14th January, 1889 — The Devine House, Wellingtonshire
She was taunting him now. She might have been taunting him before, but she had not said a word since his last - first - sighting of her, and he had not found her since, had almost convinced himself that he had only imagined her, unsettled himself with his own paranoia.
But, no. The letter had come from her, and come in a tone he did not like. The dead did not get the luxury of making interjections - Nicky might have the unusual luxury of walking and talking and living, but Max would be no more generous than that. Whatever it was she thought she was doing, she did not get to exist in his life.
He didn't want to let her think she had gotten to him, though. He hadn't responded to the note. He had waited as long as he could. But, all the same, he could not simply let this lie. Where had she gone, then? Max could only imagine that she had run out of alternative options, and run home. Or as close to a home as she had, these days, with the rest of the Dippets all dead and buried.
He had come to the Wellingtonshire address with the casual pretence of a calling card, glancing at the windows from the street and picturing Nicky behind one of the window panes, a mere heartbeat away, so at a loss in the tatters of her own life that she had encroached upon her younger sister's, beseeching the new Mrs. and Mr. Devine to help her.
Well, if Nicky was here, he would find out soon enough. He had left his card with a servant, only to hear that the mistress of the house was, as it happened, at home. Excellent. If anyone knew where his truant wife was, it would be her sister.
"Mrs. - Devine now, I hear," Max declared, pleasantly, when he was shown in. "It's been quite some time."
But, no. The letter had come from her, and come in a tone he did not like. The dead did not get the luxury of making interjections - Nicky might have the unusual luxury of walking and talking and living, but Max would be no more generous than that. Whatever it was she thought she was doing, she did not get to exist in his life.
He didn't want to let her think she had gotten to him, though. He hadn't responded to the note. He had waited as long as he could. But, all the same, he could not simply let this lie. Where had she gone, then? Max could only imagine that she had run out of alternative options, and run home. Or as close to a home as she had, these days, with the rest of the Dippets all dead and buried.
He had come to the Wellingtonshire address with the casual pretence of a calling card, glancing at the windows from the street and picturing Nicky behind one of the window panes, a mere heartbeat away, so at a loss in the tatters of her own life that she had encroached upon her younger sister's, beseeching the new Mrs. and Mr. Devine to help her.
Well, if Nicky was here, he would find out soon enough. He had left his card with a servant, only to hear that the mistress of the house was, as it happened, at home. Excellent. If anyone knew where his truant wife was, it would be her sister.
"Mrs. - Devine now, I hear," Max declared, pleasantly, when he was shown in. "It's been quite some time."
