The Silversmith's Wife _ Sophia Tobin by Sophia Tobin Page B

that. She receives no one but family at the moment.’ He rolled his eyes upwards. ‘And she would not know who you are. She is – what? –
insensible.’
    Jesse swallowed hard. Alban read the irritation in his seemingly calm expression; his cousin had known Mary and her family since childhood. To be dismissed so was irritating, but he was obviously used to it. ‘Will you tell her, though?’ he said.
    Grisa nodded, and clicked his fingers, which seemed to be a sign to move the conversation on.
    ‘Do you have any work for us?’ Jesse said baldly.
    Grisa’s imperious expression cracked open with grim amusement. ‘Of course, of course. I have no idea why the English find violent death so enthralling, but we have more orders than ever. Yesterday, I have to send the boy to turn people from the door, at this season, can you imagine? Monsieur Renard would have been in ecstasy. And yes, we have work for you: if you hadn’t come I would have sent to you today. There was no need to come here with sympathy.’
    Alban’s heightened senses faded Grisa’s voice out as he heard someone descending the stairs: the light footsteps of a woman, the sweep of heavy skirts. The door linking the house to the shop was shut, but he fixed his gaze on the crack beneath the door, as though he might sight movement there. Sure enough, he did: the movement of dark over light; feet halting, then heading off again. He heard the front door open and shut, and saw her walk past the window. She was moving quickly so he had only the briefest impression: of reddish-brown hair, lightly powdered, haloed by the winter light, a tiny figure, not dressed for the cold, and pale skin. He could not see her face: she did not glance back at the shop. But there was something indefinable about the way she moved, about the curve of her cheek. It was her; it was definitely Mary: ten years older, thinner, and fading; the life almost gone. What remained was only a signifier of what she had once been, like the painting of a saint on a church triptych.
    He had turned to watch her pass the window, and felt Jesse’s warning touch on his arm. When he turned back, it seemed Grisa had not noticed his interest; his eyes too had followed his mistress. His lips were pursed in amusement. ‘And she flies again,’ he said. ‘No hat, no cloak. See how she races towards death? It is no surprise that she is desolate; how do you replace such a husband? Come into the workshop, and I will give you my orders. We must be quick; my day will be full once the agents arrive.’
    Grisa seemed to speak forever, his voice running on and on until Alban’s attention faded away. Half an hour later, Alban and Jesse emerged into the light, their heads full of instructions.
    Alban looked down the street in the direction he had seen Mary walk. ‘She looked like a ghost,’ he said.
    ‘I told you,’ said Jesse, tucking some papers into his coat pocket. ‘She’s a weak, bloodless thing now. He sucked the life out of her. Never let anyone near her.’ He touched Alban’s arm. ‘Stop staring after her. Let’s have a pint of something. Celebrate our commissions, and my new child.’
    The close, dark-panelled room of the Red Lion in Crown Passage was nearly empty, but the smell of sawdust, burnt meat and ale sent Alban back eleven years. As he accepted a cup of porter from Jesse, he saw a man watching from a bench in the corner. The man had red hair, and though he was sitting in a hunched position, had a kind of contained hauteur that drew the eye. He looked at Alban with unashamed directness.
    ‘Jesse,’ the man said. ‘Who’s this you’ve brought with you?’
    Jesse twisted round and smiled. ‘My cousin from Chester, come to seek his fortune in the city,’ he said. ‘Alban, this is Edward Digby.’
    ‘We’ve met before,’ said Digby, his hand curled tight around his pint pot, though he had not drunk from it since they’d entered the taproom.
    ‘You’ll forgive me when I say I