12

London, Tuesday, June 8

Herman now had a large workbench and a drawer full of tools dedicated to his use. He was happily turning out lamps fashioned from all manner of odds and ends. The Italian delighted in something profitable being produced out of an item he’d been unable to sell, and Herman often found his ingenuity challenged, yet he was content. He was never happier than when his mind and hands were working together to resolve a problem or create something useful.

Luigi called him in after the shop closed. “Herr Grüber sent you a letter. He enclosed it in a walking stick he and I use for messages. He sells it to me with a message inside, then I sell it back with the reply.”

Herman swallowed hard, wiping his hands on his apron. “What’s it say?”

The Italian shrugged. “It’s addressed to you, Signore. I may be a dishonest man, but I don’t read other people’s mail.”

Herman took the tube of paper and carefully unrolled it.

Berlin, June 4, 1897

Herr Ott,

The hunt for you goes on, and I regret I have no good news for you. It grieves me to inform you your beloved Astrid is dead. Apparently, she hanged herself.

The last message I received before the telephone was discovered informed me that a Professor Bell from Scotland and a Miss Margaret Harkness from England had been employed to find the source of leaks from Herr Adler’s office and had sent the police to your home. Astrid was already quite despondent after they turned the house over, breaking one or two family heirlooms in the process, and one policeman confiscated her journal to see if there was incriminating evidence inside.

When I mentioned the name Harkness to her, she became quite upset. It seems this woman was Astrid’s favorite author, and when she heard Miss Harkness was partly responsible for your being hunted, she was devastated. I had no idea the name had any significance to her and shall carry the guilt of her death for the rest of my life.

Your child is fine, and will be well-tended by his grandparents, but Frau Vogel holds you accountable for Astrid’s death. I am certain she would turn you over to the authorities or shoot you herself to make sure you never raise your son.

Your sacrifice for our cause will be remembered.

I shall visit when I can to see how I can help you begin life anew in England.

I am so very sorry.

K Grüber

Herman stared at the paper in his hands. Ordinary paper. No fancy seals, ribbons, or illustrations, yet it was the most potent paper he had ever seen. A few marks on it, and his life was altered forever. Astrid gone. His son lost to him. A door had closed behind him he could never reopen without risking years in prison or worse. He was too shocked to cry and sat down hard on the nearest chair, incapable of thought or feeling, his mind rejecting the words on the paper for as long as it could stand to do so.

He’d never believed in magic, yet here it was. He walked into a room one man, and by the evil enchantment of this small scroll, he would leave as another. He cursed Herr Vogel, who’d led him to Grüber, whom he cursed even more. Then another name came to mind. Harkness. It was the author’s name that had pushed Astrid over the edge. And she lived in England.

Herman thought of the rifle in the case put away in his new apartment. He had laden himself with Herr Ott’s Meisterstück in deference to his father-in-law. Perhaps Befreier could liberate him from some of the pain in his soul. Miss Harkness had broken Astrid’s heart. He would pierce hers in return.