There was a low buzzing beyond the stairwell, as though someone had thrust a stick into a beehive and disturbed the industry and order of the inhabitants. Comfort doubted anyone else had heard Bram fall. She knelt beside him just long enough to determine if he was conscious. He wasn’t, but his chest rose and fell steadily, and when she glanced at his broken leg, she thought unconsciousness might be a blessing.

Running her fingers over his scalp, she felt a tender spot at the back of his head. She had imagined what it would be like to tidy Bram’s ruffled and unruly thatch of sunshine yellow hair, but the circumstances in her mind’s eye had been significantly different. Comfort snorted softly, impatient with herself for raising that silly, girlish memory.

She placed a hand on Bram’s shoulder and spoke as if he could hear her. “I’m getting help, Bram. I won’t be long.” Standing, she grasped the door handle. The door to the lobby opened into the narrow stairwell, and there was little room for her to maneuver without disturbing Bram. She inched the door open, nudging aside one of his outstretched arms with the toe of her boot, and slipped sideways through the opening as soon as she judged it was wide enough.

There were no obvious signs of damage to the bank lobby that Comfort could see at a glance. Five patrons were milling around the open doorway, chatting among themselves while they observed activity in the street. The three tellers on duty were still at their posts, but no longer making transactions. Newt and Tucker had put certain procedures in place in the event of shakers, and the tellers had evidently followed them. The reinforced door that led to the bank’s Boorstein & Durham safe was closed, and the cash drawers in the cages were locked. Once thirty minutes passed without an afterquake, the tellers would open for business.

She hurried over to the cages and joined the men’s huddle. They ended their hushed conversation abruptly, and Mr. Tweedy, head teller these last five years and with the bank for more than eight, regarded Comfort over the top of his gold-rimmed spectacles.

“I was just saying how I was going to go up and see to your welfare since you didn’t come down straightaway,” he told her. “Are you all right? It was only a little quake, but rules is rules.”

“I know, Mr. Tweedy, and I’m perfectly fine. Mr. DeLong, however, is lying unconscious in the stairwell. I’m certain his leg is broken. I need one of you to summon a doctor and another to go to the Black Crowne Shipping Office and inform Mr. DeLong’s brother. If he’s not there, you’ll have to go to the warehouse.”

Mr. Appleby was quick to volunteer to find a doctor. No one in their small group doubted it was because he wanted the easier of the two assignments. “Dr. Winter was at my cage not twenty minutes ago. If he was on his way home, I bet I can catch him.”

Comfort wanted more certainty from their newest teller. “You will find him, Mr. Appleby, whether or not he’s on his way home, and you will bring him here even if you have to sling him over your shoulder. You understand?”

Appleby’s jug ears reddened at the tips, but he straightened and pulled his narrow shoulders back, meaning to show that he had the strength to do it. “I won’t be long.” He ducked out of the huddle before Comfort could change her mind about letting him go.

“Mr. Tweedy? Mr. Harte?” Comfort looked from one man to the other and saw only reluctance in their features. “Well, I will go then.” When the men made what was obviously a perfunctory objection, she merely raised an eyebrow. “I appreciate your reluctance, and I’m not going to insist you do something that I am not willing to do, so one of you will remain at Bram’s side, and one of you will manage the bank until my uncles return from the exchange.”

Mr. Tweedy shook his head. “You can’t go, Miss Kennedy. It’s not safe even in daylight for you to venture into the Barbary Coast.”

“It’s only eleven o’clock, Mr. Tweedy. The sots and sailors are either sleeping or still passed out. Most of gambling houses are just opening their doors. Even the Rangers are resting after a long night of brawling and thieving. That little quake wasn’t enough to make them leave their whores.” She watched Mr. Tweedy blink so owlishly that the effect was comical. It was a good indicator of her frustration that she didn’t laugh. “There. I’ve shocked you. If you don’t report my language to my uncles, I won’t mention that I gave you and Mr. Harte an opportunity to go to Crowne Shipping in my place.” She turned on her heel and offered one last piece of advice over her shoulder. “You’d do well to make sure Mr. Appleby doesn’t give you up.”

Comfort crossed half the lobby before Mr. Tweedy caught her. “I’ll go,” he said, holding up his hat to prove that he was prepared. “The warehouse only abuts the Coast, doesn’t it? And the Crowne Office is a few blocks from there. I can go around.”

“Go whichever way you like,” she said, out of patience. “Just go.” Turning away, she thought she should probably feel guilty for shaming him into it but couldn’t find that emotion for all the worry covering it. She caught Mr. Harte’s eye as he was heading toward the stairwell and directed him back to the cages with a jerk of her head.

Comfort slipped into the dim stairwell and turned up the gaslight to better evaluate Bram’s condition. Stooping, she touched his shoulder and tapped it gently. “Bram? Bram, can you hear me?”

She thought his eyes might have flickered behind his lids, so she held her breath, studying them for a moment but realizing it was only the play of shadows across his face. Afraid to move him, Comfort took advantage of his unconsciousness to leave his side and find what she could that would give him some ease when he woke. She discovered half a bottle of whiskey in one of Newt’s desk drawers and some crumpled, paint-spattered sheets in a storage closet.

She was close to the bottom of the stairs when she realized that something had changed. Bram’s body lay nearer the door than it had when she left. “Bram? You’re awake?”

He didn’t open his eyes, but he answered her from behind clenched teeth. “God, yes.”

She almost cried with relief. “I’m coming. I have some sheets to put under your head and whiskey for the pain.”

Bram looked up at her through a slit under his lashes. “Good. Hit me with the bottle and cover me with the sheet.”

Comfort marveled that he could find humor in his situation. It seemed excessive, even for him. Looking down at him, she simply shook her head. Ten minutes couldn’t have passed since he’d told her that he never took anything too seriously. There were some things she could accept at his word.

Comfort set the bottle on the lowest step and let go of two of the sheets. She folded the one in her arms into thirds and slipped it under Bram’s head. “Can you look at me?” she asked.

He opened his eyes. “Twins.” He gave her a groggy smile. “Very nice.”

She couldn’t tell whether he was having her on. She held up three fingers and demanded that he tell her the truth. Although he answered correctly, she wasn’t convinced that he hadn’t guessed. “I swear if I learn that you’re pulling my leg, I’ll pull yours.”

“The broken one?”

“That’s the only one worth pulling.”

“Hard-hearted woman,” he said under his breath.

“Yes.” She looked him over again. “Can you extend your good leg? Wiggle your fingers?”

He did both those things. “See?”

She thought he was inordinately proud of his accomplishment, but then again, she wasn’t the one in what had to be excruciating pain. “I need you to move away from the door. You’re blocking it.”

He looked sideways and saw what she said was true. “I was trying to get out.”

“I know. And I’m sorry I wasn’t able to stop you. I only left you for a few minutes.”

“It’s all right.”

“I can help you.”

“No. I’d rather you didn’t.”

Comfort nodded, understanding. In his position, she didn’t think she’d want anyone touching her either. She moved out of his way and sank her teeth into her lower lip to keep from making unhelpful wincing noises. She grimaced several times, but he was concentrating on inching away from the door and paying no attention to her. When he’d moved far enough that even a man possessing the girth of Dr. Winter could get through, she told him to stop.

Comfort readjusted the makeshift pillow under Bram’s head. “Have you ever had a broken bone?”

“No.” He raised his head and looked down the length of his body at the unfortunate positioning of his left leg. “God, no.” His pant leg was stretched tight across his knee. “I think I fell on it.”

“What?”

“I think I fell on my own leg.” His voice was rough but clear. “The stairs slipped out from under my feet, and I couldn’t catch myself. I landed with all of my weight on my knee and . . .” His voice trailed away as he tried to recall what happened. “I don’t remember after that.”

“That’s because you also hit your head.”

“What about my face?”

She smiled. “Untouched. As beautiful as it ever was.” Comfort thought he seemed satisfied with that. Bram was nothing if not confident of his fine looks. “Dr. Winter’s been sent for.”

“I don’t know him.”

“He’s more than competent to handle your injury, and he wasn’t far away. In fact, I expect that he’ll be here shortly.” Whether or not Mr. Appleby would make it so was out of her hands. “I also sent Mr. Tweedy out to notify your brother.”

Bram groaned, but pain had nothing to do with it. “Why would you do that?”

“Because I thought he should know.”

“Did you send someone to tell my mother?”

“No. Your brother’s closer.”

“Yes, but she would do something. Bode will thank your messenger for the information and return to what occupies him: his goddamn ships.”

She blinked. “I’m sure you’re wrong.”

Bram’s grimace veered toward derisive.

“I can’t send anyone out with a message for your mother. I have only one teller here, and my uncles are still at the exchange.”

“It’s all right,” he said after a moment. “She’d come with three doctors and six servants to bear my litter. It would be a farce of enormous proportions.” He raised one hand to indicate their small space. “They couldn’t possibly all fit, and God knows, she would insist that they try.”

Comfort didn’t have any trouble believing that. She laid her knuckles against his cheek. His skin was cool to the touch. She reached behind her and gathered the discarded sheets. Snapping them open, she covered Bram from his feet to his shoulders. “You’re going to live,” she said. “It’s not a death shroud.”

He smiled weakly. “I think I’ll take that whiskey now.”

She opened the bottle and held it to his lips. He placed a hand over hers and made certain she gave him more than a medicinal swallow. She let him have another swig before she took it away. She’d just put it back on the stairs when footsteps approached the other side of the door.

Comfort scrambled to her feet and kept the door from being pushed open with too much force. “Dr. Winter.” She held up one finger to delay his entrance a moment longer. “Thank you for coming. Let me open the door from this side. You’ll have to squeeze through, I’m afraid.”

“I’m sure I’d have to do that in any case,” he said, beaming and patting his protruding belly. He wore a brown wool jacket buttoned only at the top, as was the current style. It was meant to show off his yellow-and-green-checked vest but did a better job of showing off his love for rich desserts.

Comfort pulled the door open as far as she was able without disturbing Bram before she motioned the doctor inside. “Thank you, Mr. Appleby,” she said when the teller continued to hover near the door. “You can go back to your station. It’s time to resume business.” She climbed a few stairs to give Dr. Winter room to move and sat down.

“Let’s see what we’ve got here,” Dr. Winter said, drawing back the sheets. “You’re the only injury I’ve heard about, Mr. DeLong. Seems nothing buckled, or if it did, people got out of the way. Oh my. I’d say that’s broken.” He opened his black leather medical bag and took out a pair of scissors. “But let’s make sure.”

Comfort knuckled her mouth to keep from laughing at Bram’s genuine look of horror. If Dr. Winter noticed that his patient wanted to object, he wasn’t having any of it. He sliced through Bram’s trouser leg from the ankle to just above the knee and spread the material open. Comfort squinted at the misshapen flesh around the break. The skin was angry red and pulled taut over the swollen knee. She didn’t need the doctor’s quiet whistle to know it was a serious injury.

Winter dropped the scissors back in the bag and handed it off to Comfort. “Well, it has to be set, of course, but I don’t want to do that here. I’d prefer my office, but I can manage if there’s a place with some privacy in the bank. The lobby is acceptable if you remove your customers. We still have to get him out of this stairwell, of course.”

“We can move him to where we keep the safe,” Comfort said. “That’s just behind the tellers’ cages.”

“Good.” The doctor continued his examination, checking for bruising and other injuries. He made Bram answer more of the same questions that Comfort had already put to him, and then settled awkwardly on the bottom step once he was satisfied. He contemplated the door and the logistical problem of moving his patient.

Winter reared back as the door suddenly opened. There’d been no indication that anyone was approaching. Behind him, Comfort jumped to her feet and threw out a hand toward the door to protect Bram from being shoved aside. The doctor bent forward when Comfort stretched out above him and grabbed the door.

“Bode!” It wasn’t until he smiled at her with a certain smugness that she realized she hadn’t called him Mr. DeLong. It made her want to put her fist through the opening with the express intent of blackening his good eye. That would have certainly been unfortunate for him, because he was now wearing a black patch over his injured one. The rakish effect would not have been improved by wearing two. “You can’t come in. There’s no room.”

“Let go of the door and allow me to have a look.”

Comfort pushed away, teetering slightly over the good doctor until her heels rested solidly on the step. “Be careful.”

Nodding, Bode poked his head in. “Winter. You’re here. That’s fortunate.”

“Hello, Bode. What happened to your eye?”

“Nothing interesting. How’s my brother?” He glanced down at Bram and made his own assessment. Although he didn’t know it, his soft whistle was an echo of the doctor’s. “Hello, Bram.”

“Hello, Bode. Good idea to use the patch. Very piratical.”

“Travers’s idea.” He met Bram’s lopsided grin with one very much like it. “Odd, isn’t it, that providence should restore balance to our situations so quickly?”

Even Bram’s pain couldn’t mask his startled expression. Seeing it, Comfort frowned. “What does he mean, Bram?”

It was Bode who answered. “I’m reminding my brother he shouldn’t have had so much amusement at my expense.”

“You’re saying he deserved this?” she asked. “That’s cruel.”

Bram hushed her. “He’s teasing me, Comfort. It’s what brothers do. It’s what I did to him.”

Her eyes darted between them and could find nothing in their expressions to support the uncomfortable feeling that they were lying. “We need to move Bram,” she told Bode. “Dr. Winter can set his leg in the back room. We’re just not sure how to get him there.”

Bode nodded as he glanced around. “What do you have in the medical bag, Doc? Anything like a chisel?”

“I have a file.” He opened his bag and showed it to Bode. “To keep my scissors and scalpels sharp.”

“That could work. Give it to Miss Kennedy. I have a hunch she can move more nimbly around your patient than you can.”

“Very well reasoned,” Dr. Winter said. He passed the file over his shoulder to Comfort.

“What am I supposed to do with this?” she asked.

Bode slipped an arm through and around the opening and pointed to the hinges. “Use it to pop the pins. If you have to loosen the plates, the point of a scalpel should work on the screws. Don’t fret, Doc. I’ll see that you get a new set if one of them is ruined.”

Comfort didn’t care overmuch about the doctor’s scalpels. She examined the file, turning it over in her hands, and thought that Bode had happened upon a good idea. It could work. She got up and carefully picked her way around Bram’s sprawled form until she came to stand near his head. She yanked her skirt close around her feet so the fabric wouldn’t fall all over Bram’s face. Taking a substantial breath, she applied herself to removing the hinge pin from the middle plate. She slipped the flat edge of the file against the divot under the pinhead and pushed up. When it didn’t budge, she used the heel of her hand like a hammer to steadily pound the file in the direction she wanted it to go. She gave a little yelp of surprise when it gave way.

“You see?” Bode wiggled the fingers of his outstretched hand. “Here, I’ll take it.”

She dropped the pin in his palm and proceeded to attack the uppermost hinge. It came out with considerably less effort. Her challenge was the bottom one. She couldn’t get under it to apply enough force to push on the pin. She bent the tips of two scalpels trying to turn the screws in the hinge plates before she gave up.

“Perhaps if I lie on the floor,” she said. Before anyone could dissuade her, she twisted into the corner and began sliding down the length of it. Bram cocked his head to one side to make room for her as she kept lowering herself to the floor until she was on her back. The width of the stairwell was too short for her to lie flat, so she made her feet climb the opposite wall. The hem of her dress slid past her ankles and pooled around her knees. She didn’t raise her feet any higher. Thus braced, she slipped the file in place and pushed upward as hard as she could.

The pin gave a mere fraction of an inch. She grunted with her next effort. “I don’t know,” she said. “I don’t think I . . .”

“Yes, you can,” Bode said quietly. “Imagine all of you is the hammer.”

She glanced sideways and caught Dr. Winter’s quizzical expression. Lifting her head just a bit, she was able to make out Bram’s skepticism. She gripped the file again and closed her eyes. I am the hammer. She shoved the file upward with such force that the pin shot from the hinge plate as though fired from a cannon.

She caught it neatly on its way down, mere inches from Bram’s open mouth. It was all very satisfying.

Bode grabbed the door and shimmied it free of the frame. He tipped and angled it so he could pull it toward him. He passed it to the men standing in a semicircle behind him and reached across the threshold to help Comfort to her feet. She managed it with considerably more grace than any other woman of his acquaintance who had occasion to find herself on her back.

“Excellent work,” he told her. Without asking permission, he put his hands on her waist and lifted her out of the stairwell. He did not, however, pass her to his men. He knew them each well enough to see they were disappointed. “Where are we taking Bram?”

The question distracted her and kept her from poking him with the file. She thought that distraction was probably the point, since she’d already told him about the back room. Shifting her attention to it, though, reminded her that it was still locked. “There. Behind the cages,” she said. “I’ll open it.”

“Take this,” Bode said, picking up one of the sheets that covered his brother. “I assume there’s a table. Put this over it. We’ll use the other sheet to make a sling. And you’ll still want to clear the lobby.”

Comfort nodded. The patrons might be curious, but no one needed to hear Bram scream.

Bram was heavily dosed with laudanum and had been since Dr. Winter set his leg. She was grateful that the doctor had used an ether mask on Bram while he manipulated the bones, but now there was only laudanum and sleep to ease the pain. They only worked in concert. Without the laudanum, Bram couldn’t sleep, and outside of sleep the laudanum could only reduce the pain, not erase it.

She looked up from her book as Bode entered the room. “You’re still here,” she said, marking her place with a finger and closing the book over it. “I didn’t expect that.”

“Obviously.” He went to her side and laid a hand on her shoulder. “I thought I would spend the night. Take one of the watches, as it were.”

“That’s not necessary. I don’t think I’ll be leaving his side.”

“Mother.”

“Don’t reprove me, Bode. I’d sit with you if you were in such a state as this.” Alexandra smiled ruefully as she examined his eye. “You almost were. How is your back?”

“It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“If I’d had any inkling that my boys would be made of such fragile stuff, I would have had girls.”

Bode chuckled. “I just bet you would have.”

Alexandra was mollified enough to reach back and lay a hand over the one Bode had on her shoulder. “Thank you. I appreciate that you went to be with Bram when you heard what happened. I know it’s not always easy to be his brother.”

“Not always, no.”

She let her hand fall away. “At least he didn’t bring it on himself this time. I can take some solace in that.”

Bode didn’t say anything. He left his mother’s side and went to Bram’s. He studied his brother’s pale face with its perfect symmetry of features. There was no denying that Bram possessed the face of an angel. It had been remarked on since the moment of his birth. Bode remembered, though he hadn’t agreed at the time. At first glimpse he’d only seen a squealing, pink-and-wrinkled piglet and hadn’t changed his mind until Bram was four and had more blond curls springing from his head than a girl. Bode decided it was better for his brother to be an angel than a girl and handed Bram a pair of their mother’s sewing shears.

Bode had never encouraged Bram to trouble after that. Bram had always been able to find it easily enough on his own.

“He was at the bank to invite Miss Kennedy to the opera,” Bode said.

“I know. Comfort told me. Is she still here?”

“Downstairs.”

“How like her.” Alexandra looked at the clock. “It’s late. Already after nine. You should see that she gets home safely.”

“It occurred to me. If I can get her to leave.”

“Tell her I insist. She’s not to blame, and I don’t blame her, even if the accident did happen at Jones Prescott.”

Bode thought he would leave that last part out when he spoke to her. He turned around, bent, and kissed his mother on the cheek. “I’ll be back after I take Miss Kennedy home.”

“Are you going to stay?”

“Yes, I told you I would. For the night.”

“Forever,” she said.

“No, Mother. I don’t live here any longer.”

“Then there’s no point, is there?”

Comfort rolled her shoulder, trying to avoid the insistent and disturbing fingers that crawled over her skin like fire ants.

“Wake up. You’re dreaming. It’s a dream.” By quickly stepping to one side, Bode managed to narrowly avoid hard contact with Comfort’s head when she bolted upright. Watching her, he rubbed his chin as if he could feel the blow that hadn’t happened. He wasn’t certain she was awake. Her stare was vacant. The dark eyes, so beautifully expressive even when she did not mean them to be, were almost frightening in their perfect emptiness.

He put himself in front of her again and hunkered down. That positioned him below her eye level in a way that he hoped didn’t threaten her. A single swift kick aimed at his chest, and he would be sitting on the floor. He tried to draw her attention to him by fanning his palm in front of her face.

Comfort blinked. “What are you doing?” She put out one hand to stop him before her eyes crossed.

Bode withdrew his hand but didn’t move away. He studied her face. Her cheeks were sleep-flushed. Her slightly parted lips looked as soft and plump as pillows. Wisps of hair framed a smooth brow and brushed her temples. He thought that if he touched the cord in her slim neck, he’d feel only a steady pulse. Searching her eyes, he found them changed as well. What had haunted them had fled, and she now returned his regard as if he were the peculiar one.

“You were dreaming,” he said.

“Was I?” Her eyes darted away, embarrassed. “I didn’t realize I was tired enough to fall asleep.”

“You don’t remember?”

“What? Falling asleep?”

He shook his head. “The dream.”

“No.”

“Really?”

“Really.” It was the only lie she could tell and have a reasonable expectation that she would be believed. She’d been practicing it for years, and when Bode didn’t press her further, she was glad she’d made the effort.

Bode stood. “I was going to have a glass of whiskey,” he said. “Would you like a sherry?”

Comfort touched her throat and nodded. She was parched. It was not possible to recall a time when she’d awakened from the dream and hadn’t felt as if she had a mouthful of dust. Swallowing was painful as she watched Bode pour the drinks.

Looking away, her gaze slid over the gilt-edged clock that rested squarely in the middle of the mantelpiece to the oil painting that hung above it. A clipper ship, one with all of her gleaming white sails straining before the wind, ran high in the water, her bow cutting sharply through foamy crests like a knife through meringue. It captured a single moment in time, but looking at it, one couldn’t fail to appreciate the artist’s mastery of motion. The clouds were ellipses, casting long shadows as they rode on the back of a swift wind. The ship drew a narrow wake, exposing the cleft in the churning water to sunlight and throwing out a thousand glittering crystals of spindrift. Her sails were stretched to their full allowance, each one of them cupping the following wind, and at the top of her foremast her colors were unfurled in a rippling, snapping line.

Bode held out a glass of sherry to Comfort and followed her gaze to the painting when she didn’t immediately take it. “Do you have an opinion?” he asked.

She shook her head. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw he was holding her drink. She took it, sipped only enough to keep her tongue from cleaving to the roof of her mouth, and then told him, “I have a reaction.”

Curious about the distinction she made, Bode arched an eyebrow.

“I’m moved by it,” she said simply. She held the stem of her glass between her palms and rolled it slightly. “It’s a portrait, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“That’s a Black Crowne clipper. I recognize her colors. And the artist has taken some liberties with the scale of the ship against the waves. It makes me think this painting is more personal in nature. So many seascapes are about the artist’s study of light. There’s an attempt to capture reflection and distinguish the gradations of color in the sky and the sea and create a horizon that is real and yet insubstantial.” She lifted her eyes to the painting again. “This artist was trying to capture speed. Perhaps supremacy. To the extent that such things can be caught, I think he succeeded.”

“He? Are you so certain it was a man who painted it?”

Comfort tilted her head a little to the side as she studied the painting again. “No,” she said. “I don’t suppose that I am.” Her head came up sharply, and she stared at him, faintly openmouthed. “Your mother is the artist, isn’t she?”

“No,” he said, smiling slightly. “My mother is not as wildly romantic as that painting would suggest, but I think she would be flattered if you thought so. Your assumption that a man painted it was correct. The artist was my father.”

Now Comfort’s eyebrows lifted. “I never heard anyone describe your father as an artist.” Nor a romantic, she thought, but she didn’t say so.

“Well, no.” His thin smile didn’t falter. “That isn’t what anyone talked about. He gave them other things to discuss.” Bode chose the chair opposite the overstuffed sofa where Comfort sat. He leaned back and slid his long legs forward, crossing them casually at the ankle. “Many other things.”

Comfort didn’t think she was expected to respond to that. She was familiar with the gossip that accompanied Branford DeLong wherever he went and always suspected there was more than was ever repeated within her hearing. Except for a stray comment now and again, Bram remained largely silent about his father. Alexandra was equally reserved in discussing her late husband. Their reluctance to talk about him, even to appreciate his talents, made it stranger yet that Branford’s striking oil painting was displayed prominently in their home. It was of the romantic style with its vivid colors and bold, sweeping brushstrokes, but perhaps it wasn’t the artist they were admiring, but the subject, the seductiveness of the sea and the Black Crowne ship that could bring that temptress to heel.

“This isn’t the first time you’re seeing the painting, is it?” asked Bode.

“No. I’ve had tea with your mother in this parlor several times. If she noticed me staring at it, she never inquired after my thoughts.”

“And Bram? Did he never ask?”

Amused by the idea, she said, “Your brother doesn’t discuss art unless the subject is . . .”

“Naked and female?” he ventured when she fell silent.

Comfort nodded. She could have said exactly that to Bram, but his brother caused her to be strangely tongue-tied. She couldn’t put her finger on why that would be the case, but she suspected it might have something to do with his impenetrable blue-violet stare. That did not stop her, though, from adding another salient feature of the only art that Bram was likely to discuss. “And plump,” she said. “He waxes poetic if she’s plump.”

Bode’s lips didn’t so much as twitch. Instead, a small crease appeared above the bridge of his nose. He absently fingered the top edge of the silk eye patch. “What do you and my brother find to talk about? Or for that matter, what did you find to write about for so many years?”

“When you ask that question, I can never tell if it’s your brother you mean to insult, or me.”

“Bram cannot be insulted.”

She pressed the lip of her glass against her smile before she sipped. “It cannot have escaped your notice that Bram has adventures. I don’t. That’s what he wrote about, what he talks about. And he does it with a great deal of wit. It is a rare moment that he fails to entertain. That is something to be appreciated, I think.”

“You value him as your court jester, then.”

She felt her hackles rise sharply. It required considerable effort not to place a hand to the back of her neck and smooth them over. She wondered if she should point out that she could be insulted. “I value Bram’s friendship for what he brings to it that is out of the ordinary.”

“I see. And what would he say he values about you?”

Comfort considered that for a long moment before she answered. “Perhaps that I don’t judge him.”

Bode studied her and then nodded slowly. “I think you’re probably right.” He finished his whiskey, set the tumbler aside, and pointed to the clock. “I’m surprised one of your uncles hasn’t sent a carriage for you.”

She blinked. “That can’t be the right time. I thought the clock must have wound down.”

“I’m afraid not.”

“But it’s twenty minutes after eleven.” Comfort jumped to her feet. A cashmere shawl pooled around the hem of her dress. She stared at it. “Where did that come from?”

“Most recently it’s been in your lap. Before that, it covered you while you slept. And before that, it was folded across the back of this chair.”

She stooped and picked it up, closed the short distance between them, and handed over her glass and the shawl. “I have to go. Where is my jacket? My hat?”

“A moment,” he said. “And a few deep breaths.” It was good advice for himself as well. He put her glass beside his tumbler and tossed the shawl behind him. “Let me ring for Hitchens. He will make everything right. He frequently does.” He stood and crossed the room to summon the butler.

Comfort’s hand flew to her mouth. “I didn’t even ask about Bram.”

“You asked about him every other time I came in here,” he said, pulling the cord. “One oversight does not make you careless.”

“You’re not telling me anything.”

Bode managed not to sigh. “His condition is exactly the same,” he said patiently. “He’s sleeping. He’s comfortable. He’s drugged.”

“I wish you would have awakened me right away,” she said. “Perhaps I could have visited him one more time before I left.”

“You were obviously exhausted. Vigils are wearing.”

He was right about that. “Your mother’s still with him?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll relieve her, though, won’t you? She won’t leave his side otherwise.”

She won’t leave his side regardless. He did not voice what went through his mind. The words would have tasted bitter on his tongue.

Most disconcertingly, he didn’t try to pretend he wasn’t watching her. He wore the eye patch, and while she heard the explanation that he’d given at the party bandied about, no one seemed to think he was a charlatan for affecting the raffish, slightly dangerous look even though he’d only earned it by running afoul of a mother cat and her kittens. It was just as well, she thought. If the truth got about that he’d tangled with the Rangers and a band of ruffians and lived to tell the tale, there would be swooning.

She had run into him several times in the week since Bram’s accident. It was inevitable, she supposed, that she would see him coming or going from Bram’s bedside. He was invariably polite, though perhaps a little distant. It was hard to account for the feeling she had that he was there for her, not his brother, and she found herself thinking about him at odd moments, remembering a snippet of conversation, or more disturbing, the feel of his tautly muscled back under her feet. He never once mentioned that he would be at the opera tonight, and she wondered if she would be here if she’d known.

At the break, Newt and Tucker escorted Comfort to the lobby for refreshments. They had beer. She drank lemonade.

“Are you feeling well?” Tucker asked as they retreated to a stand of dwarf potted palms with their drinks. He hoped he could duck under the fronds and stay hidden there during the third act. “There’s not much color in your cheeks.”

“Isn’t there? I don’t know why that would be.”

“I think she looks flushed,” Newt said. “I noticed it while we were still in there. The Duke was singing. Gilda was singing. Rigoletto was singing. I was wishing they would just talk like regular folks, and I noticed Comfort looked flushed.”

“Would you like to leave?” she asked, getting to the heart of so much concern for her looks and health.

“Oh, no,” said Newt. “Promised myself that I’d stay to the end, bitter though it might be.”

“Might be?” asked Tuck, scratching his chin. “They always end bitterly. I think the Italians must be the most dyspeptic people on earth.”

Newt nodded sagely. “Probably comes from ruling the world once upon a time and then losing it all at the gambling table. That’s enough to make a whole race of people disagreeable.”

Comfort nearly choked on her lemonade. “What are you talking about, Uncle Newt?”

“That Caesar fellow. He put his empire on the table and rolled the dice.”

Tucker winked at Comfort. “The die is cast.”

She laughed, and her enjoyment of the moment put genuine color in her cheeks. It lasted until Bode joined them.

He nodded to Newton, then Tucker, before addressing Comfort. “Miss Kennedy.”

“Good evening, Mr. DeLong. I didn’t realize you would be here this evening.”

“A decision at the last minute when I learned that my mother was not going to attend.”

“How is your brother?” asked Newt.

“Miserable.”

Newt sighed heavily. “I’m more than passing familiar with that state.”

Bode chuckled. “I noticed that you did not seem to be enjoying yourself before the break.”

“Did you catch me napping?”

“No. I didn’t see that.”

“Then you’re right. I wasn’t enjoying myself.”

“Uncle Newton.” Comfort tried to him give a cross look, but his expression was so comically forlorn that she couldn’t manage it. “He dislikes opera,” she told Bode. “So does Uncle Tucker. They’re here for me.”

“Ah. I see.” He inclined his head toward Newton. “Then what would you say to joining me in my box? All of you, I mean. I can have another chair carried in. There’s plenty of room to add one. Mr. Jones, you can sit with Mr. Prescott at the rear. I know for a fact that you can sleep there undisturbed by anything except the sound of your own snoring.”

Comfort saw immediately that her uncles were tempted by Bode’s offer, and that she was at the root of their hesitation. Tuck witnessed what she’d done when Bode annoyed her at the party, and she had every reason to expect that he’d told Newt. They were probably as concerned for Bode as they were worried about what she would do if it happened again.

“It’s a generous offer,” she said. “I know my uncles would be delighted to join you.”

“And you, Miss Kennedy?”

“Of course I’m coming.” She accepted his arm as warmly as if she’d had a real choice, and then confided, “I don’t like to let them out of my sight.”

Tucker and Newton fell into step behind them. “I heard that,” Newton said. “So did Tuck.”

“But I’m not grumbling about it, am I?” Tucker said.

Comfort allowed Bode to maneuver them through the crowded lobby. Ruby stickpins and diamond-encrusted hair combs glittered in the gaslight. Silk and satin rustled noisily as evening gowns and crinolines were reshaped in the press of so many bodies. There was chatter and talk, but it seemed that no one was discussing the opera. Comfort understood that for most of the patrons, the performance was an excuse to gather, to see and be seen, and that didn’t diminish her enjoyment.

She noticed that while Bode was polite to everyone who spoke to him, he did not pause to engage in intimate conversation. It would have been different if she’d been on Bram’s arm. In contrast to Bode, Bram had an uncanny ability to greet everyone familiarly and make each person feel important in his life, and then never give them another thought until their paths crossed again. She rather admired Bode for the way he did it. There was no element of performance, no staging, no asides.

He was merely genuine, and it was relaxing.

Comfort paused at Bode’s side as the couple in front of them began to negotiate the stairs to the upper level. The woman’s train was so long, the flounces so elaborately detailed, that she required her escort’s help to keep from stepping on her own skirt.

The gentleman fumbled with something in his hand as he lifted his companion’s train. He could not close his fingers over the object and lend assistance at the same time. It fell out of his palm.

Comfort bent more quickly than Bode and scooped it up. “Here, sir. You dropped this.” She held it out before she had a proper look at it, and when she saw what it was, tiny sparks darted up the length of her arm. They danced on her shoulder and her fingertips went numb.

Bode caught the red-and-white tin before it fell more than a few inches. “Here you go, sir. Almost dropped twice.”

The gentleman smiled. His mustache lifted at the edges. “Thank you. I assure you, everyone sitting around me will be glad I didn’t lose this. I am cursed with an annoying tickle in my throat the moment the soprano begins her aria.”

Comfort didn’t hear what he said as much as feel his words. His voice scratched her skin, making it prickle, and darkness closed in from all sides.