in the front passage, which was lacquered oak and brass, and which she would be happy to be rid of—but the glass face was cracked. She was sure it would sell for very little. And of course, there was the lovely Henry Pickering landscape hanging in the parlor, which she hoped would be worth a fair amount should she need it, but it was the one thing in the house she didn't mind looking at.