TO GET TO THE LIGHT, JULIAN CLIMBS A FAMILIAR-LOOKING iron staircase, narrow like a ladder. When he pops open the grate and climbs out, he finds himself back in the Transit Room inside the Royal Observatory.
“Ashton?” he calls out. How could it not work! Julian had been drifting down the river for so long. But it’s unmistakable: though the window to the courtyard and the roof are closed, the familiar telescope is in front of him, and the black stairs flank it. Ashton is nowhere to be found. Neither is Sweeney.
Nope, that’s not true. There’s Sweeney. First the shuffling of torpid footsteps, and here comes the heavy man, huffing and panting. He’s dressed more formally than a minute ago. He wears a funny hat.
“Sweeney,” a crushed Julian says. “It’s you.”
“Who else would it be,” Sweeney says. “I’m the caretaker, I’m always here. And who might you be?”
“It’s me, Sweeney. Where’s Ashton?”
“Who’s Ashton? And who the bloody crickets are you?”
Before Julian can answer, a gray-haired, dapper man in his fifties—wearing no less than a frock coat and top hat—enters the Transit Room. “Mr. Sweeney!” the man exclaims. “Did you see the sun flare just now? I was nearly blinded. That was the largest one yet. Do you have my pen? I must record it in my notebook—” He spots Julian and stops speaking. Turning sharply, he glares at the caretaker. “Mr. Sweeney! I thought I had made it abundantly clear. There are to be no visitors at my Observatory before noon, and certainly not at any time near my telescope.”
“It is noon, Mr. Airy.”
Mr. Airy! Could this be George Airy, Britain’s most famous Astronomer Royal? George Airy not only invented Julian’s mystical telescope but presided over the reorganization of the Observatory during the period that just happened to coincide (or correlate?) with Britain’s unmatched navigational prowess. Under Airy’s watch, Britain became the most powerful empire the world had ever known, largely due to the expertise of its navy.
The cranky genius has big gray sideburns and a bulbous nose. He is dressed impeccably in tails, like a prince dressed by others. If there’s a daytime ball somewhere, George Airy is ready to attend it. He carries a stack of papers under one arm and a cane in the other. He already has a significant stoop.
Once a relieved Julian realizes the vortex has worked, he relaxes. To stop upsetting the great man, he takes a few steps away from the precious telescope. No protective railing has been built around the Transit Circle (not yet anyway; leave it to Julian to alert George Airy to the necessity of a fence!).
“Yes, it is noon at this precise moment, Mr. Sweeney,” George Airy says, “noon on Thursday, August 3, 1854”—(look at that; Julian didn’t even have to ask! Well, he’s come to the right place to know the correct time, and to the right man, for that matter)—“But the question before us is not what time it is now, but what time was it when the good gentleman got here? That’s assuming he did not materialize at my telescope spontaneously—during the sun flare perhaps? We are assuming that, are we not, Mr. Sweeney?”
Sweeney stammers in shame.
Setting down his cane, the astronomer pulls out his gold pocket watch and studies it intently. “To arrive here at noon, the gentleman would’ve had to walk through the gate down at the foot of the garden by 11:55 or 11:56 if he’s a fast walker and a tireless climber. That sounds like before noon to me, Mr. Sweeney, does it not?”
“I didn’t let him in through the gate, sir. It wasn’t me. I come back and here he was.”
“Come back from where, good sir?”
A flushed Sweeney has no response, as if he can’t admit what he was up to.
Julian had suspected he might head into 19th century London. 1603, 1666, 1775. Now 1854. London, always London. He tried to prepare for it. While Ashton was busy loving not one but two women, Julian read War and Peace to learn about Austerlitz and Waterloo, Pride and Prejudice to familiarize himself with the manners of early 19th century England, Jane Eyre to absorb how women were treated, and most of Dickens to familiarize himself with all life. He even read Karl Marx when he couldn’t get to sleep. “Everything in existence is worth being destroyed,” Marx wrote, a true modern prince of darkness. Julian thought the economist identified most strongly with Mephistopheles in Faust, which Julian also read.
Yet here Julian is, wedged into a dinky year he can recall nothing about, a year after the European unrest but before the coming of electricity. Gas lamps abound in 1854. The railroad is running. What else? Any epidemics, any wars?
While Julian’s thoughts are thus occupied, George Airy makes a noise of exasperation. So far, the scientist has barely glanced Julian’s way—as if Julian is superfluous to his mounting irritation. “It’s Mirabelle, isn’t it?” the astronomer says. “She is always to blame. She was supposed to be here at noon to mark the angle of the sun. Was she here? No. And she always forgets to lock the gate, no matter how many times I remind her.” Critically Airy looks upon Sweeney. “Is the widow Pye the reason you weren’t at your post?”
“I—I—I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Airy, sir,” Sweeney stammers.
“My niece can hardly be expected to follow the rules,” George Airy says haughtily. “After all, she is a woman. Her career as an astronomer is limited by virtue of her sex and her general inattention to detail. But we men must adhere most strictly to the procedures I’ve spent two decades setting before us. Otherwise the world is going to dissolve into chaos. It’s headed that way already, Mr. Sweeney, what with the damn French daring to take credit for spotting the irregularities in the motion of Uranus. The irregularities that led them to posit that there might be a new, massive body, a planet they wish to call Neptune! The insolence of the French never ceases to gall me. Did they forget that the only reason they noticed the planetary anomalies in the first place is because of the data I provided for them? I supplied them with the very particulars they now use to belittle me with! Without me, there would be no data! And therefore, there would be no discoveries of planets, large or otherwise!” George Airy gathers steam, pointing in Julian’s direction. “Or the chaos might be this dummerer, this odd mute gentleman in the room with us. How did he get inside my Transit Room? Who is he? As you see, Mr. Sweeney—except for my square of the observable universe—everything is sheer disorder. I beg of you, do not let our small bastion fall into anarchy. We men must hold steadfast.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do not open the gate before noon. Ah-ah—no more defending the indefensible. Please go and get Mirabelle for me. I must speak to her immediately.”
A voice sounds. “No need to get me, Uncle George. I’m here.”
Julian grabs at the non-existent black railing. He teeters out of balance. A tall, statuesque woman appears at the far end of the Transit Room, framed by the white casing of the interior door. She is dressed in a navy-blue linen skirt and a maroon jacket. Her white collar is at her neck, her sleeves have no frills, no embellishments. She wears no jewelry. Her dark hair is braided and twisted into two large pouffes at her ears—a Victorian Princess Leia. But inside the sensible dress is the most stunning rendition of Josephine Julian has ever seen. She is a princess, a painting, a beauty queen. Mirabelle. Miri but with belle there, too.
From across the room, Mirabelle casts her polite gaze on Julian. He stands as straight as he can, the wetsuit clinging to his strong frame, his wavy hair damp, the dark stubble on his pale face grown messy by an infinity of sunless days, his deep-set kaleidoscope eyes—green blue brown—reflecting off her shine. He can’t help himself. The relief and happiness must be plain on his face, in his incongruous half-smile. Pulled down to his Adam’s apple, the small round bulb of the headlamp pulses the last of its white LED light. Julian knows what he looks like; the question is, what does Mirabelle see? He lowers his gaze, feeling awkward and self-conscious.
A second girl jams in under her elbow. Short and dark-haired, she is embellished with all the baubles the tall girl lacks. She’s heavy with jewelry and ribbons, with gold pins and pink beads.
“Hello, Mirabelle, hello, Filippa,” says Airy. “Nice of you to finally join us.”
“I came as soon as I heard my name, Uncle,” says Mirabelle. If only Julian could have such an effect on her. He is glad her gaze is not on him anymore. He feels like the gawky speechless kid at recess all those years ago.
“We did nothing wrong, Mr. Airy,” Filippa says, holding on to Mirabelle’s arm while smiling flirtatiously at Julian.
“I’m talking to my niece right now, Filippa, not you. Mirabelle, why weren’t you at the Transit Circle at noon? Without a careful observation of planetary trajectories, our work here cannot be successful.”
“Yesterday you told me not to touch the telescope, Uncle, because it needed recalibrating,” says Mirabelle.
“Ah, yes.” Airy proceeds without pause. “I shall attend to that summarily. But also—I’ve told you time and again, the gate to the Royal Observatory is to stay latched until noon.”
“It was. As far as I know it’s still latched.”
“Do you see this gentleman in the room with us?”
“Yes, Uncle George. He is difficult to miss.”
The floor, Julian! The floor is very interesting.
“How did he get here if the gate was locked?”
“And I would know this how? Perhaps you should ask him.”
“Why, oh why, can’t women follow the most basic rules!” George Airy exclaims.
“I can follow the most basic rules,” the young woman says calmly. “Shall we take a walk down to the gate so you can see the status of the latch for yourself?”
“What you’re saying cannot be, Mirabelle,” the irate astronomer replies, “for there’s a gentleman in this room who had no way of getting here except by that gate. As you yourself confirmed, we all see the gentleman, do we not? He’s not a mirage, is he?”
“No, Mr. Airy, he’s definitely not a mirage,” says Filippa. Mirabelle elbows her friend.
“Can you explain him to me, Mirabelle?”
“I cannot. I shall not endeavor to explain any man.”
“So if you didn’t let him in, how in the name of Dickens did he get here? And more important, why?”
All eyes turn to Julian, even hers.
Mirabelle is composed, white-necked, white-faced, spotlessly clean and coiffed. She is an elongated statue of the animated fiery girl who fought to survive the alleys of St. Giles. That girl lived. This woman exists. Though she is exquisite, Julian can’t tell if she has ever strolled through a garden of pleasure, or even desired to. She is elegant, yet slightly forlorn. Something blackens the pastel edges of her beauty.
“Answer me, child,” George Airy says. “You know how precious time is, especially mine.”
“Everyone’s time is precious, Uncle George.”
Silently, Julian concurs.
“Then answer my simple query. Who is he?”
Mirabelle’s voice is mellifluous and carries far despite its softness, despite its breathiness. She always sounds like herself. There’s never any mistaking it. The present voice carries farther than most, because of her height. It’s got a wry, dry tinge to it, a slight I-know-things-better-than-you air. “He looks like a seminarian to me, Uncle,” Mirabelle says. “A man of the cloth. Look at his clerical collar.” She points to the headlamp. “He must be looking for our Charles Spurgeon, the Prince of Preachers, isn’t that right, sir?”
Julian fights to stay as composed as she is. She is helping him out, rescuing him. Why?
“He’s looking for Spurgeon in my observatory?” Airy casts Julian a skeptical unwelcome gaze. But the astronomer must detect something unscientific in the invisible dynamic between the stranger and his niece—sense some new energy that has charged the stale particles in the room—because his high-handed demeanor softens. He wrinkles his prominent brow. “You’re far afield of the New Park Chapel,” Airy says, finally addressing Julian. “We’re in Greenwich, sir, and the chapel is in Southwark. You’re in the wrong part of town.”
“He is lost,” says Mirabelle.
“I’m not lost,” Julian says. His voice is hoarse. “I’m found.” Those are the first words in his new life.
“Where did you come from, good sir?”
“Bangor.” Julian chose Bangor because it was, then as now, one of the smallest towns in Britain. “It’s a cathedral city in Wales, near the Menai Strait …”
“I know where Bangor is,” George Airy says. “It’s 4 degrees of longitude west of here, 4.1 degrees to be precise.”
“Yes, sir.”
Woe to him who thinks he can outsmart a scientist.
“What is that you’re wearing?” Airy asks. “Is that some type of Welsh attire? We’ve never seen it in London.”
“We certainly haven’t,” Filippa says, her chest heaving out of her flouncy ruching.
“We wear this in the mines and seas of Wales,” Julian says. “It’s a wetsuit made to protect me from the elements when I travel.” He snaps the Thermoprene to show them. “It’s windproof and water-resistant.”
Filippa looks impressed.
A prickly, angular woman in her forties pushes through between the girls. She’s panting and fretful. She’s got a severe hairdo and her lace collar is so tight it appears to be choking her throat. “I beg your pardon, Mr. Airy, sir, for all the commotion,” she says, her voice a steel string. What have my girls done now? I take my eyes off them for a second and—Mirabelle, Filippa, explain yourselves!”
“Where have you been, Mummy?” Filippa asks. “Talking to Mr. Sweeney again?”
Filippa’s mother raises her hackles like a porcupine. “Do not be cheeky, my darling. Mr. Sweeney and I may have discussed the weather for a few minutes, a few seconds …”
George Airy gives Sweeney a condemning glance. Sweeney doesn’t know where to look.
Amid the recriminations, Mirabelle glides forward. The spot where Julian stood a blink ago with a grim and fearful Ashton is now inhabited by his light and fearless Eurydice. Ashton had gripped his forearm. “Don’t do this again,” Ashton said. “I beg you. Nothing good’s going to come of it.”
Unlike Ashton, Mirabelle says nothing. Nor does she touch him.
Julian turns to the Astronomer Royal. “You’re George Airy, aren’t you? You’re famous at Bangor College, you know. The head of our Literature Department has heard that you’ve developed special lenses for astigmatism. They’re revolutionary. The department chairman asked me to speak to you while I’m in London to evaluate this new technology. We have several professors, myself included, in dire need of better optometric equipment.”
“Mummy, he’s a professor!” Filippa squeals.
George Airy nearly squeals himself. “You’re a professor?” And close on its heels: “They heard about my lenses all the way in Bangor?” The peacock tries not to open his tail. “Well, I’m delighted, though I’m not sure how this can be. I did give a pair to my sister, Mirabelle’s mother. She taught piano at the London Conservatory. Aubrey Taylor. Perhaps you’ve heard of her?”
“I’m afraid not,” Julian says. “But don’t the lenses have the same curved aperture technology you used to build this Transit Circle? With the aperture width of eight inches and a focal length of over eleven feet, I believe your telescope is the most accurate in the world, isn’t it?”
George Airy sputters. “How did you—how did—how—”
“I must have read about your lenses in an academic paper.”
After that, Julian can say no wrong and do no wrong.
The astronomer cannot look more flattered, more gratified. “Well, I am pleased indeed. I only developed the lenses to correct my own poor vision,” Airy says, “and yet look how beneficial the technology has been to my country. You’re a professor, you say? Of mathematics, I hope?” The astronomer smiles. “I used to be a professor of mathematics. And then a professor of astronomy. I quite enjoyed my time at Cambridge.” Airy attempts to become businesslike again, tap-tapping his parchment as if formulating a plan. “Mirabelle, dear girl, I have a wonderful idea. Why don’t you accompany this fine young man to Charles Spurgeon and make a proper introduction. We can’t just send him on his way. That would be terribly inhospitable. And Charles is so fond of you.”
“I have so much to do, Uncle …”
“So what’s one more thing? Introduce Charles to … what is your name, dear sir?”
“Julian Cruz.”
“Julian Cruz,” George Airy repeats. “That’s Welsh?”
“Yes,” Julian replies without inflection. “Iolyn Corse is the proper way to say it.”
“Julian Cruz!” says Filippa.
Julian waits, his quiet gaze on the face of the only girl in the world, as ever searching for a blink of retention, recognition, memory. With his whole being, he is yearning to see a trace of himself. Mirabelle doesn’t acknowledge him, but neither does she look away. Only her mouth moves, imperceptibly, inaudibly repeating his name so no one will hear.
Filippa’s mother gives her daughter a shove, and the small girl lurches forward. “I’m Filippa Pye.” The girl extends her hand to Julian. “Pleased to make your acquaintance. This is my mother, Prunella Pye.”
“Pleasure is all mine,” Prunella Pye pants, hooking Julian’s hand with her clammy, bony fingers.
George Airy drags his niece forward, in front of Filippa. “And this is my niece, Mirabelle Taylor.”
Julian tilts his head. “Pleasure to meet you, Miss Taylor,” he says. She doesn’t extend her hand, and he will not presume to impose his paw on her. Besides, his paw is shaking.
Lightly Mirabelle smiles. “Julian Cruz,” she echoes. “So, then, you’re not Charles Spurgeon’s father? Our esteemed pastor has been waiting for his father to visit from Colchester. But we fear the man is ill and may not be coming.”
The priest’s father! Julian must look worse than he thinks. “Father?” He can’t help it. Pride gets the better of him. “How old do I look?”
“Oh, not especially old, I suppose.” Mirabelle’s dark eyes flicker ever so slightly. “Our darling reverend has just turned twenty.”
Julian’s eyes flicker back.
Filippa swings around Mirabelle, planting herself in front of her. It’s the Conga line. “We’ll all take you to Mr. Spurgeon, sir,” she chirps.
“Oh, no need to bother yourself, Pippa,” George Airy says. “You and your mother do too much already. Don’t you have a ball to prepare for? That ball isn’t going to throw itself, you know.”
“It’s no bother at all, Mr. Airy,” Filippa says. “In fact, there’s really no need for Miri to come with us.” (Julian flinches when he hears the princess called by her rookery name.) “We all know how busy Mirabelle is these days. Why, she still hasn’t finished sorting your documents.”
“Oh, that trifle,” Airy says in the tone of a man who cares not a whit for organization, not one whit.
“But, sir,” cries Filippa, “you said she must work harder to transcribe your notes and separate your correspondence! And she got your ledger entries wrong this morning.” Filippa looks up at Julian. “Mr. Airy invented a new system of accounting called double-entry, Mr. Cruz. But math is confusing for Mirabelle, entering the same information twice into the debit and credit columns. She makes many errors.”
“Really, Filippa, you worry yourself over nothing,” George Airy says. “I will check over the numbers myself. Double-entry accounting is one of my greatest joys.” Airy’s rounded nose reddens. “Mirabelle, it’s settled then? You will take this man to Charles Spurgeon and not disappoint me?”
“As you wish, Uncle,” Mirabelle says. “I don’t like to disappoint anyone.”
Filippa persists. “But what about labeling your boxes, Mr. Airy?”
“Mr. Sweeney will label them.” Airy takes a shallow bow, kisses his niece on the cheek and rushes off with his cane and his papers.
“What boxes?” stammers Sweeney.
“Oh, it’s not hard, Mr. Sweeney,” Mirabelle says dryly. “Remember last month when you helped me label Uncle George’s empty boxes, ‘empty’? Do that, just more of it.” Mirabelle turns to Julian. “Order is the ruling feature of my uncle’s life.”
Filippa steps between them. “Mirabelle,” the girl says, “but what about your appointment at the Institute at three o’clock? Have you forgotten all about Florence and the Institute?”
“Hush now,” Mirabelle says. “It’s barely noon. Plenty of time for everything.”
Stepping away from the women, Julian switches off the headlamp and removes it from his neck. He’s got to sort himself out. He’s mired in a bog. He needs his money. And if it’s no longer there, he needs to find a prizefighting ring and earn some money. If he’s ever going to present himself to her, and that’s not a given, he needs to present himself to her as a strong smart man, not a crestfallen pauper in a wetsuit.
His arrogance and desperation in St. Giles didn’t serve Miri’s salvation or his own. He’s been given another chance by the angels or demons. Will he take it? Can he do it this time before he runs out of time? Devi didn’t think so. But Julian has made it his life’s business to refuse to accept implacable facts.
He tips his proverbial hat. “Perhaps I can meet with Mr. Spurgeon another day, ladies.”
“No, you can’t leave!” Filippa cries.
Julian can’t explain to Filippa and her mother that he is not fit to walk alongside that woman. Mirabelle must notice his self-conscious embarrassed hesitation. “I see that in your travels, you have misplaced your coat, Mr. Cruz.” She turns to the caretaker. “Mr. Sweeney, would you please be so kind as to lend Mr. Cruz your cloak? Yes, Mr. Sweeney, the cloak you’re wearing, that one. Right off your shoulders.”
A grumbling Sweeney hands it over.
Julian can’t help but smile. “Some things never change, do they, Sweeney?” he says, throwing the black cape over his shoulders, covering his ridiculous wetsuit, and feeling better. “You’re still giving me your coat.”
“Whatever do you mean,” Sweeney says. “I never give you my coat in my life.” The portly gentleman looks discomfited. “Keep the coat. Consider it almsgiving.”
“Oh, that is so kind of you, Mr. Sweeney!” Prunella says with undue exuberance.
Filippa pulls on her mother’s arm. “I hope Mrs. Sweeney will be as delighted as you to hear that her husband has given his coat away,” she says.
Prunella yanks out her arm and fluffs up her sleeve. “Mind your own business, my impertinent darling,” the bony woman says, heading for the door. “You forget yourself. Unlike you, your widowed mother does not need a chaperone.”
Filippa hurries after her. They all walk out into the courtyard on top of the hill. The August air is muggy and still. Before they turn their backs to it, Julian catches a long glimpse of the Thames in the distance below them, meandering through hazy London as far as the eye can see.
Mirabelle leads the way to the carriage, waiting for them behind Flamsteed House. Prunella and Filippa trail behind. Since he and Mirabelle are walking without speaking, with astonishing clarity Julian can hear Prunella’s shrill voice scolding Filippa. “It’s just good manners, Pippa. This man is a professor, highly educated. He’s from Wales. He may be a nonconformist. They are serious thinkers over there, the Welsh nonconformists. Practical, temperate, hard-working. In many ways, they mirror the Puritans. They are utterly unimpressed by flamboyant displays from their women, by physical contact, really, of any kind.” Julian keeps his eyes in front of him, lest he accidentally catch Mirabelle’s inquisitive gaze, wanting to know if what Prunella is saying is in any way true, and God forbid she sees in Julian’s eyes how untrue it is.
“This man needs a serious, unsensual demeanor from his young lady,” Prunella continues. “So adjust your behavior, dear heart.” Now Prunella lowers her voice, but on the empty road between the trees, the only thing that’s heard is her irritable alto. “Before it’s too late for you, like it’s too late for our Mirabelle.”
“Are you sure it’s too late for her, Mummy?” Filippa says, the anxiety sharp in her voice.
Julian and Mirabelle both pretend they’re deaf. Her face expressionless, Mirabelle ties the ribbon ends of her white bonnet under her chin.
Julian clears his throat. “I heard your uncle mention there was a sun flare today, Miss Taylor,” he says. “Do they occur frequently?” First order of business between them: mystical phenomena.
“Not too frequently,” Mirabelle replies. “We keep a record of all anomalous events at the Observatory. If you wish, you can ask my uncle to let you take a look at the data.”
“Going back how far?” What is Julian hoping for? That somehow George Airy kept records on sun flares going back two hundred years? Come on, Julian, shape up.
“Since 1834. The year he became Astronomer Royal.”
Julian nods, trying to verbalize the second order of business between them. “Your uncle mentioned that your mother teaches piano. Do you play?”
“My mother is a good teacher,” Mirabelle replies, “but I’m a poor student, I’m afraid. I play, but I don’t have the flair for it.”
“Do you prefer the spoken word?”
“Why, yes. Yes, I do, Mr. Cruz. How did you know?”
“Lucky guess.”
“I used to have quite a flair for the dramatic,” Mirabelle says wistfully. “But not anymore. Nowadays I occasionally read poetry.”
Do you stand on a crate over Rockaway Bay, Mirabelle? Julian wants to ask. “What kind of poetry?” he asks. “Shakespeare’s Venus and Adonis perhaps?”
“Why, yes, Mr. Cruz!”
The look on her face is less calm, slightly incredulous.
Julian smiles.
Overhearing, Filippa catches up to them. “Mirabelle used to sing and dance like a carnival performer. She liked the applause, didn’t you, Miri?”
“A little too much, if you ask me,” Prunella intones from behind.
“I did not,” says Mirabelle. “Not too much. Just enough.”
“And if there was no chance for applause,” Filippa says, “then you could just throw money at her.”
“Filippa is joking.”
“I would find that highly entertaining, Miss Taylor,” says Julian. “Seeing you sing and dance, I mean.”
“Which would you do, Mr. Cruz,” Filippa asks with a glint, “applaud or throw money?”
“I would do both.”
Mirabelle stares at her shoes, suppressing her own glint.
During the twenty-minute ride to New Park Chapel, Filippa info dumps on Julian. She has been endowed with a biblical propensity for small talk. There is something desperate in her ceaseless verbal patter, as she sits by Julian’s elbow, her smile pasted on, her mouth in motion.
Across from them, an unruffled Mirabelle sits next to Prunella, both women watching Filippa besiege Julian, one with detached amusement, one with public dismay.
Filippa tells him where they live (in Sydenham, Kent), how long she and Mirabelle have been friends (since childhood), and how many jobs and separate responsibilities Mirabelle has at the moment (eight).
“What do you do, Filippa?” Julian asks, to be polite.
The girl takes the question as a strong sign of his interest in her. She unfurls. “Oh, don’t worry, as little as possible, Mr. Cruz! I make pudding, I darn stockings, and I embroider bags. Mummy and I are also organizing a ball.” In the next breath, Filippa invites Julian to the ball, “as my honored guest of course.”
The dance is at the end of August. Julian protests. He says he doesn’t know if he’ll be in London then, but Filippa refuses to take no for an answer.
Julian steals a glance at Mirabelle.
“Mirabelle probably won’t attend,” Filippa says, catching him looking. “She said she was busy. She’s—”
Mirabelle interrupts. “I don’t remember saying I was busy, Pippa.”
“You did. Doctor Snow asked if you would honor him by attending and you said you were too busy.”
Mirabelle allows herself a small roll of the eye.
“Who is Doctor Snow?” asks Julian. Does she have a suitor? Well, why wouldn’t she? Look at her.
“The esteemed John Snow, the famous scientist. Have you heard of him?”
“Oh, I’ve heard of a Jon Snow,” Julian says. “Mine might be a different man. What does yours do?”
“He invented something called chloroform to give to our Queen Victoria to ease her burden when she was being delivered of her infant,” Mirabelle says.
“He has also been consumed with discovering what causes cholera,” Filippa says. “Our soldiers are having a terrible time with the sickness.”
“Cholera? Soldiers?” Julian says, falling back against the seat. “You’re not helping John Snow with that, are you, Miss Taylor?”
“Of course she is!” Filippa says, with a gossipy scrunch of her nose.
“Oh, look, we’ve arrived,” Mirabelle cuts in, calling out to the carriage driver, “Barney, stop here, please, where there are no puddles. Are you ready, Ju—um, Mr. Cruz?”
“I’d stay away from cholera research,” Julian says to her, staring at the flowing waters of the Thames. “Cholera is quite infectious.”