Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It had been a long night, one that had thankfully ended with Bram and Harry both still alive. Vampires, vampire hunters, decapitated corpses, live burials...Doyle wondered if he wasn't about to take a nap as the sun rose, if he'd have been able to sleep at all in the dark of night. He'd told Vera he was going to rest, and asked her to see the children off to school.

Loosening his tie, he thought of his bed with longing. When the phone rang, he frowned, not only because it was intercepting him on the way to some much needed rest, but he couldn't fathom who would call at such an ungodly hour.

"Hello." His voice was greeted with a brief silence.

"Uh...could you come over?"

It was Houdini's voice, but it was oddly hushed and hesitant.

"I just arrived home. It's barely dawn."

"I need a doctor."

"What? Are you ill? I thought you were all right at the cemetery."

"I was. I am. It's my mother."

"If she's ill, perhaps you should call an ambulance. It will take me quite a while to get there, and if time is of the essence - "

"It isn't," he replied softly.

Doyle felt a chill run down his spine. "Does your mother have a doctor here?"

There was a longer silence now. "Please, Arthur." The words were barely a whisper.

"I'll be there as soon as I can," he said, softening his tone. "Harry...does she have a pulse?"

"No."

"I'm on my way."

"Thank you," he replied, and broke the connection.

Doyle cursed his car, even though he usually considered himself very advanced and sophisticated for traveling around via motor instead of via carriage. As he pushed the engine to its limit through the sparsely populated dawn streets, he figured a fast horse would have been a more expedient way to reach Houdini's hotel.

He parked outside the Metropole and hurried up to Houdini's floor. He raised his hand to knock but the door opened before his hand made contact with it. Harry looked sad, drawn, and pale, his ice blue eyes seemed haunted when he looked at Arthur.

"She's in the parlor," he said, stepping back from the door so Doyle could pass him and enter, which he did. Houdini's mother lay on the settee, clad in an elegant dressing gown, looking peaceful, as if she were asleep.

Doyle opened the medical bag he'd brought with him and took out his stethoscope. He listened for a heartbeat he knew wasn't there, checked her pulse points, evaluated the temperature of her skin by touching her hand and her forehead. It was clear she'd been dead a while, probably since falling asleep there the night before, waiting for Harry to come home from their adventures chasing vampires. Her nervousness, sleeplessness, restlessness just before her death wasn't unusual. People who are close to death often feel it coming, even if they don't realize exactly what it is they're feeling.

"There's nothing to suggest she didn't slip away very peacefully in her sleep," Doyle said, turning to face Houdini, who stood there watching him. He looked lost, like he didn't know what to do next. "Would you like me to call an undertaker for you?"

"I'm going to take her back to New York. We were...we were going back there anyway," he said, his eyes filling. "She was homesick," he managed. Arthur moved toward him, touching his shoulder.

"You gave her a beautiful life here, Harry. It's clear she didn't want for anything."

Harry looked at him a moment, then moved toward him, wrapping his arms around him, putting his head on Doyle's shoulder, his body shaking. Doyle hesitated, the raw emotion taking him off guard. He wasn't demonstrative and emotive. He was stiff upper lip and controlled emotions, propriety and...and not a whinger.

Then Harry started to stiffen a bit and move back, as if he realized he'd crossed a line or behaved in a way that Doyle didn't find acceptable. Doyle ignored the voices in his head from a lifetime of being raised to control his feelings and keep untidy things like grief to himself. He pulled Harry back against him in a strong embrace, holding him close while he poured out his grief in sharp, awkward breaths and painful sounding sobs.

"Saltwater taffy," he gasped against Doyle's shoulder.

"What?" Doyle was confused by that seemingly random phrase.

"She wanted saltwater taffy," Harry clarified, pulling back a little. He was a mess. Wet eyes and runny nose, more untidy than Kingsley had been the last time he'd really let himself cry over something. Doyle took out his handkerchief and handed it to him, still keeping one arm around him, not taking the escape of moving away that Harry had offered by releasing him from the intense embrace. He took the hint, wiping his eyes and nose.

Before Doyle realized what he was doing, his hand crept up to caress Harry's soft curls. If he were honest with himself, he'd been wanting an excuse to touch them for some time. They were as silky and engaging as he expected they would be. It sent a tingle of desire through him that was not only inappropriate for the circumstances, but inappropriate for a married man, inappropriate with another man at all...just plain wrong.

"We were going to take a trip home, visit the family...eat saltwater taffy." Harry sniffed, blinked a couple times. "I should have paid more attention to her the last few weeks, you know? I should have known something was wrong."

"Harry," Doyle said softly, reassuringly, "she died peacefully in her sleep. She wasn't showing outward signs of illness. You couldn't have known."

"I knew her. I should have known. I should have sensed something was off."

"I'm a doctor. Do you think it's my fault because I didn't notice something brewing the last time I saw her, when we brought Bram here?"

"No, of course not, but...but we were so close, always...she always knew if there was something wrong with me. And when something was wrong with her, I didn't bother to even look," he concluded, his voice breaking again.

"You knew she was homesick and you were planning to take her on a trip to New York. You looked, Harry. You were a good son to her. You couldn't have known she was...that the end was near."

"Thanks for coming over," he said, wiping at his eyes again. "I'll have it cleaned before I return it," he said, forcing a little smile, trying for some humor as he gestured with the handkerchief.

"Keep it. I have a lot of them. The children give them to me for Christmas every year. I swear they must think I have chronic nasal drip."

That made Harry chuckle softly, though the smile didn't quite light up his face.

"Come on," he said, leading Harry toward his room. "I'll make the arrangements with the undertaker, and for your travel. Lie down a while. You need rest."

"I can't sleep. Not...I should be with her."

"I know a very good undertaker. He'll treat her with the utmost respect and keep her safe until you're ready to travel. Will you trust me to handle this for you?" Arthur asked, taking hold of Harry's shoulders, looking him in the eyes.

"I trust you. I just...I don't want this to turn into some media circus. She deserves her dignity and privacy."

"Mr. Peterson is the third generation of his family in the business. They've handled every burial in our family for about as many generations. They're very discreet and very good at what they do. I'll explain the situation to him, and make sure we do things as quietly as we can. There's probably no avoiding the news getting out, but you're not going to be unduly harassed, I give you my word."

"Why? Are you going to be my bodyguard?" Harry asked, and while his sarcasm could be annoying, the little spark of humor in his grief-stricken expression was enough to make Arthur just laugh it off. And he had every intention of protecting his friend from unwanted intrusions.

"Something like that. Will you please lie down now, just for a while?"

"Yeah, I feel kind of...weird," he said, touching his forehead.

"Mild shock, probably," Arthur replied, leading him into his lavish bedroom and depositing him on the side of the bed. Since Harry sat there as if he was in some kind of stupor, Arthur crouched to take off the expensive shoes and then proceeded to take off his jacket and vest until he was clad only in his shirt and pants. "Lie down," Arthur instructed, keeping his voice soft, like he'd use with one of his children when they were hurt or ill. He drew a light blanket over Harry since he seemed to have mild chills.

"She said she'd never leave me," he mumbled.

"I'm sure no mother would leave her child if given the choice," Arthur said, thinking of Touie, how devoted she was to their children, and how devastated she was when she briefly awoke that she'd been away from them so long. Something told him that even though Harry was fully grown, his mother was well aware that he still needed her, and she wouldn't have let go of that easily.

"No, I suppose not," Harry replied, looking into Arthur's eyes as if he were looking right into his soul and reading his mind.

"Rest now. I have some calls to make."

"I want to see her again. Tell them...and I haven't chosen anything for her to wear."

"You'll have time to do that later today. I promise."

"Okay," he finally relented, his eyes drifting shut. Then he opened them again. "Don't leave...I mean, let me know before you go, okay?"

"I won't leave," he replied as he walked to the bedroom door. "Rest. Doctor's orders," he said.

Doyle went about all the calls and arrangements he'd promised to make. He was relieved that Houdini was as quiet as he was through most of the calls and activity. Doyle arranged for Mrs. Weiss to be transported by the undertaker via a service entrance from the hotel to avoid the media circus Harry dreaded. The mortician gave his word that he would keep the whole thing as quiet as possible, as long as possible, and protect Mrs. Weiss from any gawkers or ambitious reporters.

********

Harry awoke, surprised he'd actually slept a bit. He wasn't sure how long, but he felt groggy and heavy, as if he'd been out for a while. If he'd really been out a long time, he half expected to find a note from Doyle with information about the arrangements he'd made. After all, it was a lot to ask of his busy friend who had also been up all night to just sit around his suite waiting for him wake up.

He sat up, slid his feet into his shoes and wandered out to the parlor, not really prepared to see his mother’s still form there again, and yet even less prepared for her to be gone. When he walked into the room, she was indeed gone, but Doyle was sitting in a chair, keeping himself occupied reading the small book Houdini had invited himself to borrow from Adelaide’s house.

“You’re awake,” he said, smiling slightly.

“How long was I out?”

"Just a couple hours. It took me a while to make the arrangements, to book passage on a ship that had accommodations suiting your tastes," he teased gently, setting the book aside. Harry smiled at that. "Mr. Peterson is planning to meet with us later today, before transporting your mother to the ship. We can provide clothing and any items you'd like to have...with her for burial."

"Us?" Harry asked. He really hadn't expected Doyle to stand by him so completely, to even go to the undertakers with him. He had family in New York, but here...he would have been so alone to do all this when he felt so utterly broken.

"Unless you prefer to go on your own..."

"No, I...thank you."

"Here, have some water," he said, and Harry watched him pour a glass from a pitcher on the end table. He sat in a chair, avoiding the settee. He wanted to burn it and yet it was the last place his mother had been, so he felt torn between hating the sight of it and being unable to bear the thought of getting rid of it, of leaving it when he finally left the Metropole for the last time. His mouth did feel dry and his throat raw, so he took a few swallows of the water gratefully before slumping back in the chair.

"I shouldn't have asked you to stay. I know I’m imposing on you."

“Nonsense,” Doyle replied, placing his hand on Harry’s forehead. “You don’t appear to have the chills any longer, so that’s a good sign,” he said, withdrawing his hand. “Drink a bit more,” he urged, and Houdini wordlessly obeyed.

"How do you do it?" he asked quietly, setting the water aside.

"Do what?"

"You live with your wife's condition every day, and you...you handle it. I feel like...the world just fell apart and..."

"I haven't had to face the reality of...she's still alive. Technically." He swallowed. "Though I know I'm fooling myself into believing that there's hope."

"She did wake up." Harry stood and paced. Maybe moving would keep him from losing his composure again. The water had helped a bit. He focused on the soreness in his side, an occasional catch from some poorly healed ribs. Doyle was right, now that Houdini let himself think about it. He was in some kind of pain most of the time.

"And then slipped back into a coma. I know it's over, our life as we knew it. But I have the option to stick my head in the sand when the pain of that thought becomes too much. You have to face your mother's death because it's final and it's happened."

"I suppose. I just..." he felt his control faltering, so he kept his back to Doyle. "I haven't mastered the stiff upper lip thing yet. You don't have to stay," he muttered, his voice cracking. He was embarrassed to lose it like this, but the pain was too much, too fresh, and it was demanding release.

"I've had my moments, Harry," Doyle replied, appearing close behind him, resting his hand on Harry's shoulder. "I'll wait outside if you'd like your privacy, but I'm not leaving."

"I don't need privacy," he managed, then he gave up and let the tears come. What he really wanted was another hug, but it seemed too much to ask. He’d been stunned when he got the first one. Not because Doyle was cold or unkind, but because...well...he was so composed and proper all the time. He was relieved when he was gently turned and embraced, able to pour his misery out on Doyle’s shoulder once again.

"I'm so sorry, Harry. I know how much you loved her."

"I was so wrapped up in myself...my shows, our cases...I didn't pay attention..."

"You treated her like a queen and you were a wonderful son. Let me tell you something as a parent. I hope Mary and Kingsley always want me in their lives, but I don't want to be the center of them. I don't want to distract them from doing the things they love, or hold them back. I'm sure your mother rejoiced in your success and in the fact you were happy."

"I know she did."

"Then mourn for her and miss her, but stop trying to blame yourself or feel guilty. You did nothing wrong."

"You really believe that?"

"Yes, I really believe that."

He relaxed and let himself grieve, in all its awkward ugliness. And it was bearable because he wasn't alone.

“It will get better. Or at least, you’ll learn to live with it, to function,” Doyle said, and those long fingers of his were in Houdini’s curls again. It made him feel sheltered and comforted, but there was something else in that touch. In his present miserable state, his mind wouldn’t connect what it was, but something... Whatever it was, it didn’t matter. His heart was broken in a million pieces and he needed something, someone to hold onto, and Doyle simply stood there and held him and let him unload his grief until he felt weak in the knees. Doyle guided him to a chair and sat him down so he didn’t further embarrass himself by fainting like a woman with a case of the vapors.

“Breathe, in and out,” Doyle said calmly, and then Houdini realized he had been close to passing out. Doyle kept up a reassuring motion of his hand on Houdini’s back, and kept up the chant. “In and out, deep breaths. That’s it.”

“Sorry,” he said, wiping at his eyes, then pulling out the handkerchief Doyle had given him earlier and using it. He had his own, a fancy, silky, monogrammed thing that was more for decoration than anything else, but somehow the little piece of cloth from his friend comforted him more.

“Have another drink of water,” Doyle urged, coaxing him to take a drink. Houdini obeyed the directive, swallowing a bit more, even though his hand shook a bit as he held the glass. Doyle took it from him and set it on the table.

They sat there in silence a while, until Doyle reminded him of their appointment.

"Will you be all right here for a while?" he asked. "I should really freshen up a bit."

"Yes, I'll be fine. I guess I should do that, too," he said, finally focusing on the fact he was still a bit dusty and grubby from the cemetery...from being buried alive. He dismissed that thought, hoping the little chill it inspired had gone unnoticed. It hadn't.

"You're sure you'll be all right?" Doyle asked again.

"Fine," he repeated, forcing a little smile.

"I'll be back to pick you up in an hour," he said, standing. Houdini stood also. Their eyes met for a long look, and a handshake seemed cold and meaningless. So Houdini took a step forward and gave his friend a quick hug, glad Doyle responded, returning it, before they both stepped back.

"Thanks again. I'll be watching for you."

********

Arthur didn’t see the open, vulnerable, broken Harry again. In his meeting with the mortician, he’d focused very well on every detail from providing an elegant dress for his mother’s burial to questioning the man on all the mechanics of transporting her and how her remains would be tended to on the ship.

Even when he popped up to bedevil Edison and try to debunk his necrophone, his arrogance and flippancy were back in place. There was some sort of awkward moment with Adelaide, Doyle knew that because he’d walked in on something, though just what he wasn’t exactly sure. None of that surprised Doyle much, but what did trouble him was the way Houdini threw himself into the crusade of bolstering Doyle into not giving up on Touie, even to the extent of sending a specialist from New York at his own expense to examine her and evaluate her case.

It was as if Houdini had felt some tendril of what Doyle had felt himself in those embraces they’d shared. Something that wasn’t terribly hard to identify but had the potential to shatter both their lives. Something that had caused Houdini to, at least as far as Doyle could surmise, make some kind of move on Adelaide and then take up the cause of keeping Doyle committed to his wife and the fight to save her. Now he had fled back to New York and was planning a series of shows in the States. He’d said he’d be back, but not when or for how long. After all, London was not his permanent home and his last memories of the Metropole were strongly focused on his mother’s death.

Arthur adjusted his tie and donned his hat, starting out toward the docks where he was to meet the specialist coming to evaluate Touie. He’d kept it from the children; he didn’t want them to get their hopes up again only to face another disappointment.

Rather than running from his feelings, could Houdini be acting on them? Could he truly care so deeply for Doyle that he was trying to give him back the life he wanted, with his wife, even if Houdini himself had felt the same tingle of attraction?

Such thoughts were unsettling, and pointless. He was still a married man, and as long as Touie was alive, he would remain so. Even in the tragic event she succumbed to her illness, he could never risk bringing such scandal into his life. Not while he was raising his children.

Still, that desire that stirred in him, the way his heart, that always felt so heavy and alone, had beaten a bit faster and fluttered a bit with feelings he didn’t think he could feel again: passion, desire...love... He’d told himself it was intense feelings of compassion, that it was brotherly love. But brotherly love didn’t have anything to do with how the feeling of Harry’s curls around his fingers or the scent of his aftershave or the ridiculously luxurious and colorful silk nightwear haunted his thoughts.

He scolded himself for allowing such sinful thoughts to enter his mind, especially given the nature of his errand. Today was about Touie, her evaluation by a top physician from New York, and the quest to restore her to health. Not about his misplaced desires for a flamboyant entertainer who probably wasn’t giving him a second thought as he wowed audiences in the US on the epic American tour he’d launched shortly after their return from thwarting the attempt on the president’s life.

********

Houdini took a draw on the opium pipe, waiting for the drug to do its magic. He was in pain, but the thought of another cheap encounter with a willing female to massage him didn’t pique his interest. For some reason tonight, Arthur’s voice was haunting him. “You must be in agony every single day.”

To some extent that was true. It was also true he had a high tolerance for pain and had learned to live with it, aided by a bit of massage here, a bit of opium there...but the compassion in Arthur’s voice, having a friend who knew how utterly messed up his body was from some of the stunts he’d managed, and cared...he missed that acutely. Almost as much as he missed his mother. She knew his health wasn’t perfect, but he never revealed to her just how damaged his body was in places. It would have broken her heart, and he would have died before doing that.

Another opulent hotel, this time in California. And what good was it? He couldn’t lavish her with gifts or fancy dresses or parties for her to hostess. He was alone...and probably going insane because from time to time, he saw her. In a crowd, on a ship, behind him in a mirror...but even that didn't bring him joy or consolation, because the sight of her meant he was spiraling into madness. It had to mean that. For that reason, he recoiled in fear from those apparitions and whatever it was they had to say.

He surrounded himself with people, but he was still alone. His friends were in England. Adelaide was at Scotland Yard, continuing her uphill battle as a female constable. He didn’t know if she still felt anything for him beyond friendship, if she ever had. They’d sparred a lot, flirted, but when they had what could pass as a romantic encounter, it hadn’t actually gone anywhere.

He more acutely recalled the feeling of Arthur’s long fingers in his hair, the warmth of his embrace, the way they could tell each other anything...Arthur trying vainly to teach him to whistle standing in the cemetery as Adelaide strode off in frustration. And he remembered the way his soul had felt torn asunder when he saw Arthur lying there in the King Edward Hotel, bleeding, fading from consciousness. He knew then how he felt, for all the good it did him.

He even missed Mary and Kingsley, who had so much of Arthur in them and delighted at his magic tricks when he spent time at the Doyle home.

Tired and homesick for a place that wasn’t actually home, he set the pipe aside, disappointed as he usually was at its effect, or lack thereof, on curing his pain. Now he was just in pain and cloudy in the head. Cloudier than usual.

His assistant had left a stack of mail on the desk, so he sorted through the envelopes, mostly disinterested in them. There were a couple letters from family, a couple business items his lawyer obviously felt needed to pursue him on tour across the country, and an envelope with a return address from Arthur C. Doyle in London.

His hand shook a bit as he tore into the letter. Dr. Henshaw, the specialist from New York, would have seen Touie by now, and because of confidentiality, all Houdini’s attempts to contact his office for information had met with failure. He unfolded the letter and read the note in Arthur’s tidy script.

Dear Harry,

I cannot thank you enough for arranging Dr. Henshaw’s visit. He is a brilliant man and a very thorough physician.

I am sorry to say that his diagnosis was not more positive. I am not sure what I was expecting, or hoping for, but after extensive tests and careful examination of the case, he determined that everything that could be done for Touie, either had been done, or was currently being done.

He didn’t say it in so many words, but being a doctor myself, I know when a colleague is trying to say that the fight is over, and it’s a matter of time. She could linger for years or go any day, but the likelihood of her recovering is dismal at best.

I suppose it isn’t really a new situation. Each time I try something new, I begin to imagine life if it worked, and she was restored to us. At least this time the children weren’t aware anything was going on. They just think I’m in a mood while I’m working on my new Holmes story.

Which is largely your bad influence, thank you very much. You have me bowing to the demands of eager fans, though I have not come home to women waiting in my room over it. Perhaps after the new Holmes story is released.

I hope your tour is meeting with great success, and that you are at least adhering to some slight level of sanity in the tricks you’re attempting. I would tell you to exercise caution, but I know that would be pointless. So I will only say I wish you well until we meet again, and if you break a bone, for God’s sake, man, see a doctor.

Warmest regards,
Arthur

Harry laughed at the last line, though there were tears in his eyes as he read the results of Dr. Henshaw’s analysis. Maybe they had reached the point of accepting that no more could be done for Arthur’s wife. Even throwing copious amounts of money at the situation wasn’t leading to a cure.

“Oh, Arthur, I’m sorry,” he murmured, rereading the letter. “I’m sorry I put you through another false hope because...because I had to clear my conscience.” He leaned back in the chair where he sat. In a rare moment of quiet, and honesty with himself, he recognized why it was so important for him to push Arthur not to give up on his wife, to actually take action to try to restore her: because he couldn’t bear to be the guilty beneficiary of her demise.

He had a bevy of attractive women vying for his attention at any given time, and yet the one thing he longed for was an uptight Brit in a night shirt and longjohns to share his bed through the long, dark nights. Even if that could never be, he missed his friend bitterly. Their conversations, their jokes, teasing each other...the things that made him smile and made his life happier than it had been for a long time. He wondered if Arthur might just harbor a little desire for him, too, way deep down somewhere.

After all, Arthur had known all about that writers’ club that catered to men with a certain preference. The one that had invited Oscar Wilde to join them.

He could picture Arthur typing away on his manuscript, burying himself in Sherlock’s latest mystery, in plotting the details and constructing the case. He could imagine the sadness in his eyes, the slump of his shoulders, and the strain of keeping up a sunny front for his children. He hoped at least the pain from the bullet wound had fully subsided.

And he remembered the friend who had held him while he grieved and not left his side when he was so broken himself. The same friend who picked at him at Falcroft Manor because he could see grief wasn’t done with Harry yet, and he was trying too valiantly to pretend nothing was wrong, to act like nothing major had happened. Adelaide had offered similar advice, but then she hadn’t seen him that morning the way Arthur had. She didn’t know how close his mother’s death had come to destroying him.

Picking up the phone, he dialed his business manager’s number. Belatedly, he looked at the clock, then shrugged. He paid the man well enough to be disturbed at odd hours of the night.

“Hello,” a groggy voice greeted him.

“Robert, good evening, it’s Harry!” he said cheerfully. He could almost hear the wheels turning in the other man’s head as he paused, deciding if he should jeopardize his relationship with his most lucrative client and tell Harry to go fornicate himself for calling at such an hour, or if he was going to handle it professionally.

“Harry, is anything wrong?” Ah, diplomacy. You’re calling at an insane hour of the night which, for any normal person, would mean something was wrong, or at least urgent, but I’m expressing concern to avoid sounding like I’m calling you a lunatic.

“No, nothing’s wrong, but I need your help and it is rather urgent.”

“Yes, of course, what is it?”

“I need you to cancel the remainder of my North American tour.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m going back to Europe.”

“But we don’t have any dates scheduled in Europe. You don’t have lodgings in Europe.”

“That’s why I have you!” Harry exclaimed, smiling. “Calm down, Robert. I don’t expect you to arrange a European tour by morning, though I wouldn’t mind doing a few shows after I settle back in there. I can stay with friends when I first arrive. We’ll discuss the details later.”

“We’re going to lose money on this. A lot of money.”

“Can I afford it and still buy nice suits?”

“Let me do some figuring, but yes, I believe you can.”

“Then make it happen, Robert. I’ll do tomorrow night’s show, and then I’m leaving.”

“May I ask what brought this on?”

“A friend is going through some hard times, and I’d like to be there.”

“Must be a good friend,” he replied, sounding as if he almost didn’t intend to make the remark out loud.

“The best. Thanks for taking care of things. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Yes, of course. Goodnight, Harry.”

After he hung up the phone, he realized the injustice of what was happening. Robert was now staring at the ceiling in a state of panic, and Harry felt deliciously relaxed and drowsy because of his decision. He got into bed and slept soundly until morning.

********

It was a sunny autumn day, a light breeze coming in through the window. The children were in school, Vera was upstairs cleaning. Arthur could hear her banging around up there, no doubt pursuing dirt with the diligence than Holmes pursued culprits in his adventures. The doorbell rang, and he thought about going to answer it himself, but Vera would hurry downstairs before he made it out of his study.

Probably a salesman or some other tiresome visitor that his maid could just as easily dismiss without disturbing him.

He rubbed his forehead and stared at the partially typed page. After the failed visit from Dr. Henshaw, he’d lost a lot of his enthusiasm for writing. So now he’d resurrected Holmes and was letting him languish somewhere out on the moors with the baying of sinister hounds surrounding him, because he didn’t have the energy to get him out of his current predicament. He could blame it on the doctor, blame it on writer’s block...but there was more. He missed Harry. His annoying energy, his smile, those mischievous eyes of his, the way he infused Arthur’s life with hope and laughter and companionship. He’d hoped to receive a letter...something. But Houdini was a busy man in demand, courting fans and entertaining crowds. Mastering new stunts, no doubt.

He leaned back in his chair and sighed, pouring himself a drink of scotch. There was a knock at the door.

“Come in, Vera,” he said tiredly. “Whoever was at the door, you know I don’t patronize peddlers,” he said before setting the bottle of scotch down and looking toward the door.

“Well, then it’s a good thing I’m not selling anything.”

Arthur sat in his chair, staring at Harry as if he’d gone mad, as if Harry was conjured up by his slightly scotch-fogged imagination.

“Surprise!” Harry tried again, still smiling but beginning to look a little doubtful at Arthur’s response, or lack thereof.

“I don’t understand...I thought you were going to be touring the States for months yet,” he finally said, self-conscious of the bottle of liquor sitting there, waiting for Harry to make some smart remark about him drinking again.

“I changed my mind,” he said, shrugging.

“You changed your...it can’t be that easy.”

“Well, it isn’t for my business manager,” he quipped, still smiling. “Am I interrupting a burst of literary genius?”

“No, no, of course not,” Arthur said, snapping out of his shock and standing moving toward Harry, starting with a handshake that he wasn’t surprised Harry turned into a hug. Though it started out gruff and manly enough, Arthur knew he held on longer than he should have. “It’s good to see you again,” he said, stepping back. He blinked, knowing he was tearing up a bit. He couldn’t remember ever being so glad to see anyone as he was to see Harry at that moment.

“I’m sorry about how things turned out, with Henshaw. I thought he was the best, but clearly--”

“He is one of the best,” Arthur said, swallowing hard. “I am so grateful to you for arranging it, and for insisting I do it...but a time comes when you have to accept things for what they are. I haven’t quite decided how to begin preparing the children.”

“Your kids are smart. Be honest with them. There’s no way this isn’t going to hurt them, but so is losing their mother when they don’t expect it’s coming.”

“Voice of experience?” Arthur asked.

“I certainly wouldn’t wish for my mother to linger with a wasting illness, but the suddenness...still makes it hard to accept sometimes. You can’t save your wife from this illness, but the only small advantage is that you can prepare Mary and Kingsley so it’s not such a shock.”

“Yes, I suppose that’s true,” Arthur agreed. “So, what brings you back to London?”

Harry didn’t say anything. He just looked Arthur in the eyes and cocked his head a bit, as if to ask if it weren’t obvious why he was there.

“You cancelled your tour to come back here and see me?” he asked, stunned. He waited for one of Harry’s trademark jokes, but it didn’t come.

“I read your letter. When my mother died and I called you, you came.”

“I was across town.”

“Across town, across an ocean...” He made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “What difference does it make? I wanted to be here, not there. So here I am.”

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Now are you gonna offer me a drink or are you hogging the good scotch for yourself?”

“Seems I’ve lost all my manners. Please, sit down.” Arthur poured them each a scotch and they settled in the chairs on either side of the small table.

“I guess we’re supposed to be drinking tea at this hour, aren’t we?” Harry asked.

“You’d prefer tea?” Arthur asked, raising an eyebrow.

“God, no, just an observation,” he replied, taking a drink.

“When did you injure your wrist?” Arthur asked, noticing the stiff way Harry was holding his glass. There was a bit of bruising visible that wasn't covered by his cuff.

“How did you know that?”

“Elementary,” Arthur replied, making Harry chuckle. “You’re holding your glass oddly, as if it’s not comfortable, and a bit of bruising is showing."

“I panicked a little getting out of the cuffs on an underwater escape and twisted it too hard.”

“Did you see a doctor?”

“Bones weren’t broken, so no. I didn’t ignore your advice.”

“I didn’t mean you shouldn’t see a doctor if you didn’t break a bone. It’s probably a sprain.”

“I don’t usually see one when I do break one, so a sprain wasn’t much reason to change that.”

“Let me take a look,” Arthur said, sighing in feigned exasperation. He took Harry’s hand in his and carefully examined the wrist, gently manipulating it a bit. “There’s still some significant bruising. Does that hurt?” he asked as he carefully moved it.

“A little when you bend it back,” he said.

“That probably means for most people that red hot pokers of agony are shooting up your arm,” he quipped. “It’s a bit swollen. I can wrap it for you, and Vera can get us some ice from the ice box. That should bring the swelling down.”

“It’s just a twisted wrist. Next you’ll be suggesting surgery,” Harry teased.

“Just because you refuse to take care of yourself does not mean that I can stand idly by as a physician and allow you to do so.” He was still holding Harry’s hand, so he withdrew his, knowing he had no reason to keep up the contact. He thought he detected a slight look of pleasure beneath the cocky smile, and Harry had made no move to pull his hand away first.

“I missed you,” Harry said, not looking Arthur in the eyes, but keeping his eyes on his scotch.

“And I missed you as well,” Arthur replied right away, deciding not to make him suffer alone the awkwardness of saying it in so many words. “You will stay for dinner, I hope? The children would love to see you.”

“I’d love to. Actually, I was hoping you might have a guest room. I didn’t book a hotel...”

“Of course, I’ll let Vera know to make up the bed with fresh linens. I can get some ice while I’m at it,” he added, ignoring Harry’s little roll of the eyes. As he went to fetch the maid and prepare for his house guest, he felt a spring in his step for the first time in months, and a slight smile turning up the corners of his mouth. He could actually imagine himself spending some productive time writing later, maybe while Houdini allowed Mary and Kingsley to talk him into a few magic tricks.

It was dangerous to feel so happy with Harry there in the house, part of his life, spending time with the children. It was temporary. It had to be.

He returned with some ice and cloth bandage to wrap the wrist, but Houdini waved off the wrapping. He did consent to the little cloth bag filled with ice, so Doyle knew he must be in some pain from the injury.

“How’s Addie? I haven’t heard from her since I left.”

“It’s been a few weeks since we talked, but she seems to be doing well. Going on with her job at Scotland Yard.”

“You two aren’t chasing ghosts and goblins without me?”

“I worked on one case with her, but it turned out to be a blatant fraud. One of the mediums you so enjoy debunking was claiming to have special insight on a murder. Turns out the medium was the killer and was merely trying to throw the authorities off his trail.”

“It happens. Sounds like a pretty boring case. Glad I missed it,” he joked.

“We’ll have to have a bit of a reunion now that you’re back in town. How long are you planning to stay?”

“Depends,” Harry said, adjusting the bag of ice on his wrist.

“On?”

“A few things,” he said. “My manager being able to keep me working over here, and...uh...” He flexed his fingers a little, his eyes riveted on the ice bag.

“Mr. Houdini!” Mary exclaimed as she entered the room, followed by Kingsley. Both children initially rushed toward him excitedly, but seemed to remember their manners on properly greeting visitors and restrained themselves to handshakes, even though he ruffled Kingsley’s hair and patted Mary’s shoulder as they gathered around him.

“Are you just visiting or have you come back?” Kingsley asked.

“I was just asking him that very question,” Doyle said, crossing his legs, lighting his pipe while he watched Houdini with some interest.

“I’m not sure yet, but I’ll be here for a while, anyway. I missed you guys. You’re my favorite audience,” he said, producing a shiny coin from behind Kingsley’s ear. “If your father says it’s okay, treat your sister to some ice cream.”

“Of course, run along, you two,” Doyle replied, smiling.

“Will you be here when we get back?” Mary asked.

“Your father graciously agreed to let me use your guest room for a while, so you’ll be seeing a lot of me.”

“Splendid!” she replied, before leaving with Kingsley to go get their treat.

“I think I’ve come back,” Houdini said, finally braving eye contact with Doyle, smiling.

“I’m glad. I’m sure Adelaide will be, as well,” he added.

“Perhaps, perhaps not.”

“I thought you two shared a...moment at Falcroft Manor,” Doyle probed. Houdini raised an eyebrow at him.

“I suppose that’s one word for it.” Houdini finished his drink. “I assured her it wouldn’t happen again, and she seemed satisfied with that resolution, so that’s all it was. A moment.”

“She was probably still confused about her husband’s situation, and you were grieving.” Doyle paused. “You must be tired after your journey. Would you like to rest before dinner?”

“Sure,” he agreed, standing as Doyle did. He set the ice bag on the small towel Doyle had brought with it. “I think it helped,” he said.

“We’ll ice it again later. A few times a day until you notice some improvement.” Doyle touched his shoulder as he led him toward the stairs. “I expected a larger array of luggage to transport that distinctive wardrobe of yours,” he teased as he picked up one suitcase from the foyer as they ascended the stairs.

“I’ll get that,” Houdini said, reaching for it.

“Nonsense. It will do little good to ice your sprained wrist and then have you use it to carry a suitcase upstairs.”

“It’s been through worse,” he replied, chuckling. “The rest of my things are being shipped. I figured it would give me time to figure out where I was landing permanently.”

“Not back to the Metropole?”

“Too many memories.”

“I understand,” Doyle said, opening the door to the guest room. The window was open a bit to let in some fresh air, Vera had made up the bed with fresh linens, and there were towels on the foot of the bed. Doyle set the suitcase down. “The bathroom is across the hall. Mary’s room is next door, and Kingsley’s is next to that, but they’re very quiet, so I don’t think they’ll disturb you.”

“And your room?”

“Across the hall that way,” he said, pointing to the right of the bathroom.

“This is nice. Thanks for letting me stay.”

“Of course. It’s good to have you back,” Doyle said, smiling. “Dinner is at six. Feel free to rest or make yourself at home in the meantime. I’ll be in my study if you get bored resting.”

“How’s the story coming?”

“It’s coming along. It’s been slow since...since Dr. Henshaw’s visit.”

“Yeah, I bet.”

“See you at dinner.”

“Okay, thanks,” Houdini said, and Doyle left him there with his suitcase to get settled in. He wondered how long he could keep him there and enjoy the little game of what it would be like...

If what?

Doyle pushed that idea to the back of his mind and returned to his study, determined to make Sherlock do some work before dinner.

********

Chapter Text

Harry straightened his tie and checked his appearance in the mirror. Expensive suit, even more obscenely overpriced tie...yes, he looked good. As good as he'd look to win the attention of the most beautiful woman in the room. Too bad that, in this case, she was eleven years old. He chuckled at that thought, and at himself for fretting over his looks quite so much just to have dinner with Doyle and his kids around their dining room table. There was a knock at the door.

"Come in," he said, half expecting to see Vera with an announcement dinner was ready, or maybe Arthur to further fuss over his wrist. Instead, Mary poked her head in the door. "Come in, Mary," he said, smiling. "Dinner ready?"

"Almost," she said, walking a few steps into the room. "Father sent me to the apothecary to get some of this," she said, holding up a small bottle.

"What is it?"

"It's a cream with..." she stopped to think. "Arnica, that's what Father called it. It's good for bruising."

"That was thoughtful of him. Thank you," he said, reaching to take it.

"Father said I should help you with it."

"It's just lotion, I can do it."

"Yes, but he said you won't."

"Really? Even if I promise I will?"

She gave him a skeptical look that was so like her father that it made him smile.

"All right. I can't fight both of you," he said. There were two ornate chairs on either side of a small table in the corner of the room, so he sat in one while Mary sat in the other. She reached in her pocket and set a small roll of cloth bandage on the table. "Your father thinks of everything, doesn't he?"

"He's very thorough," she replied, still smiling, carefully applying the cream to the bruised area.

"You're good at that. Did you ever think of becoming a nurse?"

"No, not really. A doctor, perhaps," she added, focusing on her task.

"Good for you. I bet you won't get sidetracked writing mysteries, either," he said.

"I'm not much of a writer. Kingsley likes to write stories. I like to read, and when Father reads to me, but I don't really think up my own stories much."

"Well, then let Kingsley write the stories and you be the doctor. Doctors make more money, you know," Houdini said.

"They also help people," she said with a little grin.

"That, too," he conceded, chuckling. She carefully wrapped his wrist.

"Father said you did one of your escape tricks with your wrist like that."

"More like three, but yes, I did."

"How? I sprained my ankle once, and Father wrapped it and packed it in ice and mother had me lie in bed with a pillow under it. It hurt just to step on it!"

"With the kind of work I do, it's kind of hard to take a day off. So I usually don't. You get used to the pain after a while."

She stared at him intently, having finished her wrapping job. "That sounds horrible."

"No job comes without its drawbacks, I guess." He looked at the freshly wrapped wrist. "Nice job. You’re a natural at this doctor thing."

"You don't think it's silly for me to want to be a doctor? Everyone thinks girls should be nurses, if they're going to be anything at all."

"Adelaide's a constable."

"I know, but what do you think? You're a man."

"What does your father say? He's a man, too, you know."

"Yes, I know," she said, nodding seriously. "He encourages me to study hard and be what I want to be."

"That's great advice. I think you'll make a great doctor."

"Maybe I'll even find a cure for tuberculosis."

"Maybe you will. Someday, someone will," he said, wishing he could come up with something more comforting than that.

"You should come downstairs soon. Vera is almost finished with dinner," she said, standing and gathering up her supplies.

"Thank you," he said, holding up his hand.

"You're welcome." She left the room, pulling the door shut behind her.

********

Dinner was delicious and Harry found himself telling stories from most of his stops on his US tour. The children were interested to hear about the various cities he'd visited, not to mention how he came by his wrist injury. He still felt it was minor, but apparently the Doyle clan considered it noteworthy. He caught Arthur watching him, more than once, with an expression he could only describe as fondness, as if he were glad Harry was there. Most of the time, he let Arthur have what he apparently thought were surreptitious looks without letting on that he noticed, but on one occasion, he winked and smiled at him. Arthur smiled faintly but seemed distinctly uncomfortable at having been found watching Harry with such interest.

After dinner, the children headed upstairs to finish their homework while Vera cleared away the dinner and retreated to the kitchen to clean up after it. Harry and Arthur settled in Arthur's study, Arthur enjoying his pipe while Harry enjoyed an after dinner brandy.

"Shall I start a fire? It's a little chilly in here," Arthur suggested.

"Sure, if you want," Harry replied,

"I often don't bother for just myself," he said, working on starting the fire. Harry spotted the Victrola in the corner.

"How about some music?" he asked, approaching it, looking at the modest collection of music on the shelf beneath it.

"If you like. I usually don't listen to it...anymore," he said quietly, stoking the fire. Harry paused, having a feeling that he meant now that he was alone, since Touie had been gone.

He chose a piece he recognized and started it up. Arthur had returned to his chair, but now he watched Harry with haunted eyes.

"Perhaps something different...it's a waltz."

"You don't like waltzes?"

"I used to love them. My wife was a beautiful dancer," he said, his voice coming out choked.

"I'm sorry," Harry said, reaching for the Victrola to stop it, but then he paused. "What kind of dancer are you, anyway?"

"Not as good as she, I'm afraid."

"But you like to dance?"

"Yes, I rather miss it," he said, smiling a bit now.

"Come on," Harry said, holding out his hand.

"Excuse me?"

"Dance with me."

"You're insane," he said, but he chuckled a bit nonetheless. Harry smiled at that. He'd just wanted to dispel that look of grief from his friend's face, but the thought of actually dancing with him was more than a little appealing.

"So I've been told. I'm still a good dancer, though. Come on, I bet you're not all that bad."

"Your vote of confidence is flattering."

"You're killing time. Time we could be dancing. Come on, it's been a while for me, too. It'll be fun. Remember fun?"

"Not really," Arthur admitted, shaking his head.

"Where's the harm? No one's here but us. Vera's washing dishes, the kids are upstairs, who's gonna know?"

Arthur stared at him a moment, and Harry knew he had him. He wasn't refusing, and his expression had softened to a point where it was clear his resolve was wavering. He moved a bit closer with his hand still extended. Arthur stood, not taking the proffered hand, and smoothed his jacket a bit. He moved closer, and they both tried to position their arms to lead.

"Okay, fine, you lead, then," Harry conceded. He felt Arthur's hand on his back and he rested his hand on Arthur's shoulder. They joined their other hands and began to move with the music. Arthur's moves were a little hesitant at first, but once he loosened up a little and seemed to quit worrying that he was dancing with another man in his study instead of a woman on a dance floor, he danced very well.

Harry fleetingly worried for the furniture, which they seemed to be precariously close to with some of the wider turns, but Arthur was managing to steer them around it, and on the rare occasion Harry felt restricted by something small enough to move, he simply spared a foot long enough to shove it aside. That seemed to amuse Arthur greatly, making him laugh as they approached the crescendo of the music, dancing together as if they were the featured couple at a royal ball, not two guys hamming it up in the study.

He also noticed that as they danced, Arthur was holding him closer, and his arm was more around Arthur's shoulder instead of his hand just properly resting there. By the time the music ended, they stood there, almost nose to nose, still wreathed in smiles. Harry feared Arthur wouldn't do it again, that another record on the Victrola was a vain hope, but he tried anyway.

"You have more waltzes in your collection?" he asked.

"A few, yes," Arthur said, patting his back lightly as he released him and went to dig through his music collection. "This is insane," he said, choosing another record and putting it on.

"Are you having fun?"

Arthur paused, his back to Harry briefly before he turned away from the Victrola. "For the first time in a very, very long time. Yes," he said.

"Then it's not insane, is it?"

"No, I suppose not. I guess one more couldn't hurt."

"The exercise'll do you good. Been Man of the Match lately?" Harry teased as Arthur paused.

"Would you...like to lead this time?"

"You sure?"

"I'd like to see all this dancing talent you were boasting about."

"Well, then, come here and hang on while I take you for a spin."

Leading the dance was even stranger than having Arthur leading. Harry was used to a woman about his height or shorter, all swirling ball gown and dainty hands. He wasn't really used to leading a big, gangling, six-foot-tall plus man around the dance floor. Still, he was in this now, and if he could survive being suspended upside down in the underwater torture chamber, he supposed he could get Arthur around the study without killing them both or shattering some expensive piece of furniture.

This time was as much fun as the first, though Harry did tend to be a bit more adventurous with the speed and the breadth of their movements. By then, Arthur didn't seem to be too worried about it. He was smiling more than Harry had ever seen him smile since he met him, and they were dancing like a couple who had been together for years, no sense of space or awkwardness between them. Arthur's tidy hair was falling out of its usual restraint, much like he was himself, until Harry wasn't the only one with stray curls on his forehead.

Part of him knew they were going too fast and recklessly for the space they had, but he didn't care. He finally had Arthur in complete abandon, dancing like a madman, his long legs moving with the music and making Harry work to keep up. Their finale included sending an antique foot stool flying across the room, crashing into a table, sending a lamp toppling to the floor with an oddly satisfying crash. Harry froze, wondering if that little disaster would stop Arthur from enjoying their little diversion.

Instead, Arthur stared at the destruction, and laughed harder, pushing his hair off his forehead.

"I never did care for that lamp," he said, and they both laughed.

"We can go again if there's anything else you'd like to get rid of," Harry joked.

"I think I need to rest, and get a dust pan. I won't ask Vera to clean up such a frivolously caused mess," he said, though he was still grinning. "I think we need another brandy," he said, pouring them two fresh drinks.

"Excuse me, sir, I heard something fall--" Vera stood in the doorway taking in their tousled, breathless condition, the state of the room, and the errant wisp of hair that had fallen, again, on Doyle's forehead.

"I was just showing your boss a few moves," Houdini said, grinning. At Doyle's horrified expression, he added, "Boxing moves. We were boxing, right, Arthur?"

"Oh, yes, boxing. Mr. Houdini is quite adept at the sport. I'm afraid we got a bit rambunctious," he added.

"Boxing, sir?" she asked, looking stunned. Houdini gestured with his fists in the air.

"Boxing," he confirmed, smiling.

"I'll tidy this up," Doyle hastened to add. "It was completely our fault. Total carelessness."

"If you're sure, sir. I can–"

"No, please, Vera, get some rest. It's getting late and the children are always up at the crack of dawn."

"Very well. Goodnight, sir. Mr. Houdini," she added, casting a suspicious glance in his direction before taking her leave.

"Boxing?" Arthur asked, raising his eyebrows.

"Would you rather I told her the truth?"

"Not quite."

"Then don't find fault with my story. I didn't hear you coming up with anything better, Mr. Famous Author."

"I haven't danced like that in years. Maybe never," he admitted, chuckling as he handed Harry his drink.

"It's been a tough few months for both of us. We needed to cheer up a little." Harry sat down again. "I'll help you tidy that up later. It'll keep."

"I suppose it will," Arthur agreed. Harry had sat on the settee, and Arthur joined him there. Harry thought about how it felt to be in his arms, to have his body close to the warmth of another person he cared for. It was nice. He wondered what it would be like to make love with someone he actually did love. He tried to think back of a time when a tryst with a woman had been more than a physical conquest, but nothing came to mind. He thought it seemed as if Arthur had sat a bit closer to him than need be, but he also figured if he did anything about it, or moved closer, it would be assuming too much and ruin the moment. "How's the wrist?"

"Great. Feels a lot better. Nice move putting Mary up to bringing me that bruise cream."

"I knew you'd refuse it if I suggested it, but you wouldn't give her such a hard time about it."

"She wants to be a doctor."

"So she says. It could be something different by next week. She's very young yet."

"She is, but she's smart." He paused. "She mentioned finding a cure for tuberculosis."

"Someone has to, eventually." He took a drink. "Though I hope her mother's illness doesn't define her life."

"If it inspired her to be a doctor, it would be probably the only possible good outcome."

"I suppose that's true."

"Are you really okay?" Harry asked, looking Arthur in the eyes. "You know, I meant for Henshaw's visit to help. To either find a cure for your wife or..."

"Or to help me move on because there isn't one?"

Harry forced himself to hold Arthur's gaze a few seconds before he looked away. "Yeah, I guess I thought it would help to... Sometimes that hope you talk about is crippling. It keeps you from moving on."

"Is that what you think I want? To move on?"

"You said you tried once, packing away her dresses, and then she woke up...but..."

"It was only temporary." Arthur sighed. "Mary doesn't want her dresses packed away. I can let go of my hope if I have to, but destroying hers...I haven't been able to do that yet."

"It doesn't mean you're going to always be alone. If you have to...accept that she's gone."

"I may not have women hiding in my room at night, but I haven't been without...opportunities. I know I could remarry someday, if Touie...was gone. I can't picture doing that with another woman," he said, taking a drink.

"You'd feel like you were cheating on her."

"Yes, and..."

"And..."

"I've been in social situations with other women I know might be interested if I was free, but I feel this overpowering sense of...nothingness. Disinterest."

"Because you're still in love with Touie?"

"I will always be in love with Touie, until the day I die. Sometimes I just don't know how to face being alone for that long." He looked away, seeming embarrassed that his voice had cracked on those last words.

"You're not alone."

"I won't be a burden to my children. When it's time for them to spread their wings I don't want them lingering here because their pathetic old father needs tending."

"I wasn't talking about your children."

"Then who?" he asked instantly, and then he looked at Harry.

"Just because you don't remarry or find another woman doesn't mean you can't share your life with someone else. After all, you're a pretty fair dancer."

"Your friendship means a great deal to me," he said softly. Harry smiled at that.

"Good, because there are a whole bunch of people in the States who are being denied the opportunity to see the Great Houdini so I can come here and dance with you." He elbowed Arthur who laughed at that.

"Well, I send them my deepest apologies." His smile faded. "I can't thank you enough–"

"Don't. It wasn't a completely unselfish favor, coming back here. It's strange how you can be surrounded by people, women even, and still be alone." Harry snorted a humorless laugh. "Now there's an illusion for you."

"When your mother was alive, you weren't alone," Arthur said.

"Never," Harry replied, smiling sadly at the memory. "Fans, followers, people with a vested interest in my career...they all come and go but Mom was always there. If I was sick or unsure of myself...when I wasn't the Great Houdini. Hell, I wasn't even Houdini at all. When I was just me. She was always there. I don't know how to go on without her." Harry hated that his voice broke and tears came. He was there to support Doyle, not to snivel about his mother.

Arthur moved closer and pulled Harry into a hug. "You're not alone, either, you know," he said.

"You must think I'm a joke. Crying like a little kid for my mommy."

"I think nothing of the sort. As usual, you've put two and two together and come up with five." The gentle insult made Harry smile. "I think you're mourning and I think you have been alone a good amount of the time since she's been gone."

"I miss her."

"I know you do."

"I'm a grown man."

"So what? When exactly is it that we outgrow love, Ehrich? Let yourself grieve. It's all right."

The use of his real first name, the dismissal of all his facades and illusions, touched him in a way he could have never put into words. It was as if in that one word, Arthur was cutting through all the smoke and mirrors, as if he could want Ehrich, the Hungarian Jew immigrant with all his fears and insecurities, for his best friend. He let himself cry it out for a few seconds before pulling himself together and moving away a bit.

"I think I'll, uh, go upstairs."

"Really? So soon? I thought perhaps I could get your opinion on my work in progress."

"The Sherlock story?"

"Yes. I was hoping for some critique."

"I suppose I could do that."

"Splendid." Arthur went to his desk and fetched his manuscript, sitting on the settee near Harry. It was clear he planned to read it to him. Harry wondered if he could possibly love anyone more than he loved Arthur at that moment. Not only had he consoled him, but he'd found a perfect excuse for them to spend more time together, and he was going to sit there and read to Harry until he felt better. He could call it asking for critique, but Harry knew better. He closed his tired eyes and leaned back, listening to Arthur's voice. At some point, he felt his head droop onto Arthur's shoulder and he knew he should move it, but the soothing sound of his friend's voice and the relief of feeling like he was finally home were too much to fight, and he drifted off to sleep.

********

"I believe Dr. Doyle is in his study already this morning. He's not upstairs," Vera explained to Adelaide as she led her to the study and tapped on the door, then opened it. "Dr. Doyle, Constable Stratton–" she stopped mid-sentence. Doyle was sound asleep on the settee, manuscript precariously balanced on his lap beneath one hand, while Houdini was sleeping on his shoulder to the point of snoring softly.

"Well, it appears they're not ready for guests just yet," Adelaide said, taking in the peculiar scene, though very little she saw from either of them surprised her, let alone anything that might happen while they were together.

"Perhaps it was the boxing," Vera said, escorting her out of the room and closing the door behind her.

"Boxing?" Adelaide asked, eyes widening.

"They were engaged in some sort of horseplay that knocked over a lamp that was a gift from Mrs. Doyle's mother. Mr. Houdini said they were boxing."

"Boxing," Adelaide repeated. "Well, I suppose whatever amuses them. I should get on to work."

"I'll let them know you were here. I'm sure they'll be disappointed they missed you," Vera said.

"I'll call on them later. Thank you, Vera," she said, heading out the front door and continuing on her walk to Scotland Yard. Something about the scene seemed so personal, so intimate...and yet it was so innocent. She spent the rest of her walk trying to decide exactly what she had seen and trying to shake the feeling that it was something her detective's brain should pay more attention to than simply her two quirky friends nodding off after...what? Boxing in Doyle's study? Yes, there was more to that story, and she would eventually need to learn what it was.

********

When Arthur woke that morning, Harry was sound asleep, head on his shoulder, arm thrown around his middle. Clearly, Harry was affectionate in his sleep. He stole a chance to touch the soft rumpled curls and, as Harry stirred and opened his eyes, he moved his hand and pretended to be trying to wake him, gently shaking his shoulder.

"We must have dozed off."

"Looks that way," Harry said, rubbing his eyes. "I don't think I've slept that well in weeks."

"Why haven't you been sleeping?" Arthur asked.

Harry paused, seeming unable to look him in the eyes when he said the next words.

"I see her. I see her in the crowd at my shows, I see her reflection in the mirror when I'm getting dressed to go on stage." He paused. "I see her at night, sometimes when I do sleep, sometimes when it's dark and I'm alone. I'm losing my mind, Doc."

"Have you ever considered that–"

"That what? I'm seeing ghosts?"

"It's possible. If anyone could cross that barrier, to be there when you needed her, it would be your mother."

"God help me, I'm afraid of it," he admitted, his voice cracking. "I'm afraid of the one person I loved most in my life."

"You're afraid of what seeing her means." He surprised Harry, and himself, by taking both of his hands and holding on. "You are not insane. Do you hear me? I don't know what these visions of your mother mean, but you are not insane. We will figure this out together."

"You believe in ghosts."

"I believe in the soul, in the possibility of contact with the other side. This could be your mother reaching out to you, or it could be grief and fatigue and wishful thinking. Even if it's that, it doesn't mean you're insane. It means you were tired and alone and you needed to find your way home," he said, not really meaning for he words to tumble out so nakedly.

"Is that where I am now? Home?"

"Yes, Harry, that's where you are. Home. You knew it when you came here, and...this house is more of a home than it has been in a long time, now that you're here."

"What does this mean? What are we doing here?"

"Does it matter right now? You're here, and...for the first time in ages, it seems like we're both happy. Somewhat," Arthur added, shrugging.

"Somewhat," Harry echoed. "That's better than where we were before."

"Yes, quite. Now I think we should have breakfast and go bedevil Adelaide at the Yard."

"What about...what I told you?"

"The next time it happens, you tell me about it, and we'll chronicle it, try to determine when or why... We'll investigate it like we have every other case we've worked on."

"What if I'm just crazy?"

"You're not," Arthur repeated, squeezing Harry's hands gently.

"I'm glad you're so sure."

"I am. I'm also sure that I'm hungry and I would kill for a hot breakfast."

"Okay, you win. We'll put off discussing my impending madness until we've eaten."

"There is no impending madness, my friend," Arthur said gently. "It will be all right."

"I almost believe that," Harry said.

********

Adelaide finished typing up the report and slipped it into its file folder. At least now she was mostly typing her own reports and following up on her own cases instead of fetching tea and typing up the paperwork of “real” constables. Her strange affiliation with Houdini and Doyle and the cases they’d solved had elevated her status a bit, and while there were times she found it repugnant that the influence of two men advanced her career instead of purely her own merits, she was wise enough to recognize a win when she saw it and make use of it.

As if conjured by her thoughts, the two men in question were heading across the office toward her desk. Houdini seemed a bit paler and had a worn look around his eyes, but otherwise he was stylishly dressed and freshly coiffed as usual. Doyle was his usual tidy, well-dressed self. What she noticed more than their clothing was their interaction and their expressions. Houdini often gave off an air of arrogance or mischief, but Doyle was usually straight-faced and somewhat serious. Today, they were chattering amongst themselves about something, and Doyle actually looked <i>happy.</i>

“Addie! Good to see you again!” Harry greeted, smiling brightly at her. She was a bit taken aback when he settled for a handshake, but then again they were in the middle of the Scotland Yard headquarters.

“Harry, you’re looking well,” she said, then noticed his wrapped wrist. “Well, almost. What did you do to yourself this time?”

“It’s just a sprain, but Mary was practicing her medical skills on me last night,” he said, flexing his fingers a bit. “We thought we should stop by and make sure you were managing all right here without our help.”

“Actually, Dr. Doyle did consult on a case with me in your absence.”

“Yeah, so he said. Sounded like a real snooze, so I don’t think I missed anything. No more vampires or demons lurking around that need investigating?”

“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but the supernatural appears to have taken a holiday recently. I did stop by your house earlier, but you were still sleeping. Vera said you two were boxing last night?” she asked, watching their uneasy exchanged expressions.

“Harry is always of the opinion that he is in superior physical condition, so we were doing a bit of sparring to settle the argument,” Doyle said. “I’m afraid a lamp paid for the foolishness with its life,” he added, smiling.

“I never pictured you as a boxer. Fencing, perhaps,” she said.

“Actually, I did some fencing at university,” he said.

“Really?” Houdini asked, looking amused. “I always wanted to learn how to do that. You’ll have to show me.”

“Of course. I wouldn’t want there to be an activity that held a risk of death or maiming that you didn’t engage in regularly.”

“So how long are you back for?” Adelaide asked.

“Indefinitely,” Harry said, grinning. “My manager is working on setting up some European dates for me.”

Just then, Merring came out of his office.

“Constable Stratton, I’d like to see you in my office. Gentlemen, you may as well join her. I think this will interest you.”

The three of them headed into Merring’s office.

“Close the door,” he instructed as he sat behind his desk. Doyle closed the door and the three of them seated themselves. “There’s been a...desecration at Highgate Cemetery.”

“A desecration, sir? Of what sort?” Adelaide asked. “Grave robbery?”

“In a manner of speaking. Last week, a woman named Abigail Harrington committed suicide by hanging herself in her home.”

“Well, that name sounds familiar,” Houdini said sarcastically.

“I’m sure it does. She has been engaged as a medium by many wealthy families throughout Europe to contact their deceased loved ones, and she has a reputation for succeeding.”

“I tried to contact her, to get her to do a seance...she never would return my calls or letters,” Houdini said.

“Smart woman,” Doyle replied. “I’m sure she was familiar with your penchant for discrediting mediums and spiritualists.”

“I didn’t use my own name, but somehow she obviously figured it out or didn’t think it sounded like a lucrative enough job. She’s pretty famous, even in the States. And she's a crook.”

“There is evidence of a ritual having been performed in the cemetery last night. Certain symbols and other evidence would indicate a Satanic ritual.”

“What type of evidence?” Doyle asked.

“A sacrificed goat and symbols painted in its blood on the exterior of the crypt in which her body was interred. Now the body is missing. I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before the press gets wind of whose body was stolen, as well as the details of the evidence. We’ve closed the cemetery and have it under guard. After you’ve inspected the crime scene, we’ll have it cleaned and the evidence removed as soon as possible to reduce the likelihood of the story spreading.”

“We should go then,” Adelaide said, standing, glad that she had her two partners back again. It was unlikely she’d have drawn such a horrific and high profile case without them, and equally unlikely she’d have enjoyed the prospect of poking about Highgate Cemetery looking at Satanic symbols and open graves without trustworthy companions by her side.

********

“It was nice of the local loonies to give us such an interesting case in honor of my return,” Houdini quipped as they made their way through the winding pathways of the cemetery to the crypt where the body had been stolen.

“I’m sure that’s why Ms. Harrington timed her suicide the way she did,” Doyle retorted, suppressing a smile. He hadn’t realized how much he missed their bizarre cases, but more importantly, how much he’d missed his often irritating, but never boring, companion.

“Are we sure it wasn’t a hoax?” Houdini asked.

“It’s not like a hanging isn’t possible to stage,” Adelaide said, a note of sadness and exasperation in her voice.

“I’m sorry...I wasn’t talking about your husband.”

“It’s not like it didn’t cross my mind given the nature of her death.”

“We’ll review the coroner’s report when we get back to Scotland Yard,” Doyle said. “Be sure nothing is amiss.”

The scene of the ritual was as grisly as it had been described. Tombstones had been broken and damaged on nearby graves to form a makeshift altar on which the nearly bloodless corpse of a goat lay with multiple large cuts from which it had bled out. Blood stained the grass and a pentagram was painted in it on the side of Abigail Harrington’s crypt.

Adelaide led the way into the small stone building. The concrete lid that had sealed the coffin inside the vault was on the floor, the lid of the coffin removed and against one wall, as if it had been casually tossed there. The empty coffin was still situated inside the cement vault, its satin pillow bearing the eerie impression of the head that had once rested there.

“Well, there must have been quite a few of them to move that lid,” Houdini said, examining the vault lid. “This would be a great trick...there’s got to be some way to work a cement vault into my act.”

“The door wasn’t locked?” Doyle asked, choosing to ignore Houdini’s fascination with finding yet another way to torture or potentially kill himself for the entertainment of others.

“There were no chains on the doors when the first officers arrived, but it was locked after her funeral,” Adelaide said.

“A groundskeeper here can’t make a lot of money. Perhaps they bribed him to unlock it,” Doyle suggested.

“Very possibly,” Adelaide agreed.

“They had to get the goat from someplace,” Houdini observed. “We should find out if there have been any reports by farmers of goats turning up missing. They’ve probably sacrificed more than one if they’re an active group and have a lot of these little...goat blood soirees.”

“The larger question is if there are any groups in the area with a reputation for devil worship,” Doyle said. “And if Miss Harrington was a practitioner of the Dark Arts.”

“She was a fraud like the others. A good fraud, one who obviously did her research, but a fraud. Next thing you’ll be suggesting is that she got up and walked out of here under some demonic resurrection spell.”

“I was merely suggesting that perhaps among Miss Harrington’s contacts, we may find our culprits if she was actively involved in devil worship. I wasn’t suggesting that demons removed the vault lid and carried her off,” Doyle replied, ruffled.

“A thorough search of Abigail Harrington’s home will be our next stop,” Adelaide said, crouching to pick up a broken rosary from the floor of the crypt. “This must have been in her coffin with her,” she said. “Look at the cross,” she said, rubbing her thumb over the cross with its tiny Christ figure. It was as black as coal. Whatever had blackened it did not budge under her efforts. “It’s as if it’s charred,” she said.

“I suppose torching religious objects wouldn’t be too unusual for the goat’s blood crowd.” Houdini walked out of the dank, dingy crypt into the fresh air. “I wonder if they smear themselves down with it and dance naked in the moonlight.” At Adelaide’s exasperated and somewhat disgusted look, he shrugged. “Read any book on devil worship and witchcraft and there’s naked dancing in there somewhere. Don’t blame me,” he added.

“You’re incorrigible,” Doyle muttered to him as he followed Adelaide away from the ugly blood-spattered scene. Houdini smiled and followed them, not sorry to leave the macabre ritual site behind him.

********

Chapter Text

Abigail Harrington’s home was large, elegant, and richly appointed. The floors and woodwork shone with cleanliness and the look of being recently polished, and the furnishings were obviously expensive.

“Guess I’m in the wrong business,” Houdini observed as Adelaide unlocked the door and turned on the lights in the large foyer. The staircase loomed before them, disappearing into the shadows above. “She didn’t even have to break a sweat to afford this place. Just know what rich suckers to defraud.”

“She had quite a list of clients. I’m sure we’ll find even more of them in her private records,” Doyle said as they did an initial walk-through of the first floor. “This house is impeccably kept. There must be servants still employed here.”

“Her estate made provisions for her housekeeper and gardener to remain on the estate until the bequests for their compensation were depleted,” Adelaide said. “Given the amounts, it should keep them here for years. Why she wanted to keep the house in her estate that length of time, I have no idea.”

“No heirs?” Doyle asked.

“She wasn’t married,” Houdini said. “No children, no close relatives that anyone seemed to know about anyway.” He paused. “I did my research on her. I don’t just go around trying to discredit people without learning about their little schemes first.”

“What made you so sure she was a fraud?” Doyle asked.

“Look at this place! Does this look like someone who devoted her life to sharing her ‘gift’ for the greater good?”

“You charge for your performances,” Adelaide said. “What’s the difference if she made a living off her talents?”

“I’m not faking contact with people’s dead relatives to make my fortune. I put on a show but I never have lied to anyone that it’s not a show. I’m not going to tell them how I do what I do, but at the same time, I’ve never claimed to have supernatural powers. Charlatans on this scale...the only difference between her and the last phony medium I was able to expose was how much she could charge her clients.”

“Why on earth would she kill herself? It doesn’t make sense,” Doyle said. “We’ll have to do extensive interviews with the people who knew her. I’m assuming none of that was done when she died?”

“No, being it was a suicide, there was nothing to investigate,” Adelaide replied. "It really isn't the focus of this investigation now. There's nothing to suggest she didn't kill herself. Our task is to find out who stole her body and why."

"And uncover a Satanic cult while we're at it," Houdini added.

"Yes, that, too," she agreed with a faint smile. “I think we should do a routine walk-through of the house first, and then focus on checking individual rooms for papers, records--”

“Secret passageways, goat skulls,” Houdini interjected.

“I realize you’re joking, but if she were involved in devil worship, she could hardly do it out in the open. We really should be looking for concealed rooms or areas where that type of paraphernalia could be stored away from prying eyes,” Doyle suggested.

“The housekeeper is away visiting family, and the gardener has quarters above the carriage house,” Adelaide explained. “We should have the place to ourselves.”

A tour of the first floor revealed nothing out of the ordinary for an opulent home. Several rooms, including a parlor, dining room, kitchen, sewing room, and what appeared to be a guest bedroom. Even the basement wasn’t particularly dark or sinister, just home to cleaning supplies, storage, and a laundry area. They took extra time down there to poke around looking for secret passages or hidden rooms, but could find nothing of the sort.

The second floor held a library, a study, four more bedrooms, and two bathrooms. The third floor was servants’ quarters and the entrance to the attic, which also proved to be a dusty waste of time. Deciding the second floor with its library and study would be the most likely place for sensitive items, they returned there and began with a thorough search of the library.

“Well, her literary tastes hadn’t completely gone to the dogs,” Houdini said, holding up an early edition of one of Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes books.

“At least she was cultured, even if she was a charlatan,” Doyle replied with a chuckle.

A prolonged and careful analysis of the library only gave them a greater familiarity with Abigail’s literary tastes. There were too many books to remove them all from the shelves to search for hidden documents there, though Adelaide did make the observation that it would be a perfect way to conceal secret papers. Visitors would have no clue where to begin searching.

Abigail’s study did reveal a wealth of information on her clientele and the amounts they paid her for her services. Her personal calendar caught Doyle’s attention, and he pored over it intently.

“This calendar has a pattern. At intervals, there are letters like initials, or maybe coded reminders. For example, on December 21st, ‘WS-B’, and then on February 14th, ‘WS-E’. Then within that time period, on December 21st-22nd, the letters ‘HS’. A few months later, on March 21st, the letters ‘SE-B’ and then also ‘HS’. On April 19th, ‘BS-FS’, and April 30th to May 1st, ‘WN-HSR’. There’s more. It goes on from June through August and again in the fall.”

“What’s the next date with letters on it?” Houdini asked.

“October 31st, Halloween.”

“That’s fitting,” he replied. “What are the letters?”

“They are ‘S-HS’.”

“Seems like ‘HS’ shows up a lot,” Adelaide commented, looking over his shoulder.

“Maybe ‘HS’ is a friend’s initials,” Houdini suggested. “A secret friend, obviously, because it looks like she spelled out names everywhere else.”

“We’ll take it along and do more analysis on it,” Adelaide said.

“Wait a minute, flip back to July,” Houdini said, joining them “The 10th and the 17th are circled.”

“Your mother passed away on the 17th,” Doyle said, finding the coincidence eerie.

“It has to be a coincidence. You weren’t actively pursuing this woman as a fraud at the time, were you?” Adelaide asked.

“No, but just shortly before I started getting involved in these cases with you two, I was. I actually convinced one of her potential clients to stay away from her.”

“Who?”

“Rowena Madison.”

“The Broadway actress?” Doyle asked.

“Yes. She wanted to contact her deceased mother, and while she was traveling in Europe, she came across Abigail Harrington. Rowena was at one of my mother’s parties--she was a favorite actress of hers–and she mentioned doing a sitting with Abigail for some ridiculous sum of money. I talked her out of it, and I also told her I thought Abigail was a very talented and well-funded charlatan and that she was no more a medium than I am able to literally disappear via magic only to reappear outside my restraints. She cancelled her sitting with Abigail and she did spread the word to some of her influential friends that I had strongly suggested she do so. I’m sure Abigail lost some business because of it.”

“Why are you so sure she was a fraud? I mean excepting the fact you don’t believe in mediums in general,” Doyle asked.

“Look around you. This house is gorgeous, ridiculously expensive. Abigail charged enormous amounts of money to do what she did, and once she had some poor sap convinced she had a ‘line of communication’ with their dead relatives, she kept on fleecing them for absurd fees. She charged one old dowager thousands of dollars to talk to her dead French Poodle, Fifi.”

“You can’t be serious,” Adelaide said.

“The old lady wasn’t all there,” he said, tapping his temple. “Abigail played her for everything she had until one of her grown children found out how much his mother was spending on that foolishness and put a stop to it, because by then he was managing his mother’s affairs, and there was barely any money left of an entire fortune. He was a colleague of mine, an illusionist, though his shows lean more toward traditional magic and rabbits in hats than escape tricks. He told me that story, and while I could never get close enough to Abigail to discredit her personally, I made it my business to discourage anyone I could from trusting her and being taken in by her. I know how I would have felt if she’d been targeting my mother.”

“You could have just said something. That does make sense now,” Doyle said.

“I was told that story in confidence, but I suppose it doesn’t matter much now. The woman she cheated is dead and so is Abigail.”

“She really charged this woman to communicate with her dead dog?” Doyle asked, stunned.

“She’d do crazy stuff like tell her that she was running through a field of flowers or smelled the fresh spring grass and Heaven was beautiful with plenty of tasty bones and satin cushions to sleep on. It was quite the show.”

“Good heavens,” Doyle muttered, continuing his search of the large, ornate desk. Meanwhile, Houdini continued sifting through a stack of financial records, but they seemed largely focused on household expenses, servants’ wages, and other mundane bills rather than anything sinister or particularly interesting.

Having grown bored with exploring another shelf of books on spiritualism, Adelaide began running her hands along the shelves and knocking on walls. Apparently deciding that looked much more fun than going through financial records, Houdini joined her, while Doyle watched the two of them briefly with a sort of amusement before turning his attention back to a thick, leather-bound journal. It seemed to be a diary of her seances, but she was careful not to incriminate herself. She merely recorded the details, and asserted things like “Established contact with client’s husband, Theodore, who says he is well and happy on the other side.”

Adelaide paused where she had just knocked on the wall next to the fireplace. She knocked again, then moved aside and knocked in a different spot.

“This area sounds hollow,” she said, returning to the spot that had caught her interest. Doyle went to join them as Houdini started knocking on the wall, too.

“I think you’re onto something,” he agreed. He began running his hand along the edge of the stone fireplace until he found a piece of stone that seemed loose and pulled on it. The part of the wall where they had been knocking swung a bit forward like a door, revealing a room on the other side. Some light from the study spilled into the shadowy room, but Doyle found an old oil lamp on an end table and lit it, as none of them had a flashlight handy.

The walls of the room were painted black, and a large tapestry featuring an image of a goat’s head within an inverted five-pointed star hung on the wall opposite the door. Beneath it was an oak table that served as an altar of sorts, covered by a piece of black cloth. On it were two jeweled daggers, a couple of large books that appeared to be very old and well-worn, and an ornate ceramic dish that held an odd assortment of items.

“I guess this answers the question of why her body was stolen by apparent Satanists,” Adelaide said.

“These look to be books of symbols and incantations,” Doyle observed, carefully lifting the cover of one of the books and leafing through it. Houdini, meanwhile, was picking through the dish that contained everything from jewelry to buttons to what appeared to be some kind of gold dental work.

He picked up a small gold ring encrusted with diamonds, his hand shaking a bit as he did.

“What is it?” Doyle asked, watching his reaction. Houdini handed him the ring.

“Is there an inscription?” he asked, not looking at him, bracing himself with both hands on the small table. Doyle was about to say that Houdini probably had sharper eyes than he did so why didn’t he look, but he swallowed the response when he saw the paleness of his friend’s face.

“Love, E,” he read.

“That’s my mother’s ring. It was one of the first pieces of jewelry I bought for her when I could afford it. It disappeared about a week before she died,” he said. “We thought a hotel maid stole it. The hotel investigated it, but there was no proof who might have taken it, so we had to just accept it was lost.”

“Why would Abigail steal it? It’s not like she couldn’t buy herself something like that if she wanted it,” Adelaide said.

“Why would she want any of these items?” Doyle said. “The jewelry isn’t anything, as you said, she couldn’t afford for herself, and the other items are random at best, macabre at worst. Gold bridgework?”

Houdini took the ring back from Doyle and walked briskly out of the room, through the study and toward the stairs.

“That’s evidence,” Adelaide said to Doyle, ready to set out after him.

“Let him take it. We’ll figure out what it means, but I’m not taking that ring away from him. It isn’t going to prove anything that matters now.”

“You saw his mother’s body?”

“Yes, she passed away peacefully in her sleep. There was no reason to suspect foul play, no sign of violence.”

“It’s getting late. I’ll have officers remove these items from the house and close off the room again. The housekeeper isn’t due back until next week, but I will put a man on the house to guard it in the meantime. I don’t want anyone tampering with Abigail’s things while we’re investigating.”

“Should we plan to meet you in the morning at headquarters?”

“Yes, that would be fine.”

“I think I’ll take this if you don’t mind. It’s a journal of her seances. She doesn’t really incriminate herself anywhere I’ve read so far, but it does list the names of her clients and the dates. Maybe something will intersect with the calendar initials.”

“Good thinking. We’ll talk again in the morning.”

When they reached the outdoors, Harry was nowhere in sight. Doyle took a quick walk around the grounds of the large house, but it was clear his friend had left the area. They took the carriage back to Scotland yard, and Doyle drove his car back home. When he arrived, Mary and Kingsley were having their dinner under Vera’s watchful eye.

“Mr. Houdini is in his room,” she explained. “He said he wasn’t hungry.”

“All right, thank you, Vera.”

“He did look unwell,” Mary commented. “Vera said not to disturb him but are you sure we shouldn’t look in on him?”

“I’ll check on him,” he assured, kissing the top of her head. “I’ll let him know it’s by order of his personal in-house physician,” he added, and she laughed.

“Your dinner, sir?”

“If you’ll just prepare a couple of plates, I’ll warm them up for Mr. Houdini and myself later.”

“Of course,” she replied.

Doyle tapped on the door of the guest room. When there was no answer, he opened the door a bit, quietly, thinking maybe Houdini had dozed off. The man was very much awake, sitting on the side of the bed, turning the little ring around in his fingers, as if he were almost hypnotized by staring at it.

“Mary thought we should check on you,” he said, smiling. Harry snorted a little laugh at that.

“Mary thought so, huh?”

“She did. So did I. Where did you go when you left the house?”

“I just went walking. Then when I started getting tired, I hailed a carriage to come back here.”

Doyle walked over to the bed and sat next to him.

“Why did that woman have my mother’s ring in that dish of...awful things in her devil room?”

“I don’t know. You were an enemy of hers, so maybe it was some way to get back at you.”

“By doing what? Stealing one of the least valuable pieces of my mother’s jewelry? I mean, Mom loved it because it had sentimental value, but next to some of her necklaces or newer rings, it wasn’t worth much. Why would a thief take it? Besides, you don’t usually get gold dental work off someone unless they’re dead. So how did she come by all that stuff and why was it there?”

“I didn’t do a complete post mortem examination on your mother, but there was nothing to suggest foul play. Unless...”

“Unless what?” Houdini’s head snapped up and he pinned Doyle with an intense stare.

“What if it wasn’t a physical attack, but a spiritual one?”

“On my mother?” Houdini looked horrified.

“Maybe more so on you. Have you asked yourself why you’re so uneasy with the apparition of your mother?”

“Because it means I’m losing my mind. The grief, and...it just means I’m seeing things and no matter how or why, that’s not a good situation.”

“What if you’re not seeing things?”

“Here we go again,” he responded, throwing his hands in the air before standing and pacing. “Will you please quit trying to make me believe in ghosts? I don’t, okay? When you’re dead, you’re dead. You don’t get up and walk around. You sure as hell don’t sit in deck chairs on ocean liners or follow your living relatives down the street at night.”

“Something badly frightened Edison when he destroyed the necrophone,” Doyle said, finally allowing himself to really dwell on that. It was supposedly exactly what the device was meant to do–commune with the dead–and yet Edison destroyed it as soon as it appeared to be doing that. Especially when Houdini’s mother’s voice was among the spirits coming through. “He said, ‘I’ve opened the gates of Hell.’”

“Oh, please. He just knew we’d figure out it was a fraud at some point, and an otherwise serious scientist like him would have had no reputation at all left. Add that to him stealing some of his best ideas from Tesla, and he’d be branded a crackpot. So he did this big dramatic gesture of destroying it for the good of mankind or the spirit world or whatever nonsense.”

“You seriously won’t even consider what I’m trying to say to you, will you?”

“Not if you’re implying that my mother is following me around, really.” He paused, then in a tight voice, he continued, “I wish with everything that I am that she was still alive. I’d give everything I have, anything I’ll ever make of myself, to have her back. But she’s dead. And nothing I can do will change that. So if I’m seeing her, it means I’m the one with the problem, not that she’s crossed over from the other side.”

“You heard her voice on that machine, Harry.”

“I heard A voice on that machine and I’d just come back from her funeral and yes, for a time, part of me wanted to hear it. So I did.”

“I heard it, too. I met your mother and I remember her voice, her accent.”

“Oh, I see. So you know my mother’s genuine voice better than I do?”

“I have a lot less reason to want or not want to hear it. I’m an objective listener. That is a bit different.”

“Well, Mr. Objective Listener, you need your hearing checked then.” Houdini walked over to the window and leaned against the frame, staring out at the quiet street below.

Doyle sat there a moment, then stood and walked up behind him and rested his hand on his shoulder.

“We’ll find out what Abigail was doing with the ring. We don’t need to argue about this, of all things.”

“Just for the sake of argument, and I’m not saying I believe it, if these...visions are really her...why do I feel afraid when they happen?”

“Because you don’t believe in ghosts but your eyes are showing you one? People are afraid of the dead, Harry. Of the unknown. Look at the folkore surrounding them. Your mother herself probably told you stories about vampires and werewolves because those superstitions were prevalent in the area of the world where you were born and especially during the time when she grew up.”

“They were. When Bram Stoker was at the hotel, it spooked her. She talked about the legends she was taught growing up, about the Strigoi, living dead creatures...but she knew they were stories, and so do I."

"Have you seen her since you've been here?"

"No."

"If you do, call to me, or come wake me. In the meantime, we need to sort out this whole mystery with Abigail Harrington. Once you know how she came into possession of your mother's ring, some other things may fall into place."

"You think something supernatural is going on, don't you?" Harry asked, turning to face him. Doyle almost stepped back. They were so close he could feel Harry's warm breath as he spoke. Something compelled him to stay there, kept his feet from moving.

"I suppose I'm open to that possibility."

"I know," Harry said, nodding, looking down.

"You must be getting hungry by now. I asked Vera to fix us plates. I can warm them up and we can have dinner."

"I'm not hungry, but you go ahead," he said, looking up at Doyle, their eyes meeting one another. Doyle still felt frozen there, as if he couldn't step away, even though something inside him screamed that he should.

"Harry...I..." He didn't know what he wanted to say, but he knew he should say something because now they were standing there looking into each other's eyes, and all he could think about was closing that minimal distance, and what it would feel like when their lips touched...

And then they did. He wasn't sure if Harry moved or if he did, but one of them finished closing the gap between them and the kiss was explosive and passionate, warm, exciting, scandalous, wrong, and yet perfect in every way possible. He wound his arms around Harry, pulling him impossibly closer, ignoring all the voices in his head that were telling him all the reasons this was wrong, telling him to slow down, to withdraw from a kiss that seemed more intoxicating than the finest wine or vintage scotch.

Harry's arms didn't just slip around him, they locked there. Their strength shouldn't have been surprising given the physical prowess Harry prided himself in having, but feeling his strength matched and possibly slightly exceeded by a lover was a new sensation, and more than a little unsettling...and exciting. Harry's tongue invaded Arthur's mouth, pushing its way past the last shred or two of propriety he had. He tried to stop, tried to hold back something, but Harry was demanding all of him. His love, his loneliness, his pent up desire...

Harry maneuvered them backward toward the bed, and falling on it was like falling into the abyss, because once his body was pressed down on top of Harry's, there was no turning back. He heard a broken moan escape into the middle of their kisses, and realized it was his voice. It wasn't just the physical feeling, finally, of another warm, responsive, excited body moving against his, but it was as if his heart, that had been dormant and hollow for so long was finally alive with the kind of feelings he thought he'd never have again. Despite his best efforts to cling to his honor, to the shell that was left of his marriage to someone he knew he could never have again, he'd fallen head first in love with a brash, irritating, pushy American. But that wasn't the core of the issue he knew he was avoiding. He was in love with a man.

Meanwhile, Harry's hand was in his hair, messing it up. When he pulled back a bit, the devil beneath him smiled.

"I've been wanting to do that since I met you. I bet it's curly when it's all loose and wet and you haven't nailed it down yet."

"It's a bit unruly at times, yes."

"Ooh, sexy," he teased, still smiling. That smile made Arthur's heart flip. He was done, finished...no matter how wrong this was, or how potentially destructive it was to his orderly, appropriate life, he was in love again when he never thought he could be. When he thought his heart was reduced to solely serving the physical purpose of keeping his body alive, at times almost against his will. Now it was fluttering like a schoolboy with his first crush.

"You should talk," he said, fingering Harry's curls. He wondered if Harry could possibly be feeling anything like what he was feeling, or if this was just fun. A moment of passion that Harry wouldn't see a reason to deny.

"I missed you so much while I was gone...didn't think that was gonna happen," he admitted softly, his eyes moving away from Arthur's, as if the admission was scarier than any physical act between them could be. Maybe Harry was feeling what he was.

"I'm glad you came back. I can't remember being happier to see anyone than I was to see you show up in my study," he said, caressing Harry's cheek. "I've become rather fond of you, it seems."

"Rather fond?" Harry asked, smiling broadly. "I'm rather fond of you, too, Arthur," he said softly, looking into Arthur's eyes with a look that could only be love.

"What we're doing..."

"Amazing, isn't it?" Harry replied, with the exuberance and joy that were among the many things about him that absolutely enchanted Arthur and challenged his more reserved nature to let go and feel the joy with him.

"Yes, it's amazing. But, Harry, my children are in the house. Vera. What if--"

"What if what? Mary and Kingsley are the best mannered kids I ever met. They're not gonna come in here. Neither is Vera. Go lock the door if it makes you feel better."

"Oh, Lord, the door," Arthur leapt off the bed and rushed to it, turning the lock. He turned to see the demon on the bed flop on his back and laugh.

"The look on your face," he said.

"You don't see any...concerns with any of this?"

"Not a one. You didn't either, a minute ago. So get back over here and let me distract you from all that over-thinking you're doing now."

"I know you don't take this kind of thing seriously. But I do. I'm not like you. I can't just...do something like this for fun and then walk away and forget it. I have children, I have responsibilities...I have a wife."

"You think I'm just doing this for fun?" Harry sat up, and with the exception of his grief over his mother's death, Arthur couldn't remember seeing him look more hurt. "That's what this is about for you?"

"No, of course not, but I thought...I know you don't mind being...with someone just for the fun of it, and I'm not like that."

"Wow." Harry stuck a pillow behind his back and sat against the headboard. "I thought something was happening here." He was quiet then, and Arthur could see him getting emotional. "Just get out of here."

"Harry–" He took a couple steps toward the bed.

"Please, just go," he said.

Arthur hesitated there, and he realized he was standing on the edge of something huge. If he turned and walked out the door, he might lose the only chance he had at this thing that was probably going to destroy his life and potentially break his heart yet again. But what he'd felt in those moments when he'd let himself go, when he'd given in to those feelings...he needed to feel that again. He couldn't go on, live the rest of his life without it. Without Harry.

"No, I'm not going." He went over to the bed and sat on the side of it, and took Harry's hands, even though he made a token attempt to avoid the contact. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean any of that how it sounded."

"Kind of hard to mistake how that sounded. You don't approve of me and you think I don't have any morals."

"That's not true."

"Really? Look, I know I don't marry every woman I go to bed with, but that's different. That is just for fun. I guess if you don't know the difference between the two, maybe you're the one who's just in this to work off some physical frustration."

"You're probably going to find this extremely funny, but the only other person I've had...relations with is my wife," he admitted.

"Seriously?" Harry blurted, and then he obviously saw that Arthur had just made an extremely personal revelation.

"Yes, seriously. Do I appear to be joking to you?"

"No, you don't," Harry said, his hands finally relaxing a bit in Arthur's grip. "You really never did it with anybody but your wife?"

"That's hard for you to believe?" he asked.

"No, not really."

"I'm not sure how to take that."

Harry rolled his eyes and then smiled. Arthur felt something in his chest let loose, and he let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. Even if Harry thought he was a prude, at least he was smiling again and Arthur had apparently somewhat undone the damage he'd temporarily caused.

"You're the most honorable man I ever met," he said, placing his hand over Arthur's heart. "That's why I can believe you did things the way you were supposed to. Dated nice girls from good families who didn't fool around un-chaperoned. Now me, I've never been good at rules, and never had much fascination with nice girls."

Arthur curled his fingers around the hand that rested on his chest. "That much is true, but that doesn't mean you don't have honor. I didn't mean to make it sound as if I thought you didn't."

"What do you want, Arthur? Forget what you should do. What do you want to do?"

"What we were doing before I panicked," he replied.

"Now that's a good answer, and a fortunate coincidence, because that's exactly what I want, too." Harry grabbed his lapels and pulled him close, kissing him again.

He was getting one more chance, and he wasn't about to squander it. He pulled off his jacket and tossed it aside. Harry was dressed in his shirt and waistcoat, so he started on unbuttoning the blue satin garment, the vibrance of which seemed to highlight the color of Harry's pale blue eyes. Grinning, Harry managed to get his hands past Arthur's busy hands so he could remove Arthur's waistcoat.

Harry kicked his shoes off, and when they hit the floor with twin thuds, Arthur raised his finger to his lips to warn him to be quiet.

"Vera will just think I'm giving you more boxing lessons," Harry joked.

"More like wrestling this time," Arthur replied, reaching for the button on Harry's pants.

"Take your shoes off, Doc, before you worry about my pants."

"Oh, right," he agreed, toeing off his own shoes and quietly setting them on the floor.

"C'mere," Harry said, pulling Arthur down on top of him again.

They were back to where they'd left off, only there were less layers of clothing between them. When Arthur felt Harry's hardness brush against his own, he couldn't stop the moan that escaped him. He buried his face against Harry's neck and kissed him there, tasting the soft skin, inhaling the scent of fading aftershave and Harry himself, the tendril of scent he'd experienced so briefly and unsatisfyingly on the few occasions they'd embraced. He felt Harry's skilled fingers opening the buttons on his shirt, and his soft chuckle when he encountered the layer of very proper underwear.

"It's not like you didn't know it was there," he joked, since they'd had more than one occasion to see each other's underwear or night wear. One consolation Arthur held onto was that for as full and proper as his suit of longjohns was, Harry was most likely in no more than undershorts and a tank shirt, if that much. The taut way his pants fit made Arthur wonder if he had room for any underwear at all.

"I'll take off mine if you take off yours," he teased.

"Don't tell me the great escape artist is slowed down by a set of men's longjohns," he replied, though he went to work at unbuttoning them, and his pants, while Harry took off his shirt and shimmied out of his pants in a manner that was as scandalous as the fact he was taking them off at all. Down to the point of peeling the underwear all the way off, he paused, finding it more awkward that he expected. Harry was smiling at him, a devilish glint in his eyes. Harry's eyes were engaging, but he was naked now except for his shorts, so Arthur found his eyes more focused on that. Suddenly, he was irritated by the fact that Harry appeared in that state in front of audiences all the time, having successfully executed his underwater escape.

"I'll go first," Harry volunteered.

"Why doesn't that surprise me?"

"I can slip into my silk pajamas if you'd prefer," he joked. Suddenly it seemed insane to waste a moment being irritated at anything. Harry was Harry, and if Arthur was going to start holding him to his own rigid set of moral standards–or, perhaps inhibitions was more accurate–their relationship was bound to derail sooner than later.

"Why bother?" Arthur said, climbing back on the bed and taking Harry in his arms, kissing him decisively, as if his heart and his body were finally remembering how to make love to someone instead of just clumsily fumbling through disrobing as if it were the end of the world. Harry was warm and responsive, his fair skin flushed with passion. His body was firm and his muscles were in the excellent condition he liked to brag about. He was smaller than Arthur, but something told him that Harry could overpower him in a couple well-planned moves. That just excited him more. Harry wasn't soft and yielding and submissive. He was firm and demanding and in every way an equal in this dance.

He slid his hands under the waistband of Harry's shorts, while Harry's hands were pushing at Arthur's underwear. Some awkward pushing, wriggling, and peeling later, and they were finally naked, skin on skin. Harry had the hands of a magician, because they were magically everywhere at once; running down Arthur's spine, grasping at his ass, sliding into his hair and holding him in place for kisses that were wilder, hotter, deeper than anything they'd shared before. Joking was over, and Harry obviously made love the way he made his escapes: with all his concentration and strength.

If Arthur allowed himself to be a passive participant in all of it, it was his own fault. So he wrestled passionately with Harry for dominance, though he didn't really want to dominate him. He just wanted to match his passion, to show him he was a good lover, that there was some fire under the exterior most people dismissed as reserved or proper. If the surge in Harry's erection and the upswing in his breathing and heartbeat were any indication, it was working.

He kissed his way down Harry's neck to his chest, not sure how to deal with firm muscle and body hair. He knew how to treat the soft swell of women's breasts, but what was he supposed to do with this? He kept going until his lips brushed a nipple, and Harry gasped, his body arching. Onto something now, Arthur teased the taut flesh with his tongue, feeling Harry's fingers tighten in his hair, holding him there. He was moving harder and faster against Arthur, the friction between them maddening in its intensity. It had been so long...

Arthur gasped and muffled a cry against Harry's chest as he came. The slickness between them made it possible to move harder and faster, and Harry was working his way to his own climax. Arthur reached down and grabbed Harry's ass with both hands, pulling him closer, surprised by the sharp sensation of Harry sucking hard on his shoulder, a low growl in his throat as he came, stifling the sound against Arthur's skin.

They lay there a few seconds, breathing hard. It had been all heat and action for those explosive few minutes, but now that they'd sated the physical heat, Arthur found himself longing for something a little more tender and emotional. And it wasn't like he didn't have plenty of feelings for Harry. He guided Harry's face toward his and kissed him again, but this was slow, gentle, romantic. When they parted, Harry smiled at him, and he kissed the end of Harry's nose.

"That was enjoyable," he said. Harry laughed, hugging him.

"Rather," he replied, feigning a British accent.

"Harry, I-"

"You don't have to say anything," Harry said in a voice barely above a whisper, touching Arthur's cheek. Arthur took his hand and looked into his eyes.

"I know I don't have to. I didn't really plan on this, you know."

"Yeah, I know, you were just going to talk me into dinner."

Arthur chuckled at that, but he took a moment to look at Harry's bruised wrist, kissing the inside of it.

"You're not taking care of this."

"You are," he said, his voice sounding a little strained as Arthur planted little kisses over the bruised flesh. "Beats bruise cream," he said, touching Arthur's hair.

"You keep playing with my hair. I didn't know it was that fascinating."

"It is. And I like messing you up," he admitted, grinning.

"You've messed me up, all right, Harry. Made me feel things...I thought were dead inside me."

"You've got a big heart in there, Doc," Harry said, kissing Arthur's chest, over his heart. "There's room in it for more than one lover," he said, looking into Arthur's eyes. It wasn't that he was claiming his spot there, because he already had that. He was easing Arthur's mind that he had to renounce his wife, his marriage, deny that he still loved Touie, or even make Harry any promises about what might happen should she unexpectedly recover.

"There will always be room in it for you, Ehrich," he whispered, kissing him softly.

"I know you can't stay in here all night, but lie with me for a while? Maybe just a nap?"

"I couldn't leave you now if my life depended on it."

"Not even for a reheated plate of Vera's roasted chicken?"

"Tempting, but no," Arthur replied, laughing, settling them with Harry in his arms, head on his chest. He toyed with the soft curls, and let himself drift in the sleepy afterglow.

********

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

The children sat there in silence, Harry had left the table, uncharacteristically quiet and clearly hurt, and now Arthur was wondering how things had spun out of control so fast.

Control. That was it. He'd lost control of the situation. Control of the children's behavior, control of the course of the conversation, control of the topic of visiting or not visiting Touie... Harry had made him lose control of everything. His morals, his physical desires...he had no control over anything and now things were in chaos. Maybe Harry Houdini could thrive in the midst of chaos, but Arthur thrived on order, and it was time to begin restoring it.

"Children, eat your dinner before it gets cold. Your mother needs her rest. We will arrange for another visit soon, but now is not the time."

"May I be excused?" Mary asked. "I'm not hungry."

"Neither am I," Kingsley chimed in.

"Nonsense. Vera has made a lovely meal and we're going to eat it." He made a show of carving his meat, though he had no interest in eating it. Part of him was screaming that he should go upstairs and apologize to Harry and try to repair the damage he'd caused. The other part of him kept him seated in his chair, that part of him that felt compelled to restore control and order. Harry was not good for either of those goals.

The children picked at their food, enough to keep Arthur from further insisting that they eat it.

"Mr. Houdini suggested we go on a picnic tomorrow. Would you enjoy that?" he asked.

They both looked at him with uncertainty.

"Would you enjoy going on a picnic?" he asked again.

"If you like," Mary said quietly.

"All right, I understand you're upset about not visiting your mother, but you'll have to trust my judgment on that matter."

"Why were you so cross with Mr. Houdini?" Mary asked. Arthur paused, weighing his response. It was on the tip of his tongue to chide Mary for arguing with him, and he also thought of simply repeating that it was a family matter and none of his concern. Neither alternative seemed right, and Arthur finally leaned back in his chair.

"I was a bit hard on him, wasn't I? The truth is, I miss your mother terribly and I suppose I took that out on him. You two finish your dinner, and I'll go have a talk with him."

"Really?" Mary asked, smiling.

"Yes, really. I was unkind for no good reason, and I owe him an apology. Now eat your meals. I'll deal with Mr. Houdini." He rose and walked toward the door of the dining room. Pausing there, he smiled at them. "No more running on the stairs tonight," he added with a wink at the children.

********

Harry opened his suitcase and began pulling items out of the bureau and the closet. He hastily folded his underwear and clothing and packed it more sloppily than he normally did. He planned to be out of there by the time Vera served dessert. There was a knock at the door. He ignored it.

"Harry, I know you're in there."

"Congratulations on your detective work, Sherlock," he shouted back. Predictably, the door opened and Arthur walked in.

"I came to apologize."

"Good for you." He kept packing, his back toward Arthur.

"Harry, please, I didn't mean it." He moved closer, touching Harry's shoulder. "Please don't leave. Not like this."

"How would you like me to leave, then?"

"I don't want you to leave at all." He sighed, running his hand over his face. "I'd like to undo the last half hour and pretend it never happened."

“First you tell me I’m ‘home’ and you act like I’m part of your family and then you turn around and remind me that I’m not. You need to decide what you want.”

“You have to trust me to know what’s best for my children, to manage the situation with Touie in the manner I feel is best.”

“So I’m part of your family as long as I don’t have any opinions on sensitive subjects and the extent of my interaction with Mary and Kingsley is doing the occasional card trick for them? Is that seriously your definition of being part of the family?”

“Do you really think it’s wise for the children to dwell on their mother’s condition? To sit and watch her lie there unconscious and unresponsive?”

“Do you think they’re not dwelling on it because you don’t let them see her? I would give everything I have if my mother was still alive and there was even the tiniest shred of hope she could hear me or feel me hold her hand, or know I was there. Their mother isn’t dead yet. You’re not letting them have the time they could to just be with her.”

“I want to protect them from this.”

“You can’t. It happened and you can’t change it. If they’re sad or depressed or don’t want to keep on visiting her, then stop taking them. But they want to be with her. A sleeping mother is better than none at all.”

“I feel as if I’ve made such a mess of things.” Arthur sat on the side of the bed. “I’m being unfaithful to Touie, I’m treating you badly, I’m snapping at my children...”

Harry shoved his suitcase out of the way and sat next to Arthur. He didn’t say anything for a while, but finally reached over and held his hand.

“Welcome to being human, Doc. Surprise, you’re not perfect.”

“Far, far from it,” Arthur said, squeezing his hand. “What is this for you? I’m not free, we have to hide this, if we go on with it...”

“You want to stop it?”

“How would I do that? We can stop acting on our feelings, but I’m afraid it’s a bit late to not have them. I know it’s wrong and I can’t help it.”

“Wrong because you’re married or wrong because we’re both men?”

“Both. You were the one who seemed shocked at the notion of two men sleeping together. When did you become so liberated?”

“Seriously?” Houdini asked with a snort. “You think I’m anything but liberated when it comes to sex?”

“That doesn’t console me. I mean in regard to...relations with men.”

“I don’t want to go out and have ‘relations with men.’ I want to be with you. Whatever that involves. I like your kids and I want to get to know them better and be part of their lives. Even if you weren’t married, how would that change anything? It’s not as if either one of us is gonna look good in a wedding dress. We’d still be in hiding only you’d have every single socialite in London and a few other major cities circling you.”

“Trust me, they occasionally do now, except they have to be a bit more tactful about it.”

“I thought the whole idea of two men together was pretty weird, but you made me think about it and with you it doesn’t seem weird at all. It feels like we fit, somehow.”

“I am sorry for how I spoke to you. It was unkind and uncalled for. I know it’s asking a lot of you, but if you can forgive me and be patient with me fumbling my way through this--”

Harry took a hold of Arthur’s chin and kissed him decisively.

“Anymore questions?”

“How does all this work?” he asked, resting his forehead against Harry’s.

“We live our lives. We spend as much time together as we can, and whatever happens with your wife and her illness...we handle it.”

“What if she wakes up? Harry, I can’t leave her...”

“If she wakes up, you’ll have your family back.” Harry took in a long breath and expelled it slowly. “And I’ll step aside and respect that. She’ll never have to know, and neither will the children.”

“The thought of losing you...”

“You won’t lose me. You promised me I’d always have a place in your heart. You’ve got one in mine, too. But I’m not going to destroy your family no matter what happens.”

“It’s asking too much of you. Of anyone, to live like that.”

“You didn’t ask. I volunteered. Besides, like you said, it’s a little late to stop feeling what we feel. Denying it completely seems worse than finding a way to make it work.”

“You are rather amazing, do you know that?”

“The Amazing Houdini...nah, sounds like a cheap nightclub act. I like ‘great’ better.”

“Goes better on the poster of your enormous head.”

“You mean the enormous poster of my head. My head isn’t that enormous.”

“Think again, my love,” Arthur replied, chuckling. Harry rested his head on Arthur’s shoulder and slipped his arm around his waist. He let the endearment echo in his mind and his heart.

“Say it again,” he whispered. It seemed to take Arthur a moment to realize what he meant, but then he smiled.

“My love,” he repeated, and briefly, they were perfectly still and silent, just sitting there together. Then Harry sat up straight again.

“I’m still hungry.”

“Let’s go down and finish dinner. The children will be pleased to see that I’ve earned your forgiveness.”

“Why don’t we take them on the picnic, then let them visit their mother for a little while afterwards?”

“All right. We’ll try it.”

“It’s hard for you, visiting her, isn’t it?”

“Yes, but that’s not a sufficient reason to not take the children if they want to go.”

“I know you love her and miss her, and that you were happy before she got sick. What’s happening with us...it doesn’t mean you can’t feel bad about that.”

“Thank you,” he said softly, giving Harry’s hand one more slight squeeze before standing. “Vera’s roast beef is good, even cold.” Harry smiled at that and followed him down to the dining room.

********

Once it was clear that Harry and Arthur had buried the hatchet, the children enthusiastically agreed with the idea of a picnic. Late morning the next day found the group in the kitchen, making sandwiches for their picnic basket. Though he was initially not sure what the lure was of doing such a thing oneself versus having the housekeeper do it, Arthur did have to admit he was having fun making a grand mess with Harry and the children as they assembled their sandwiches. Vera had been skeptical of the notion of taking the day off and relinquishing control of her kitchen to a man who shouted up the stairs to the children and “boxed” in the study with the master of the house, but she did finally leave to visit family and enjoy some free time. They were in the final stages of packing the lunch when the doorbell rang.

“I’ll get that,” Arthur volunteered, since his hands appeared to be the cleanest of the lot at the time. He opened the door, surprised to see Adelaide standing there. “Constable Stratton, this is a surprise,” he greeted, stepping back to let her enter. “Please, come in.”

“It appears I’ve interrupted you making lunch,” she observed. He looked down at his chef’s apron.

“We’re just preparing some sandwiches for our picnic,” he said, smiling at the prospect.

“Picnic? Well, it is a lovely day for it.”

“Would you like to join us? I think Harry and the children have made enough sandwiches to feed most of London.”

“Harry Houdini, making sandwiches? This is something I need to see.”

“Right this way, then,” he said, leading the way to the kitchen. When they arrived, the children were both laughing, and Harry was making a large dill pickle disappear.

“Addie!” he greeted cheerfully. “We’re playing hide the pickle,” he announced, the joke going right over the children’s heads as it managed to turn Arthur a nice shade of pink and drew the usual exasperated expression from Adelaide. “Did Doyle talk you into joining us?”

“I don’t want to intrude--”

“Oh, do come along,” Mary said. “We’re going to play croquet,” she added.

“We haven’t settled that yet,” Harry objected.

“There’s an argument about croquet?” Arthur asked, raising his eyebrows.

“I’m terrible at it,” Harry said, laughing.

“Well, then that’s something I have to see,” Adelaide replied, smiling. “I’d love to come.”

“You must have had a reason for stopping by before we diverted you to our outing,” Arthur said, leading her out of earshot of the children.

“The two young constables I assigned to the research project identified two missing persons, a homicide, and a kidnaping associated with dates on that calendar. The kidnaping was a baby, stolen from an orphanage. I sincerely hope that is not related.”

“My God, I do as well, but given the propensity of Satanists to view children as the perfect sacrifice, the possibility is chilling. Besides, why would you have to kidnap an orphan unless it was for unsavory purposes? If it’s someone who legitimately wanted a child, all they’d have to do was adopt one. What about the homicide?”

“A prostitute in Whitechapel, stabbed multiple times. She was killed elsewhere and dumped in an alley not far from her usual...territory.”

“Not too original, are they?”

“Perhaps they were hoping we’d categorize it as a Jack the Ripper imitator, I’m not sure. Prostitution isn’t the safest profession, so a murdered prostitute is not necessarily reason to believe it’s anything more than an unfortunate encounter with a violent perpetrator. The missing persons are a housewife whose home address is actually just a few blocks from here, and the other is an older woman who has quite a reputation as a medium and card reader. I’m sure Harry will have something to say about her.” She paused to watch Harry working with the children to tidy up their mess. “He’s good with them,” she said to Arthur.

“They’re very fond of him,” he said, realizing then that he was smiling at the scene, probably with a bit too much fondness. “He makes them laugh. There hasn’t been enough of that in this household since Touie became ill. She was always better with the children than I am.”

“I’m sure you’re learning,” she said. “Besides, he’s a born entertainer. Children are always going to be drawn to him.”

Children aren’t the only ones, Arthur thought, hoping he wasn’t betraying his own enchantment with the charismatic magician as he stood there watching him. It wasn’t only his way with the children, but his smile, his clear blue eyes, the way his suits were so precisely and snugly tailored...

“Dr. Doyle?” Adelaide prompted.

“I’m sorry?” he looked at her, puzzled.

“I was saying that I’ve had the case files pulled on these incidents. I thought perhaps we could go over them tomorrow afternoon, if you’re free.”

“Yes, of course. We should do that as soon as possible.”

“I must say, I would have never expected you two to get along so well as house mates,” she said.

“It hasn’t been without its moments,” he replied.

********

The day was ideal for a picnic. It was a bit warm for October, with bright sunshine and a light breeze bringing down the occasional shower of colored leaves. The group found a perfect spot under a large oak tree, spreading out their blanket and gathering around the picnic basket to explore the provisions inside. Adelaide had to admit that this was a much better way to spend her day than sitting in her drab apartment poring over case files.

Houdini was at his best performing for the children, and she couldn’t remember seeing Doyle smile that much in all the time she’d known him. If she were being entirely honest with herself, she missed the way Houdini used to flirt so shamelessly with her. He still teased her or engaged her in a bit of banter, but it was comfortable and friendly, and showed no signs of desire or romance on his part.

Truthfully, there was something a bit different in the way he joked with Doyle, in the way the usually reserved doctor and author responded...and the look in his eyes when they locked with Houdini’s.

You really do need to start dating again, Penny. You’re beginning to go mad.

Harry was truly dreadful at croquet, but given his athleticism and precision with most things, Adelaide suspected his ineptness was feigned for the children’s benefit. Mary and Kingsley were taking very seriously the task of coaching him on the proper technique and cheering when he seemed to improve from their efforts and the ball began to travel in the desired path.

“You should show him your stance, Daddy,” Kingsley said. “You’re taller and you could guide him,” he added.

“I think you two are doing quite well as coaches, but if you insist,” Doyle replied, moving up behind Harry where he stood there holding the croquet mallet.

Adelaide wasn’t sure why she felt uncomfortable watching the spectacle, since there was nothing to it beyond Doyle fitting his taller frame around Houdini’s shorter one, instructing him on how to bend his knees and adjusting his hands on the mallet. Maybe it was in the easy way the reserved Doyle was touching his friend, speaking to him so closely that his lips seemed to brush against Houdini’s curls. Or perhaps it was the way Houdini seemed to lean into Doyle’s body when his personality would usually have one expecting him to pull away or make a fuss.

"Your wrist could be slowing you down a bit," Arthur said, and it seemed to Adelaide as if his fingers lingered in a near caress over bruising on Harry's wrist that she only then noticed.

"Not likely. I got out of handcuffs when it was a lot worse than this. I think I can swing a croquet mallet, Doc."

"Oh, hush, and swing the mallet like I showed you," Arthur chided, eliciting giggles from the children.

"Is he always this bossy?" Harry asked them, and both of them nodded.

"Thank you for your support, you two," Arthur replied, laughing.

Houdini did swing the mallet, but there was something in the way he moved his body and the way Doyle's body moved with him that made Adelaide feel herself blush slightly and look away. Whatever it was, the children appeared oblivious to it as they applauded the result of the swing.

As the children took their turns, a family with two boys and a girl in tow approached them, recognizing Houdini. By the time he'd done a couple minor tricks and signed a few autographs, he'd drawn quite a crowd. Some of them recognized Doyle, as well, and he also signed a few autographs and spoke with a few of the people. One of them excitedly produced a Sherlock Holmes book he had been reading in the park, unable to believe his luck in getting the author himself to sign it.

The little commotion drew the attention of a newspaper reporter and photographer who had been setting up to photograph a small band concert in the pavilion. Apparently deciding two celebrities were better news fodder, they made their way over. Houdini thrived on the attention, happy to tell them that he had so enjoyed his last engagement in London that he'd become homesick for it and returned after only a short time in the States. Doyle seemed to recoil from the attention, more concerned with his children's privacy and preferring to stay out of the spotlight. It seemed as if Houdini intentionally drew their attention from him, almost protecting Doyle and the children from unwanted publicity. At one point, he even dragged Adelaide into the fray, introducing her and answering a few questions about some of the cases they'd worked on that had attracted press attention.

They parted company with Adelaide to make their stop to visit Touie. Harry volunteered to stay in the waiting area with the children while Arthur went up first for a visit on his own, and to check on her condition. Mary and Kingsley had been anxious to see their mother, but now they seemed somewhat quiet and a little nervous. After a couple mild attempts to draw them out had met with only minimal polite responses, Harry had decided to just wait with them in silence. They were, after all, Arthur's children, and had inherited at least a bit of his tendency for quiet introspection in times of stress. Harry, on the other hand, tended to talk fast and try to work off his anxieties with action.

He stood and began pacing a bit, thinking Arthur was taking quite a while with his visit considering the children were waiting for their time with their mother. No sooner had that thought crossed his mind than Arthur appeared in the waiting room. He was whiter than a crisp set of hospital sheets, his movements almost as stiff.

"Can we see Mother now?" Mary asked, standing as soon as he arrived. Kingsley stood, too, sharing her hopeful expression. Harry felt a sick, cold dread settle in his stomach.

"I'm sorry, children. Your mother...isn't up to visitors today," he said, but his voice was wrong. It was tight, tenuous, and he was nervously turning his hat in his hands. "Come along, we're going home."

"But Daddy, you promised we could see Mother today," Kingsley objected. Arthur looked stricken, as if he was at a loss for words. Ordinarily he would have given a firm, but gentle reply to shut down the objection.

"Your father's a doctor, kids, so if he says it's not a good time, we need to trust his judgment, right?" Harry said, touching Kingsley's shoulder.

"What's wrong, Father?" Mary asked, her expression almost as dire as Arthur's.

"Come on, kids, let's go," Harry urged, guiding them along toward the exit while Arthur followed them in silence. They climbed into the waiting carriage and rode in silence the short distance to the house.

"Go to your rooms, children. I'll be up in a few minutes," Arthur said when they arrived home. With troubled exchanged looks, they climbed the stairs. Arthur walked into his study, Harry close behind him.

"Are you going to tell me what's going on?" he asked, closing the door. Arthur set his hat on the desk and then poured himself a drink, his hand shaking visibly as he picked up the glass and took a swallow. Setting the glass down, he finally spoke.

"She's gone."

Harry stood there, stunned. Then he found his voice.

"Gone?" No sooner had the question come out of his mouth than he realized how absurd and pointless it was. Touie had been unconscious for months. She didn't get up and walk out of the hospital. Gone meant dead. "Come on, sit down," Harry said, guiding Arthur to the settee and sitting next to him. "What happened?"

"They've been trying to call me since lunchtime. It was fairly quiet. She began to have difficulty breathing, and then...she stopped."

"I'm so sorry," Harry said, hating how hollow, impersonal, and useless it sounded. Somehow, you just didn't throw yourself on Arthur's person without an invitation, or at least a signal that physical attention was welcome. He found himself oddly unsure of what to do next, even though he knew what he wanted to do, how his heart and instincts responded to the person he loved most being in such awful pain.

"Are you?" Arthur asked, turning an unexpectedly cold look in Harry's direction. It was cold enough to make him recoil physically, widening the distance between them.

"Of course, I am. Why would you ask me that?"

"Why–? Why, indeed." Arthur stood up and started pacing. "I did this thing. I can't honestly blame you. I was unfaithful. I let myself be drawn into this...this...unnatural thing and now this is the price of my infidelity and perversion."

Harry sat there too stunned to speak or move. So it wasn't love, it was unnatural perversion?

"I'd like you to leave."

"I know this is a shock," Harry began. "I don't think you mean what you're saying." Please, don't mean it. My heart just got ripped out of my chest and my legs don't seem to work, so I can't leave. I feel like I can't stand up, let alone walk away...

"For months, Touie has lain in that hospital bed, unconscious but alive. Maybe it was a test, maybe not, but in any event, I've betrayed her, violated our marriage vows, engaged in this...tryst and allowed it to spill into our children's lives, and now she's been taken from me. Because I no longer deserve to have her, or any chance at the happiness we once had."

"I told you I'd step aside, that I never expected to take her place."

"You actually had me conflicted for a time over what I wanted. And then I walked into her room, and the sheet is over her face..."

"Is that why you're attacking me? Because you're blaming yourself for her death because you had feelings for me?"

"I had lust and then I let myself be lured into debauchery while my wife lay dying! If I can rescue my immortal soul from hell, I'll consider myself fortunate. Perhaps if I spend the rest of my life atoning for what I've done, I may not pay that price. Although I deserve it for robbing the children of their mother."

"You think you're going to hell because you fell in love with someone else? That God struck Touie dead because you slept with me?"

"Don't say her name! Just go."

Harry swallowed and forced himself to stand. He tried to tell himself it was grief, that the hate and accusations and blame tumbling out of Arthur's mouth were products of near-hysteria from shock and grief. He steeled his resolve. After all, he'd walked away from partially botched stunts with serious injuries no one present even realized he'd sustained. He should be able to walk away from Arthur with his insides shredded and not have anyone be the wiser.

"Arthur–"

"Go. I never want to see you again."

"I know you don't mean that," he replied. "You're in shock."

"My wife is dead! I might as well have killed her myself. Now get out of my house!" he bellowed.

Harry took a step back at the volume and anger in his voice. There was no reasoning with him. He briefly worried about the children, but Arthur was a good father and he'd turn his attention to telling them the awful news and consoling them. Then he'd follow propriety and make all the arrangements and receive all the mourners who would offer him condolences. He would function perfectly, even if he was destroyed inside.

He made himself walk away, trudge up the stairs and down the hall to the guest room. He wasn't prepared to see Mary in the hall.

"I heard yelling. What's wrong with Father? Did something happen?" she asked.

"Your father will explain everything, just give him time," he replied, touching her shoulder. "I'm sorry...I have to go."

"Go? Go where?"

"I've been...called away on something urgent. I need to leave right away." He forced a smile for her benefit. "I'll see you again soon, I'm sure," he lied, hoping it at least consoled her. He went into the guest room and closed the door, leaning against it.

In the last few minutes, he'd been called an unnatural perversion and essentially blamed for Touie's death. He didn't realize his legs had given out until he felt himself sitting on the floor with his back still against the door. Arthur's in shock and he's feeling guilty and he's taking it out on you. He'll get over it. Get over it...he'll get over Touie's death? He'll get over the fact he was having an affair with you when it happened?

Harry pushed himself up, feeling as if every ache and pain in his body that were normally minor nuisances were all magnified about ten times. Even his wrist ached and throbbed as he hastily shoved his belongings back in his suitcase.

If we hadn't gone on the picnic, he would have been there as soon as the hospital called. He might have even been there before she died. No wonder he hates you now. She lay there between life and death for months and it had to be at that instant she exited this life, in the one time he really gave in to the potential joy of living for a few hours and got out of his gloomy shell of just waiting for his wife to live or die.

Well, it could have been worse. She could have died while you were having perverted, unnatural sex.

It was eerily silent in the house when he finally descended the stairs and went out the front door. He'd worry about flagging down a carriage once he'd gotten away. He wasn't going to stand outside Arthur's door, pathetic, with his suitcase, waiting for a ride. Any one of a million people worldwide would consider it an honor to receive me as a guest, he told himself, trying to straighten his spine and find his dignity and his strength again.

Very little consolation that is when the only one I want despises me and blames me for ruining his life.

********

The Savoy Hotel was known for its opulence, luxury, and celebrity guests. Needless to say, when the Great Houdini arrived there unannounced and simply approached a desk clerk to inquire about a room, the hotel staff snapped into action as if the King of England himself were in the lobby. Almost faster than one of his own death-defying escapes, Harry found himself in one of the hotel's finest suites, and was expending more effort shooing away the attentions of the staff than requesting any amenities from them. He just wanted a nice room where he could lie on the bed undisturbed and inhale enough opium to knock himself out for a while. Emotional and physical pain was wracking him, and the fawning of the hotel staff grated on his already frayed nerves. He lost count of how many folded bills he stuck in the hands of bellhops and chamber maids, but he finally found himself alone with the instructions that he not be disturbed.

It hadn't really occurred to him when he chose the hotel, but as he lay on the bed in his underwear, taking another long draw on the pipe, the irony struck him that Oscar Wilde's ruin had come from an affair with another man he'd had there at the Savoy several years earlier. Maybe Arthur would find that amusing. Good place for the source of his descent into sin and unnatural perversion to book a room.

The fact he laughed at that, albeit a bit insanely, signaled him that the opium was working, maybe too well. He wasn't feeling pain anymore. He wasn't feeling much of anything. He felt like he was observing his own life, not participating in it.

He laid the pipe aside, ready for sleep. It was probably time for it. It had gotten dark in the meantime. He was safe and sheltered and in the familiar setting of an overpriced hotel. He was alone. This was his life, alone in his opulence, worshiped from afar by thousands of faceless people and yet utterly alone.

It wasn't in the arms of someone who loved him passionately. It wasn't around a dinner table with a family. No, it was in a place like this with people who loved his fame and his money, who were amused by his tricks. Not in a home with people who loved him with his flaws and his fears, who fussed over his injuries and made him forget he even had opium among his essential traveling supplies.

"Ehrie."

The voice was familiar, but now he felt no dread at hearing it. Whatever had made him uneasy about his mother's apparitions, he didn't care anymore. He needed her, and like she always was, throughout his entire life, she was there. He opened bleary eyes and tried to focus on the blurry apparition that sat on his bedside, as she so often did when he was sick or injured. He half expected the ghost to have chicken soup to serve him.

"Ma," he sighed, smiling, reaching for her hand, feeling it enclose his in an odd sort of grip that was somewhere between real and just a sensation of warmth and well being. "Don't leave me again," he said.

"I will never leave you, Ehrie. I am always with you. You can be with me forever," she said, her free hand ghosting along his cheek in a filmy caress. "You said you would never leave me, and I am so very lonely without you."

He frowned at the sight of the straight razor that was somehow in the hand she had been holding. He opened it and looked back at her.

"It will only hurt a moment, Ehrie, and we can be together."

"You want me to die," he said, some part of his brain screaming that it wasn't right, that his mother wouldn't want that even if it did mean they'd spend eternity together. But that part of his brain was drowning in the effects of the opium, the pain of a badly broken heart, and the soothing presence of the one person who would never intentionally hurt him. Or leave him.

"Come with me, and we will always be together."

She was right, the pain was white hot and sharp, but then it was just a sort of warm, almost comforting flow, and he felt as if she stayed with him, stroking his brow, easing him over the barrier. He closed his eyes and cradled in his mother's ghostly arms, fell into a deep sleep.

********

Adelaide ran down the corridor of the Savoy Hotel to where the commotion was. Scotland Yard was on the scene because the maid who first walked into Houdini's room had screamed at the top of her lungs, running through the hotel shouting that the Great Houdini had been murdered in his bed. Thankfully the hotel's doctor had taken a less hysterical approach and actually examined him to determine he was, in fact, still alive, though he was barely clinging to life due to the excessive blood loss from the self-inflicted wounds on his wrists.

When she entered the room, Merring himself was there, along with a number of other officers. Bloody sheets had been discarded in a tangle on the floor while Houdini himself lay on the bed on clean white sheets, wrists wrapped tightly with the doctor in close attendance. Adelaide noticed an opium pipe on the floor near the bed, obviously having been overlooked in all the commotion. She glanced around quickly and then picked it up, tucking it in her pocket before she approached Merring, who didn’t notice the move.

"An ambulance is on the way with equipment for a transfusion," Merring explained. "The doctor doesn't think he'll survive the trip to the hospital so they're going to do it here."

"Do they have a donor?" she asked.

"A line of about fifty volunteers to choose from so far," he said.

"That will mean a lot to him when he wakes up. Did you send a message to Dr. Doyle?"

"You haven't seen the papers this morning?"

"No, why?"

"Dr. Doyle's wife died yesterday."

"Oh, no."

"Anyway, I'm not sure if he'll actually have time to get here. You should prepare yourself, Houdini's not expected to survive," he said in a low voice.

"He usually isn't," she said, drawing an odd expression from Merring. Houdini defied death on a regular basis and made a show of it. He just had to do it one more time.

She approached the side of the bed where the doctor wasn't standing and took one of Harry's cold hands in her own. It felt so much different from that moment in Falcroft Manor when she'd held his hand, just for a few seconds. She wondered how things might be different if she hadn't withdrawn from that kiss so hastily, hadn't accepted his apology and assurance it wouldn't happen again. After all, you could only expect a man to make so many overtures before he took the rejection seriously.

"Don't you dare slip away from us, Harry Houdini," she said in a commanding tone. "I am not losing anyone else, do you hear me? You have to fight and hold on, come back. I suppose a little cut on the wrist is going to defeat the Great Houdini?" she challenged. She was trying to reach his fighting spirit, but then it all seemed so cold. "Harry, please, don't go," she whispered in his ear, touching his hair. "Don't leave me, my dear friend." She jumped a bit when she felt his fingers move in hers. It wasn't strong enough to be a squeeze, but it was a response. "This trick is a tough one, but you can manage it," she said, caressing his cheek. "Please, send word to Dr. Doyle," she said to Merring, who nodded and left to speak to a hotel staff member to send a messenger for Doyle.

********

Chapter Text

The Doyle house was filled with family, friends and neighbors visiting with condolences, bringing homemade foods and offering moral support. Arthur had often marveled at the practice of bringing food to the bereaved when the last thing they wanted to do was eat. At least it was feeding the guests and making Vera's job less taxing.

Mary and Kingsley were their usual perfectly behaved selves, sitting together in the parlor, sad and silent while visitors fussed over them and muttered amongst themselves at the tragedy of them losing their mother. Arthur couldn't help picturing Harry there with them, what a comfort his presence would have been for them as they sat not ten feet from their dead mother, elegant as she might look in one of her finest dresses. Their grandparents would be there the following day, but that was a small comfort. He always felt his in-laws considered him somewhat frivolous and fanciful, having given up his medical practice to "write stories."

He cringed at the deplorable way he'd treated Harry, the horrible things he'd said, born out of his own guilt and shock at Touie's death and the timing of it. Even if it was divine retribution for his sins, it wasn't as if Harry had forced his attentions on him. All he'd done was offer up his love, emotional and physical, and demanded nothing in return. Arthur was punishing himself for being emotionally unfaithful to Touie. As she was dying, he was starting to live again. He'd fallen in love with Harry, as potentially destructive and wrong as it was. He had no idea how they'd live a lifetime that way, but for a while, he'd had hope that this life could be more than just a walking death sentence to be served in solitude until he could join Touie in the hereafter. Now he couldn't bear to look at her. Not because she didn't still look beautiful, even in death, but because she looked the way she had looked for the last several months. The only difference now was that her hand was cold to the touch and her chest no longer rose and fell with breath. She'd been in a state of living death for a very long time.

Bringing another woman into the house to be a stepmother to the children seemed unthinkable. They were devoted to their mother, and seeing their father with someone else would have broken their hearts. But Harry had shown up with his magic tricks and his rebellious streak and made them laugh and brought some life into the house. And even if Arthur loved him, he wasn't a woman or a mother figure, and they'd never see him as a "replacement" or competition for their mother.

Was that really depraved and evil? Was God punishing him or did Touie finally just succumb to her illness? And, as life often did, it chose horrible timing for it, as if to mock him for having thought he deserved some joy and warmth again. That he deserved the touch of someone who loved him, to share his life with someone else, to not always, finally, at the end of the day, be so utterly alone.

There was a knock at the door, and Vera answered it. After the visitor left and she closed the door, she approached Doyle.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Doyle, but the messenger said it was an emergency." She handed him a folded note.

"Thank you, Vera," he said, realizing now how his eyes were burning as he tried to read it. He hadn't slept, and though he managed not to make an emotional scene in front of his children or the mourners, the sting of tears was always behind his eyes.

Harry Houdini in critical condition after suicide attempt at Savoy Hotel. Transfusion to be done. Not expected to survive.

Merring

He covered his mouth briefly, unable to believe the horrible words he was reading. He found Vera as she moved slowly through the crowd serving tea and clearing away dishes.

"I have to go out, it's an emergency," he whispered to her.

"What should I tell everyone?" she asked.

"Just that I left due to an emergency. I will be back soon."

He grabbed his hat and coat and rushed out of the house, got in his car, and sped down the street. It was scandalous walking out on his wife's wake, but he had done this thing, caused it, maybe caused Harry's death - for real this time, not some conjured up moral sense of guilt, but a real, tangible guilt for heaping so much pain on him when he was already grieving that he'd tried to take his own life.

The Savoy Hotel was a hot spot of activity, Scotland Yard holding reporters and gawkers at bay. Doyle had some difficulty getting through all the security until he finally saw Adelaide outside the door of Harry's room.

"I'm so sorry about your wife. I only found out about it when I arrived here," she said.

"Thank you. It was unexpected... How is Harry?"

"They finished the transfusion. The doctor didn't want to move him because he's so weak."

"What happened? He tried to kill himself?"

"He cut his wrists. A maid found him this morning. He's lost an enormous amount of blood - that's why Scotland Yard was on the scene so fast. The maid thought he'd been murdered in his bed because of the blood. The doctor is with him," she said, then produced the pipe from her pocket. “This was on the floor. I picked it up before anyone else spotted it.”


“I’ll keep it,” he said, stashing it in his suit coat pocket. “A suicide attempt could do almost as much damage to his career as that pipe being found. After I see him, I’ll make a statement as his personal physician. Perhaps I can somehow dispel the suicide rumor.”

“Even if it’s true?” she asked.

“He doesn’t deserve to lose his career over this,” he replied, and Adelaide looked momentarily confused, and he didn’t blame her.

“Of course, he doesn’t,” she said, opening the door of the room and leading the way in, closing it behind them.

"Dr. Doyle." It was Dr. Richmond, a doctor he knew from the private hospital where Touie had spent the last several months of her life. He was an older man with thinning white hair and wire spectacles.

"Dr. Richmond. How is he?"

"We completed the transfusion, and he's resting. His pulse is slow, but so far he hasn't had an adverse reaction to the donated blood."

“Mr. Houdini has been struggling with grief over the death of his mother, and recently completed a number of performances before traveling back here from the States. He spent some time at my home before coming here, and I am concerned that his overall health and state of mind may have led to this unfortunate incident. Obviously, a suicide attempt could have a very adverse affect on his career, which would only exacerbate any challenges to his recovery.”

“What are you suggesting?” the other doctor asked.

“A statement to the press that he was suffering from exhaustion and began running a fever that caused hallucinations, causing him to inflict the wounds on himself. That it was not a suicide attempt. He is under the care of physicians and is expected to recover fully.”

“If you are comfortable making that statement and serving as his attending physician in this matter, I will step aside. I will not make such a statement myself, but as a personal favor to you, I will not contest it.”

“Thank you, Dr. Richmond. I am very grateful for your understanding.” He paused. "I wonder if I might have a moment?" he asked.

"Of course. He is your patient now, so unless you have further need of my services, I will take my leave." The doctor moved away from the bed and Adelaide escorted him outside the room.

Arthur had seen Harry laid out in a bed before, pale and ill, but this was worse. His color wasn't just bad, it wasn't there. He looked as if he'd been drained of all his blood. Hesitantly, he reached for Harry's hand, but pulled his back when it felt very little warmer than Touie's hand felt as she lay in her coffin.

Alone with Harry, maybe for the last time, Arthur let go of his propriety and all the moralistic nonsense he'd used to hurt him so badly and sat on the bed. He gently slid his arms under Harry's limp form and pulled him up, holding him close, arranging him so he rested against Arthur's body, so there was no strain on him.

"I'm so sorry, Ehrich. You don't have to forgive me, but don't let me be the reason that you lose your life. You gave me nothing but love and...there are no words for what I did to you and I'm so sorry. Please, I can't lose you, too, my love," he whispered in Harry's ear. "I don't care if it's wrong. I love you and I won't let you go."

He felt something tug at his sleeve. At first he thought it was just Harry's body shifting as he held him, but then he felt it again. Fingers feebly gripping at the fabric.

"Hey, Doc." Two breathy words that came out as a weak whisper against Arthur's neck.

"Can you ever forgive me for being so hateful to you?" he asked, moving so he was nose to nose with Harry.

"Kiss me and I'll think about it," he whispered, sounding as if talking was an effort. But he managed a tiny grin to accompany the words. Arthur did kiss him then, a slow, sweet, gentle kiss that wouldn't sap his energy or compromise his breathing. "Yeah, okay. Forgive you now."

"Oh, good," Arthur replied, smiling, kissing his forehead this time.

"Sorry, Ma...gotta stay with Arthur," he muttered softly, and the words chilled Arthur to his core. If Houdini's mother had appeared to him, was it when he was close to death, or was it another of the potentially sinister incidents, and had it played a role in this?

"That's right, you have to stay with me, my love. Forever."

He felt a little catch in Harry's breathing, but it was emotion, not a sign of weak respiration.

"Rest now. You shouldn't overtire yourself." He carefully lowered Harry until he was lying comfortably on the pillows. Two bleary blue eyes looked up at him.

"I'm sorry about...yesterday," he managed. "If I hadn't made you go on that picnic–"

"Shhh. You did nothing wrong. Nothing at all," he repeated, caressing Harry's curls. "Sleep now and build up your strength. I'll be back later to check on you again, I promise."

"Mary and Kingsley...are they okay?"

"Yes, they'll be fine, but they'll be glad to see you again. You'll be home with us soon and you can see for yourself."

"Home?"

"Yes, home."

"Home," Harry repeated, letting his eyes drift shut, a faint smile on his face.

Arthur checked his pulse and listened to his heart, glad to hear that both seemed a bit stronger. As he stood, Adelaide came back into the room.

"He was briefly conscious, and both his pulse and heartbeat are a bit stronger," Arthur said.

"That is good news," Adelaide said.

"Thank you. I do have to get back." He looked back at Harry. "Please, would do me a favor?” he asked Adelaide.

“Of course.”

“Contact my wife’s private nurse at this number. She can help you arrange whatever he needs for private care here. I know his business manager will handle any financial issues as soon as he receives word, but in the meantime, you may do so on my authority. I will serve as his attending physician, but I can’t be with him constantly right now."

"Of course, I'll contact her immediately," she said.

"Thank you," Doyle said. "We'll need security to maintain his privacy, and possibly his safety if any of Abigail Harrington's cronies are out to get him. Can you find someone to provide that?"

"Yes, of course. You should get back to your family. I'll stay here with him, and make those arrangements."

"Thank you. I’m going to make a statement in the lobby to the press and spectators there. I'll try to make it back this evening. It may be late."

"Maybe he'll be more awake then," she said.

"I hope so," he replied.

********

When he arrived home, Arthur expected to sit the vigil with Touie for the night alone. Mary and Kingsley were in their rooms, and the last of the guests had left. He was surprised to see that his mother-in-law was ensconced in the chair closest to the coffin. She looked the way he imagined Touie would have looked when she got old, only her face would have held more warmth and expression. Maybe it was the eternal discord that seemed to exist with in-laws, but he never did feel at ease around her. Now she was giving him a decidedly disapproving look. Her presence at that hour also no doubt meant that she and his father-in-law had arrived and claimed the guest room and planned to stay there at the house. It was more than his battered mind and emotions could sort out.

"Hello, Arthur. Your business must have been quite urgent to take you away from your family at a time like this."

"A very dear friend was gravely ill. In fact, I will probably check on his condition during the night."

"May I know who this 'dear friend' is? One of your writer friends?"

"Harry Houdini," he said, sitting in a nearby chair. "He's become a good friend of the family, and he was taken ill suddenly today."

"I didn't realize you were still practicing medicine."

"One doesn't cease to be a doctor just because one gives up medicine professionally. All of his family is in the States, so I wanted to ensure he was receiving the best care and had adequate nursing services established."

"How good of you, at such a tragic time."

"Touie was a woman of great compassion. She would be the last one who would object to my helping a friend in need."

"She was indeed very patient," she said. "Well, you needn't tire yourself. I will sit with her tonight."

"As you wish," Arthur rose, planning to check on the children and then get some rest before slipping out to check on Harry again. He'd hoped to have some private time with Touie, but he could hardly evict her mother from the parlor. If they continued to stay there together, their encounter was likely to end in sharp words. Out of respect for Touie, he planned to avoid that at all costs.

He checked on Mary and Kingsley, and finding them both asleep, he went into his bedroom and closed the door. He'd had almost no time to grieve since Touie's death. He'd spent his time with Harry condemning him and driving him out of the house, pouring out all his grief and anger with God, medicine, and life in general onto the one person who only wanted to stand by him and console him. Who wouldn't judge him for being weak or for still being in love with his comatose and now dead wife.

Looking at Touie's picture was unbearable. He wasn't sure if he felt guilty for dividing his feelings between her and Harry, or if it was the grief of the long, twisted, and awful journey of her illness finally coming to an end that left him oddly uncertain of how to live, how to go on when she was no longer...there.

He opened the wardrobe and looked at the gowns and dresses Mary had insisted he not put away. He chose a frilly, lovely dress she'd worn to church the last Easter Sunday she was able to go. He took it off the hanger, buried his face in the soft fabric, and inhaled the faint traces of her perfume, of her, that lingered there. He sat on the bed with it, and finally let himself cry. He could hear Harry's words that day as they rode in his car, after Touie had lapsed back into a coma, when he had assured Arthur that it was okay to let that stiff upper lip not be so stiff all the time.

It's preferable to wallowing in self pity, he’d curtly informed Harry.

Well, that was true, but also preferable to sobbing alone into the fabric of a dress as if your tears could conjure up another moment with her. Even now he just wanted to crawl into Harry's bed in that hotel room and cry on his shoulder. He wanted to grieve for his wife in the arms of the man he loved. Perhaps he was going insane, because that seemed to be the definition of insanity. Or perhaps his relationship with Harry was really that deep, profound, and heartfelt. He was hurting, and Harry would want to ease that. He wouldn't view it selfishly, or feel threatened because of Arthur's love for Touie. He would hurt with him because Arthur was hurting. For all his bravado and bluster and arrogance, Harry had the softest heart of any man Arthur ever met.

How Touie would have liked him. How they would have laughed together, how they would have teased Arthur horribly and done their best to shake his reserved, proper demeanor. He really should have introduced them in that brief time she was awake. She would have been amused by meeting the Great Houdini, by watching him delight her children with magic tricks.

Harry had that spirit of mischief about him that always seemed to live in Touie's eyes. It was what had drawn him to her in the first place, what had made her stand out from any other girl he could have courted and married. Being a faithful husband to her had been no effort. He'd never wanted anyone else. Not until he met Harry, but by then, he only had room in his heart because he was so lonely, because he missed all that she was, and all that they shared. She was his friend, confidante, and greatest supporter, but all that was locked in a silent, comatose body that no longer acknowledged his presence.

And now Harry was there in his life, his close and loyal friend with that sparkle of mischief about him and the emotion and passion that Arthur didn't exactly lack, but often had trouble expressing. After all, his childhood hadn't exactly drawn that out in him. Harry balanced him in a way that Touie always had. They were two mirror images, two halves of a whole, and together, they were perfect.

Then he realized he was thinking that about both his marriage and his relationship with Harry. He didn't think he could ever accept another woman into his life to "replace" her... Could God be so good and so wise as to present him with the next great love of his life in a form that made that seem less of an obstacle?

If indeed there was a God at all. Though he'd long ago renounced the religion of his youth, times of crisis and fear send us all running to some kind of Heavenly Father figure to protect us. And, whether there was a God or not, it was comforting to fall back on Him as an explanation of things that were just too much for a man to figure out on his own. At the same time, He lived as sort of a hobgoblin in the back of Arthur's mind, linked to his inevitable condemnation for loving a man. After all, having an affair at the Savoy hadn't worked very well for Oscar Wilde, and Arthur didn't have much desire to share his fate. Harry would pick that particular hotel for his lodgings. A part of him wondered if that was entirely accidental.

He stretched out on the bed, still clutching the dress and looking at Touie's picture on the night stand. His life should have been so perfect, so easy. A wife he adored, two lovely children - maybe more if her health hadn't begun failing.

"I'm so sorry I wasn't there, darling. I wanted the children to enjoy themselves...I wanted to enjoy myself. I didn't know I'd never have another chance..." He gave up on words and let his emotions take over. Maybe Harry was right. Let the pain have its way for a while, and then move on. But how did you move on from that? Harry himself hadn't managed it with his mother's death. There was still such raw pain in his eyes when he spoke of her, and he still missed her dearly.

So dearly that when you hurt him badly enough, he wanted to cross the barrier into death to be with her again, to retreat to the comfort of someone who would never betray him or leave him.

********

Harry drifted in and out of consciousness, usually catching a glimpse of Adelaide on the rare occasions he could keep his eyes open. She would encourage him to sip some water, and he had a foggy memory of her urging some kind of broth on him at some point. Her presence reassured him, relaxed him, but he missed Arthur and even though he knew where he was and why, he wanted to see him.

"Arthur." He hadn't meant to say his name out loud, least of all his first name.

"I'm sure he'll be back to visit soon," Adelaide said, her tone gentle and patient. It was a bit ungrateful since she'd been sitting by his bedside for hours, probably, to be asking for someone else. He worked hard to make his brain focus and string some words together.

"Thanks for staying," he managed, glad it came out reasonably clear and coherent.

"You're welcome," she replied, smiling. "How are you feeling?"

"Foggy," he said honestly. "Tired."

"You lost a lot of blood. They did a transfusion, but it still didn't replace everything, so you'll need some time to get your strength back."

"I'm sure I'll have lots of that. My career's pretty much over. The Great Houdini: Suicidal Opium Fiend. Not really a great publicity campaign."

"Well, fortunately, you have friends watching out for your interests. I found the pipe on the floor and passed it along to Dr. Doyle. He took over your case as your attending physician and explained to the press that though your wounds were self inflicted, you were suffering from exhaustion and developed a high fever that most likely caused you to hallucinate and harm yourself. He assured them you are recovering now under his care and should be fine.”

“Wow...you guys did all that for me?”

“He was aware of the negative impact of a suicide attempt on your career, and I had a feeling someone finding the pipe wouldn’t do you any good, either. But that’s not what really matters here. Why, Harry? What happened between the picnic and last night?"

"Nothing."

"Something did."

"I saw my mother again, and I...wanted to be with her. I'd had a few hits off the pipe, that's probably why I saw her in the first place, and it just seemed like a good idea at the time."

"Killing yourself seemed like a good idea? Harry, if the opium made you do this, you really do need help. You must stop taking it."

"I'm done talking about this for tonight," he said.

"Right you are, Mr. Houdini." His night nurse, a tall, austere woman with gray hair and an imposing manner, walked into the room. "Constable Stratton, our patient has had enough conversation for tonight. The doctor ordered rest."

"Of course. I'm sorry if I upset you, Harry. I'll stop by tomorrow and see how you're doing."

"When is the funeral?" he asked.

"Dr. Doyle didn't say, but I imagine either tomorrow or the next day. I haven't checked the newspaper yet."

"I want to be there."

"You aren't going anywhere tonight, young man," the nurse interrupted.

"Find out for me, will you?" he asked Adelaide.

"Yes, of course. Goodnight," she said, smiling, squeezing his hand briefly before leaving the room. He relaxed and let the nurse fluff his pillows and fuss with his bedding. She checked his pulse and felt his forehead.

"Am I going to live?" he teased.

"Yes, by all indications, you will," she replied, though she avoided cracking even the slightest smile. She turned off the lights in the room except for a dim one in a far corner, where she settled in a chair with a book. "If you need anything, I will be right here," she said. "You should attempt to get some sleep now."

There was a knock at the door, and with an annoyed expression, the nurse rose and answered it.

"Mr. Houdini is resting," she told the visitor.

"I'm Mr. Houdini's physician, Dr. Doyle. You'll excuse us?"

"Of course, Doctor. Do you need any assistance?" she asked.

"No, thank you. I just want to evaluate Mr. Houdini's condition for the night. I'll notify you when we're finished."

"Yes, Doctor," she said, leaving the room.

"I'll give you a hundred bucks if you tell her I died and send her home."

"Very funny," Arthur replied, but he smiled a little. His eyes were bloodshot and he looked exhausted. Harry patted the side of the bed. Arthur sat there and took his hand. "My in-laws have arrived."

"Ouch," Harry said, holding Arthur's hand with both of his. "I wish you could lie down and rest here with me. You look exhausted."

"And you look much healthier tonight. You have a bit of color back in your cheeks. Thank God," he added, touching Harry's cheek lightly. "And I wish I could stay, too."

"You know it's not your fault because you went on a picnic or you and I..."

"I know," Arthur said, "but this was," he said, touching the bandage on Harry's wrist.

"I saw my mother again.”

“It’s my fault. What I said to you--”

“I was upset about that, and I was hitting the pipe pretty hard, but I didn’t want to kill myself. I mean, I didn’t come up with the idea. My mother did.”

“What?” Arthur’s eyes bugged.

“Maybe Adelaide’s right and I just need to give up that damn pipe.”

“I would wholeheartedly support that plan.”

“It’s never made me hallucinate or try to kill myself before. My mother was right here, where you are now, and she said she missed me and wanted us to always be together. I wanted that so much, I guess I let myself believe the hallucination, because the next thing I knew, she was suggesting I cut my wrists, and then I did it, and it was like she was holding me and bleeding out was almost...peaceful. I just wanted to slip away and stay with her.” He blinked, tears filling his eyes at the thought of how it felt to be held and comforted by his mother, the way she always had comforted him when he was sick or in pain or hurting for whatever reason.

“Harry, your mother would never suggest you harm yourself, no matter how much she might love you or miss you, even if we accepted as a fact that what you experienced was a visit from the other side.”

“I know that. Now. At the time, maybe I wanted a reason to do it. I probably conjured the whole thing up in my head and then put words in her mouth to give myself the permission to do it.”

“Promise me you won’t ever think of doing that again. Your stage act is close enough to suicide without you actually trying to kill yourself.”

“Sorry, Doc. Didn’t mean to give you such a scare. I won’t.”

“After all, the children haven’t helped you perfect your croquet technique yet,” Arthur joked, though his voice broke a little as he leaned forward and kissed Harry lightly, then pressed his cheek against Harry’s before straightening up.

“I’ll be here as long as you want me to stay,” he said, reaching up and brushing at a tear that was escaping Arthur’s eye despite his best effort to hold them back. He pushed himself up to sit, ignoring the lightheaded feeling that gave him, and put his arms around Arthur, pulling him close. “It’s okay for that stiff upper lip not to be so stiff around me.”

He felt Arthur’s hold on him tighten, his body shaking. He sounded as if he were choking, struggling so hard not to let the emotions out, but they were coming anyway.

“Let it go, it’s okay.” He slid his hand into Arthur’s hair, pressing his head closer, wondering if he’d ever allowed himself such a release before, because it seemed so painful and difficult for him now. He hadn’t said much about his father, or his childhood, but Harry had the feeling it had lacked much warmth and that someone, somewhere, had taught him that being a man meant sucking in all those feelings. Harry did that himself, so he understood it, but there were times, and people, you could be yourself with. He’d had that with his mother, but he wondered if Arthur had ever had that with anyone. “I know how much you loved her. You did everything you could for her, Arthur.”

“I was weak. You’re the one who talked me into having Henshaw come here. And I...I couldn’t remain faithful to her. And I almost caused your death. Weak, selfish, unstable...just like my father.”

“You are not unstable. You were faithful to her for years while she was ill, several months while she wasn’t even conscious, and you had the final word on who saw or treated her, so I could have engaged a hundred doctors, and they wouldn’t have been seeing her without your approval.”

Arthur pulled away a bit, fumbling for his handkerchief.

“Guess it’s a good thing the kids keep you stocked in those things,” Harry said, and something about it made Arthur chuckle amidst his tears, but the humor was short-lived.

“I have no right to mourn for her.”

“You loved her. You still do. You had two amazing kids with her. Who has more of a right to mourn her than you do?”

“I betrayed her.”

“Would she have wanted you to always be alone? Always be unhappy? She loved you, too, and if she was even half as wonderful as it seems like she was, from what you and the children have said about her, the way you all love her...if she couldn’t be with you, why would she want you to suffer alone?”

“I feel like a hypocrite. Grieving for my wife in the arms of my lover.”

“I’m also your friend. I’ll always be that.”

“Why do you want any part of a relationship with me?”

“I have no idea, but for some reason, you grew on me.”

“You make me sound like a fungus,” Arthur said, wiping his nose and eyes again, regaining his composure.

“Mushrooms are a type of fungus, too, aren’t they? I love those sauteed over a good steak.” Harry smiled when Arthur actually laughed at that comment. “You and Addie saved my career, you know,” he said, slipping his hand into Arthur’s. “If she hadn’t pocketed that pipe for me, and you telling the press I was delirious with fever and the whole cutting thing was an accident... I know you put your reputation on the line for me.”

“I can think of very little I wouldn’t risk for you. Besides, it was my fau--”

“Just stop. It was not your fault.”

“I hurt you terribly.”

“Your wife died and you weren’t in your right mind. I obviously wasn’t in mine, either, or I would have taken a step back from all of it and taken those remarks for what they were. Expressions of your pain and trying to make sense of something that can’t make sense.”

“You’re usually the one doing that.”

“Making sense of the nonsensical? Yeah, I guess I am.” He rested his hand on Arthur’s cheek. “Get some rest tonight, okay? Is the funeral tomorrow?”

“Yes,” he replied, covering Harry’s hand, leaning into it.

“I’ll be there.”

“No, you will not. As your doctor, I can’t allow that.”

“Addie’ll bring me. She can make sure I get back here all right. I’m coming, whether you like it or not.”

“Touie’s parents are in the guest room. I don’t know how long they’re staying. It’s been awkward to ask outright.”

“I’m not exactly roughing it here, Doc. I’ll be fine.”

“If they ever suspected anything, they would do everything in their power to destroy both of us, including taking my children away from me.”

“They won’t. No one has any reason to.”

“If you see your mother again, you must call for your nurse. I’m not suggesting you tell her, but do not let yourself be alone with that apparition. We don’t know what it is.”

“I have a feeling it was the opium messing with my own wishful thinking. But if it’ll make you feel better, I promise to call the nurse if I see anything.”

“It does, thank you. Have these been changed recently?” he asked, referring to the bandages on Harry’s wrists.

“Yes, the nurse who was here just before this one changed them.”

“Are they very painful?” When he looked at Harry, he smiled at Harry’s one raised eyebrow.

“By comparison, not really. They kind of burn and throb, but I’ve had worse.”

“Lie back, you need to rest.” He smoothed the bedding and made sure Harry’s pillow was fluffed just so beneath his head.

“You’re afraid of that nurse, aren’t you?” he asked, grinning.

“Nonsense. I’m the doctor here, not her. The important thing is that you’re afraid of her so you’ll behave until I come back.”

“That’ll be my next trick. Making her disappear,” he said, winking at Arthur.

********

Chapter Text

Arthur convinced his mother-in-law to get some rest in the small hours of the morning while he took up the vigil by Touie’s coffin. It was as if the older woman was guarding her daughter from being alone with him. It was bizarre in its reminiscence of their dating days, when Touie’s mother carefully guarded her daughter’s virtue and made sure she was always fully chaperoned.

He hoped that maybe Harry was right, that Touie wouldn’t blame him for being lonely, that she would want him to be happy, that she would be happy to see some life and humor in the household with the children again.

She looked beautiful, even in death, surrounded by flowers and dressed in her black evening gown with the white lace trim. Her mother seemed a bit disapproving of his choice of dresses, but he wanted her to look the way she did when she presided over a social gathering at their home, or when they attended an elegant evening at the theatre. He didn’t want her to look like a corpse in some austere dress, either for his sake or the children’s.

The thought that he would never look upon her again hit him then, and he struggled to maintain that stiff upper lip Harry was always urging him to abandon. This was the final goodbye. There would be a brief time in the morning before the undertaker placed the lid on the coffin and she was carried to the waiting hearse, but this was the last time he would ever be alone with her. All his research and all their cases, and he still had no solid plan for how to communicate with her now.

“Oh, my darling, it wasn’t supposed to end this way. We were to grow old together, watch our children grow up, rejoice in our grandchildren... How can I live out the rest of my life never hearing your laughter, smelling your perfume? How do I let them put you in the ground and never see you again? How do I go on without you? Harry is so good to me, so understanding...he knows how I still love you and always will. He aches for my pain, wants to ease it. How can I take that from him and give him so little? Sometimes my heart just fills with love in his presence and then...and then sometimes it just fills with agony at your absence and I feel lost between the two of you. I wonder what you would have thought of me, for falling in love with him? You never seemed to have room for hate or condemnation in your beautiful soul. I hope you can forgive me, because if I thought you would hate me, think ill of me...I don’t know if I could go on.” He laid his hand atop her cold hand, a few silent tears escaping. Maybe Harry was right. Maybe all of this was insanity, and when you were dead, you were dead. Here he was begging her, touching her, needing so desperately any sign or response from her, and yet there was nothing but silence, the steady rhythm of the pendulum of the clock in the entry hall, and the icy coldness of death. “Touie, please, darling, show me a sign. Anything,” he concluded, dropping to his knees on the small padded kneeler beside the coffin.

He wasn’t sure how long he stayed there, but the sun was rising, and he could hear the household coming to life for the morning. The most horrible day of his life was beginning, and he had obligations. He needed to freshen up and dress properly and see to it that the children were properly dressed and behaved and prepared for what lay ahead.

How do you prepare a child to bury his or her mother? How do you bury your wife when you feel as if your heart is being torn into pieces at the very thought of parting, when even standing at the side of her coffin is a small relief from the pain of that final separation?

He went upstairs, went through the motions of grooming himself for the day and, stiff upper lip in place, checked on the children and tied Kingsley’s tie properly. Poor little chap, always trying to live up to his father’s expectations of maturity and composure. There was such pain in his small face. Arthur suddenly realized what an awful burden that was for such a little child who just wanted his mother. He scooped the boy up and sat on the foot of his bed, settling Kingsley on his lap and letting him cry. He wasn’t a stalwart man, he was a little boy. Arthur himself had hardly made it through all of this being stalwart. He’d sobbed on Harry’s shoulder as bitterly as Kingsley was sobbing on his.

“Grandmother said Mother’s an angel now,” he said, finally. “That she can watch over us from Heaven.”

“Your mother will make a beautiful angel, don’t you think?”

“Yes, but I’d rather she was here.”

“So would I,” Arthur admitted. “But she will always be with us, in our hearts.”

“It’s not the same.”

“No, son, it’s not the same.”

Mary came in and joined them, wrapping her arms around Arthur’s neck and crying on the shoulder Kingsley hadn’t claimed. It was messy and upsetting, awful to hear his children in such pain and be able to do nothing to stop it. At least maybe he could ease it. He’d never have Touie’s way with them, or be able to give them a mother’s love, but he could do this, he could share his grief with them and give them license not to be tidy and proper and quiet when they needed to give vent to their own agony over losing their mother.

********

The undertaker was loading the coffin in the ornate hearse, arranging the generous array of flowers on and around it. Touie’s parents had gone out to the carriage, and Arthur was about to take the children out to join them when there was a knock on the door. Vera answered it, stepping back to let Adelaide and Harry in. Harry did look stronger, though his face still didn’t contrast enough with his white shirt for Arthur’s liking. As soon as they walked in, Mary and Kingsley both rushed to Harry, and he knelt to hug them both. If anyone understood how they felt on this horrible day, it was Harry.

“He insisted on coming early,” Adelaide said.

“Not too keen on doctor’s orders, are we?” Arthur teased, managing a little levity. Harry rose and hugged Arthur, too, holding on for a few seconds.

“You have to take doctor’s orders with a grain of salt,” he said, stepping back.

“Are you all right? You look a bit pale,” Mary said, watching him with concern.

“I’ll be fine. Your father’s just being a fussbudget.”

“A fussbudget?” he repeated, mocking offense. Somehow, Harry had made Mary and Kingsley smile, if only a little. “I’ll have you know I completed quite a few years of schooling to become a ‘fussbudget’ as you call it.”

“We have a carriage in the procession, so we should go and allow you to do the same,” Adelaide said, then gave Arthur a brief hug. “I am so sorry for your loss, all of you,” she added, touching the children’s shoulders.

“I’m glad you’re both here. Harry, if you feel tired or unwell, I will understand if you have to leave early.”

“I’ll be fine. Just take care of yourselves and don’t worry about me.”

“I’ll keep an eye on him,” Adelaide said, smiling, linking her arm through Harry’s. “Come on, we’ll wait in our carriage.”

********

It was a gray day overhung with the threat of rain, the kind of weather that seemed made to order for the sadness of a funeral. Harry reached the conclusion that no matter what religion or what ritual of death was practiced, they all seemed bent on tormenting the already bereaved family with more sadness. The Irish came the closest to doing it up right, turning some of their wakes into alcohol-infused parties, but they always managed to wrap it up with a sobby, miserable funeral. None of them truly celebrated life in a way that was anything but horribly painful for those left behind. Arthur's composed veneer was back in place, though Harry could see the pain in his eyes and the tension in his face as he struggled to maintain that.

He did his best not to stand out too much among the other mourners and friends when it came to Touie’s parents. He remembered Arthur’s words, and the last thing he wanted was to make him uneasy or call unwanted attention to the closeness of their relationship. It was obvious he was a special friend of the family by the way the children gravitated to him, especially when Arthur was busy receiving condolences and talking with others. They were most likely to hover near their father, but Harry and Adelaide were close seconds.

“The children are obviously very fond of you, Mr. Houdini. Arthur said you were a close friend of the family,” Mrs. Hawkins, Touie’s mother, approached him as the group were dispersing from the cemetery.

“I wish we could have met under happier circumstances,” he said.

“Arthur said you’ve been ill. How good of you to make the effort to come today.”

“I wouldn’t miss it. I didn’t have an opportunity to know your daughter, but she was obviously a wonderful wife and mother.”

“Yes, we were very proud of her,” she said, dabbing at her eyes with her black lace handkerchief. “We’d like to have the children visit us more often, perhaps stay with us a while. I hope you’ll encourage Arthur to consider that.”

“I’m sure he’ll consider whatever’s best for the children. That’s always his first concern.”

“That’s reassuring to hear, now that he is raising them alone. Although I’m sure a young man like Arthur will someday remarry.”

“I think anyone he brings into his life will have to have the children’s best interests at heart.”

“We can only hope they react to them as positively as they seem to react to you, should that time ever come.”

Another mourner approached her and she excused herself, walking away, talking with the other elderly woman.

“We should be going,” Adelaide said, joining him.

“I’m fine. Kingsley made me promise we’d come back to the house for a while. I can do a couple tricks for the kids, cheer them up a little.”

“You’re overdoing it, you know,” she said, linking her arm through his.

“I’m not going to fall over,” he said, smiling. “Unless you just can’t keep your hands off me.”

“Yes, that’s the situation. I wasn’t worried about your health at all,” she quipped. “Although I am happy that you didn’t manage to kill yourself.”

“Why, Adelaide, I believe that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me!”

********

Vera outdid herself with the meal she served at the Doyle home. A few other women had pitched in to help put on the spread, but it was clear that Vera was in charge of the feast. Arthur looked increasingly tired and drawn as the day continued, and Harry wanted to do something for him, to get him out of there so he could rest. Maybe to clear the house of all these people gorging on the funeral dinner without noticing that the family was drained and exhausted and needed to cope with their pain in privacy. Of course, it was likely Touie's parents were planning on staying at least another night, so spending any time with Arthur would have to wait.

Harry spent some time entertaining Mary, Kingsley, and a few children there with other friends and relatives. He was still feeling a little weak and under the weather himself, so they were simple tricks and sleight of hand illusions while he sat in a chair in the parlor, but they served the purpose of distracting the children from the dark purpose of the gathering if only for a little while. By the time he was considering heading back to the Savoy, he had delayed that because Kingsley was asleep on his lap. Arthur's younger child had sat there at his invitation a half hour earlier and was listening to Harry tell a story about his childhood in New York when he dozed off.

Arthur approached them, smiling for the first time since the funeral.

"I'll take him upstairs," he said.

"Sit for a second. You can be spared from hosting duties for a minute."

"I suppose you're right," he said, sitting down in the chair closest to Harry's. The crowd at the house was thinning, finally. "You should be in bed. You're not well yet."

"I'm just sitting here, not exerting myself. That's all I'd be doing at the Savoy anyway. Forget me a minute. How are you doing?"

"I'll survive," Arthur said, forcing a smile.

"I know that. I know you, and I know you feel like you have a knife in your heart right now."

"I can't," Arthur said, fake smile still in place. "If I...think about it...I can't here, now, with all of these people."

"I sent Adelaide home."

"She was your ride, wasn't she?"

"No, actually she was keeping me company and sharing a taxi with me. If you were a good friend, you'd drive me back to the Savoy in your fancy motor car."

"If I were a true friend, I'd put you to bed upstairs because you look pale and unwell. As your doctor, I believe that's best," he said, gripping Harry's wrist and checking his pulse. "I'm not joking now, Harry. Your pulse is rapid and you're covered in a cold sweat. You're not well and I don't want you out in the damp night air. I'm going to put Kingsley to bed and then you're next."

"Where do you plan on putting me?"

"In my room. You're my dear friend and you're obviously ill. If someone finds it suspicious that I would give up, or share, my bed to care for you overnight, the deviance is in their mind, not in my actions. I hardly would suggest sharing the bed I shared with my wife, with anyone else for any purpose other than sleeping or an emergency, tonight of all nights."

"I can make it to the hotel, Arthur."

"My in-laws could make it to a hotel more safely and with less risk to their health, but I seriously doubt they would come forward with that offer. Now be still and stay where you are. I'll be back in a few minutes." He scooped up his sleeping son, who muttered "Daddy" softly before settling in Arthur's arms as he carried him toward the stairs.

If Harry were being honest with himself, he didn't feel well. He felt weak and feverish, and he wasn't sure if he was going to be steady on his feet when he did stand. He was angry with himself for overdoing it and causing Arthur to have to take care of him on this of all days, but then he thought maybe it wasn't all bad. His weakened condition made it very logical that his close friend, who was a doctor, after all, would insist on putting him to bed there and would also stay nearby during the night to be sure he was all right.

He didn't have much time to analyze it before Arthur was back, and their exit from the room and trek up the long staircase seemed to attract little or no attention from the last of the mourners still present.

"Are you all right?" Arthur asked when they were about midway up the stairs.

"Yeah, just...tired," he said, finding the trip upstairs to be more of an effort than he expected.

"I should have insisted you not come today," Arthur said. "Selfishly, I wanted you here," he admitted, holding onto Harry's arm to support him. "So many nights, I've gone to bed alone in this room," he said, as they entered the master bedroom. "Tonight, I...I don't know if I could have done it."

"Then I'm glad I didn't listen to you," Harry said as Arthur deposited him on the side of the bed.

"You never do," he replied, crouching to take off Harry's shoes.

"I'm not wearing longjohns."

"You're not sleeping au naturel and I don't have silk pajamas on hand."

"I have underwear."

"I've seen your underwear, what there is of it. You're wearing a night shirt."

"You can’t be serious?"

"Hush. No arguments." So Harry didn't make anymore protests. He was tired, and he didn't really care what Arthur wanted to put on him. Except he did draw the line at the long underwear. He fumbled to participate in undressing himself, though he was considerably less efficient at it than Arthur was. Stripped to his shorts, the night shirt actually felt good, soft and comforting and warm as it engulfed him. And engulf him it did. After all, it was sized to fit Arthur and meet all his strict standards of modesty.

He did object to Arthur taking him to the bathroom, insisting he could handle that task on his own. The most latitude he was granted was Arthur waiting outside the bathroom door to escort him back to bed. Tucked in and comfortable, he struggled to stay awake.

"Sleep," Arthur said, sitting on the side of the bed. "I have to go back downstairs for a while, say goodnight to anyone still here, and make sure Mary gets to bed. Don't try to wait up for me. You're exhausted and you need rest."

"So are you."

"I know." He paused to caress Harry's curls gently. "Thank you."

"For what? You put me to bed, remember? Even loaned me one of these fashionable night shirts."

"For not leaving me when I am so undeserving of your love or your forgiveness."

"You're too hard on yourself," Harry said, touching Arthur's cheek. "Go do what you need to do, and then come back here and get some sleep. You won’t be alone tonight."

"I'll be back soon." He rose and carefully adjusted the covers around Harry.

Harry wasn’t sure how long he’d slept, but the next time he was conscious of his surroundings, the house was silent, the room was dimly lit, and Arthur was in his longjohns and night shirt, sitting on the side of the bed, about to get in. He stayed quiet until he watched the larger man struggle to fit himself into the empty space Harry had left for him, since he had a tendency to sprawl in his sleep. He had mercy on him and moved over a bit.

“I didn’t mean to wake you. Go back to sleep,” Arthur whispered.

“Come on, get over here. What I’ve got isn’t catching, remember?”

Arthur clearly wasn’t used to being on the receiving end of an embrace in bed. He didn’t seem to know what to do with his head or his long limbs, but Harry persisted until he got him arranged there, head on his chest, arm around Harry’s middle, Harry’s arms around him.

“How did you first meet her?” Harry asked, rubbing Arthur’s back slowly.

“At a friend’s wedding reception. She was the most beautiful woman in the room. It was as if all the others turned into...shadows and only she appeared in detail. It was a bit embarrassing because she noticed me staring, which wasn’t really very polite on my part. I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t take my eyes off her. I knew at that moment, she was the one.”

“Wow. Love at first sight, huh? I never really believed in that. Infatuation, attraction, sure, but love?”

“That level of affection was not immediately mutual, but fortunately she did agree to dance with me once that evening, after we were properly introduced, of course.”

“Of course. I bet it was a waltz, your first dance?”

“Yes, it was. I never planned to waltz with anyone else, ever again. And you had me dancing around my study like a mad fool,” he added, smiling. “Why do I love both of you so desperately?” he asked, the smile fading.

“The heart’s a funny thing, Doc. It does what it wants,” he replied, slipping his hand into Arthur’s hair. It was soft and thick and felt good between his fingers. “I already told you I’m not looking to compete with Touie or take her place. She has her place in your heart, and I have mine.”

“God forgive me, there were times I wondered how I could go on like this for years, waiting and hoping and nothing...but I never wanted her to go.”

“You never stopped loving her, and you never truly gave up on her. Sometimes you stumbled or got tired along the way, but you did all you could.” He kissed Arthur’s forehead. He felt Arthur’s fingers curl around his wrist, checking his pulse. “I’m fine, Doc.”

“Your pulse is closer to normal, I can vouch for your heartbeat,” he said with a little smile, since his head was pillowed on Harry’s chest.

“I’d sing you a lullaby but I think that would probably give you nightmares.”

“Not much of a singer?” Arthur asked, sounding amused.

“As a musician, I make a great magician.”

“Enough said. Just don’t frighten my children by singing to them at bedtime.”

“I’ll stick to stories. Touie had a nice voice?”

“Yes, a lovely singing voice, and she played the piano beautifully.”

“Talented lady. I wish I had gotten a chance to know her.”

“I believe you would have quickly risen to prominence on her list of favorite dinner guests.”

“You think she would have liked me?”

“Yes, because you’re outspoken and often irreverent, and though Touie was always a most gracious and refined lady, she had a bit of that fire living in her soul. I’m afraid the two of you would have bedeviled me terribly.”

“Now I really do regret not getting to know her,” Harry said, smiling.

“I miss her so,” Arthur said quietly. “I keep thinking I can go to the hospital and sit with her, and she’s not there.”

Harry tightened his hold on Arthur and just let him have his pain, some silent tears, and felt him beginning to relax a bit. Soon, both men had fallen asleep.

********

Harry appreciated the delicious breakfast tray Vera served him mid-morning, but as he enjoyed eating breakfast in bed, he had a feeling it was serving the dual purpose of enforcing upon him additional bed rest that Arthur thought he needed, and avoiding an awkward breakfast with Touie’s parents. Harry hadn’t really interacted much with her father; he seemed like a quiet, somewhat inoffensive man, but her mother was hard to read. She gave off the impression of the quintessential disapproving mother-in-law, and yet she was completely courteous and charming in Harry’s presence. If she thought their friendship was odd, she didn’t betray that opinion.

There was a knock at the door, and he invited the visitor to come in, expecting to see Doyle poking his head through the door. Instead, it was Adelaide.

“Oh, look,” she said, “a man in a night shirt,” she concluded, barely containing her laughter.

“Very funny,” he retorted. “Doyle decided I was too ill to travel last night, so I found myself at the mercy of his wardrobe.” He took another drink of his coffee.

“I brought you something to keep you occupied while you’re resting - I assume your doctor is going to enforce some bed rest on you now for a few days until you get your strength back.”

“What’s all this?” he asked, taking the pile of files from her. She set the empty breakfast tray aside for him.

“Files on the missing persons and murder cases we found that correlate with the dates in Abigail’s calendar. I was expecting to go over them with you and Dr. Doyle, but given the circumstances, I didn’t want to bring this up with him now.”

“Once his in-laws leave, the distraction might do him good.”

“They don’t seem to be very comfortable together, do they? But then very few people are terribly fond of their in-laws.”

“Fortunately, there’s a way to solve that problem.”

“Oh, really?” Adelaide asked, sitting in a nearby chair.

“Stay single,” Houdini replied.

“I suppose that does eliminate the issue.”

“Hey, did you keep Abigail’s little dish of treasures we found in the secret room?”

“Yes, it’s locked in the evidence room at headquarters.”

“One of the buttons in there caught my eye. It was unusual, bronze with a fleur-de-lis on it. Look at the crime scene photo of Nellie Opperman, the prostitute whose body was found in Whitechapel.”

Adelaide stood and looked over his shoulder at the photo of the dead woman in her ruined and tattered dress. “It’s definitely a fleur-de-lis,” she said of one of the buttons visible in a close up photograph. “And the dress is missing a couple of buttons.”

“One of the items in that dish was a small Miraculous Medal pin,” he said, reviewing the report on the baby missing from the orphanage. “I really hope that doesn’t mean this is related.”

“It was a Catholic orphanage, and babies are often given those medals to commemorate baptism. I’ll make a note to ask the Mother Superior if the children there are given those medals.” She paused. “Harry, have you given any more thought to why they would have your mother’s ring, or how they came by it?”

“Of course, I’ve thought about it. I’m not prepared to accept a hocus-pocus explanation, so I haven’t come up with anything logical, unless they had something planned and then my mother...passed away before they could act on it. Obviously one of them broke into the hotel suite. It’s not that hard to do.”

“But it would seem these are souvenirs of those they’ve...victimized. Dr. Doyle said there was no sign of foul play in your mother’s death.”

“I don’t know, Addie. I guess they didn’t get around to doing whatever they were going to do before she died of natural causes. If I ever find out they were planning something to hurt my mother...Abigail isn’t going to be the only one strung up.”

“Mrs. Randolph, the housewife who lived not far from here, had some gold dental work. I’m going to see her dentist today to see if he recognizes it as his work. Her husband wasn’t sure.”

“Probably looks a lot different in a dish than it did in his wife’s mouth.”

“I’m sure that’s true. If it belonged to her, I think we can safely say she’s moved from the ‘missing’ category to ‘homicide’.”

“Wherever these freaks are, they must have some space and some privacy. Abigail’s got to be pretty rank by now, unless they’ve got a very large ice box.”

“Halloween–or the Feast of Samhain–is just a week away. Perhaps they have something special planned for that day. You bring up an interesting point about the storage of the body. She’d been dead a week when they stole the body, so it would already be decomposing. The proper storage would be essential to minimize further deterioration.”

“Who around here has an ice house?”

“There can’t be that many of them. A few of the large estates have them, so I suppose we could look for one of her regular clients who might have such a structure.”

“It would have to be a private one, since stashing a rotting corpse in it would probably arouse suspicion in a commercial storage facility used by game keepers or butchers.”

“Perhaps they are simply keeping the body packed in ice, or stored on ice, which would mean someone was ordering a large or at least steady quantity of it.”

“My mother was nervous, uneasy before she died. It was like she sensed something.”

“That’s not unusual when someone is close to death. I don’t believe it has to mean anything sinister related to this.”

“She told me to do it.”

“What?”

“Remember I told you I saw my mother, before I cut my wrists?”

“Yes.”

“She told me to do it, so I could be with her.”

“Your mother adored you, Harry. She would have never harmed you, and certainly wouldn’t have wanted to see you harm yourself.”

“I know,” he said. “Doyle came up with some explanation out of a book on demons to suggest it was a demon in my mother’s form. I was hoping you might have a little less sensational input on the whole issue.”

“Perhaps you were depressed enough that, with the effects of the opium, you invented your mother telling you to do it to override the part of your logical mind that was keeping you from doing it?”

“I suppose. Either way it makes me crazy.”

“Depressed isn’t crazy, no matter what the doctors in the asylums want to tell you. Something else is going on here, Harry. I may not be chief of Scotland Yard, but I’m a reasonably fair detective, and it’s obvious that something else is at play. Whatever it is, most likely figured into your decision to make an attempt on your life. Imagining your mother calling you to come and be with her would be a perfect way for you to reconcile yourself with that decision.”

“When Touie died, Doyle was...inconsolable. She died while we were out in the park playing croquet and eating sandwiches. I mean, the guy never has any fun, never does anything normal like that. He was always haunting that hospital waiting for her to wiggle her finger or take an unusual breath...any sign she might be still in there, waiting to wake up. And that one day I talked him into going on that picnic, she died.”

“You can’t blame yourself for that.”

“I didn’t exactly.”

“Doyle did, though, didn’t he?”

“It wasn’t his fault. He was in shock, grieving...angry.”

“That’s why you were at the Savoy in the first place? He threw you out, didn’t he?”

“You thought there was something else going on, so there you are. That’s what it was. He’s apologized and he feels awful about it so don’t let on that I said something.”

“No, of course not, I won’t mention it to him. He’s obviously had a change of heart.”

“He wasn’t in his right mind from the grief, and he just lashed out. I guess I was still grieving enough myself that it hit me harder than it should have.”

“That explains why he seems almost...well, why he’s so intense about caring for you now.”

“Doyle is always intense,” Harry quipped, smiling.

“Yes, I suppose that’s true,” she agreed, smiling back at him. “In any event, I don’t think you’re insane and I don’t believe demons are appearing to you, either.”

“Thanks.”

“I do think you should seriously rethink the opium.”

“I will. It’s never caused me to do something like that before, but I’ll think about it.”

“I’m glad. Besides, you’ll have to get the pipe back from Doyle anyway.”

“Don’t remind me. He’s already got me wearing a night shirt. My life is spiraling out of control.”

********

Arthur felt only a temporary relief as he bid farewell to his in-laws and watched the carriage take them back toward their own home. They didn't live far away, less than a half day journey, but he still rarely saw them after Touie fell ill. Her mother had decided seeing her in that condition was too painful, and by the time he'd sent word to them of her brief consciousness, she'd fallen back into a coma before they made the trip.

Now she wanted to take his children for an extended visit. He struggled with the question of what Touie would want him to do, how the children would react to being sent to their grandparents for an extended time, and how he would cope with Touie's death with his children gone, too. And would that be the beginning of Touie’s parents trying to separate him from them on a more permanent basis?

He rubbed his forehead, his elbow on his desk in his study.

"In-laws gone?" Harry's voice startled him. He looked up to see him standing in the doorway of the study, and he could barely stifle a smile despite all the heaviness in his heart. Harry was still wearing the night shirt, but he'd put one of Arthur's robes over it. Needless to say, both garments were ill-fitting, and coupled with the tousled curls, he looked a bit frightful. Still, his color was improved and he looked stronger.

"Yes, finally," he said, smiling at Harry. He'd put him through so much, punished him so thoughtlessly for the crime of loving him, and he was still there, looking at Arthur with such genuine concern. He rose and guided him into the room and closed the door. "What did Adelaide have to say about the case?" he asked.

"She didn't want to burden you with that right now. Neither do I. She's looking into a couple things..."

"It's not a burden. I'd welcome the distraction. Doing something useful for the living helps take one's mind off mourning those we can no longer help."

"I guess that's true," Harry replied, still searching his face as if he wanted to be sure Arthur was really all right, that he was surviving his grief.

"Come on, sit down, you shouldn't be overtaxing yourself yet. I believe I told you to stay in bed," he scolded gently, leading Harry to the settee and sitting there with him. He reached over and took Harry's hand. Harry smiled at him when he didn't take his pulse. He was just holding his hand for the sake of doing it, not checking him as his doctor.

"I sent for my things at the Savoy. I appreciate the loan, but if I'm going to convalesce, I'd like my own pajamas."

"I understand. They do look better on you than these things," he said, realizing it was probably the first compliment he'd ever paid Harry on his appearance, on something personal, the way you'd compliment your lover. The way you should treat someone who clearly loved you so deeply and so faithfully, instead of heaping nothing but more pain and sorrow on him.

"Wow...that was almost a compliment, Doc," Harry teased, echoing Arthur's thoughts.

"You deserve them, to be treated so much better than I've treated you. And yet here you are."

"Nobody ever said love made sense," Harry said, grinning.

"I think that Touie's death would have finished me...if not for you," he said, still holding Harry's hand, finally mustering the courage to look him in the eyes. That shouldn't have taken any courage at all, because all that greeted him was love. "I would have tried to go on for the children, but now their grandmother wants to take them. She says it's for a visit, but somehow I think she's trying to recapture having Touie with her through the children."

"You don't have to let them go anywhere. They're your kids."

"I know. I had a feeling you'd say that," he added, smiling. "I don't know what Touie would want."

"Was she close to her parents?"

"They exchanged letters regularly, she occasionally went there for a visit, sometimes with the children. I suppose as much as most grown women with their own families are still close to their parents."

"Then to hell with them," Harry said. "If she was that close to her mother, you'd have said that without hesitation. Nobody ever had to think twice if I was close to my mother. The fact you had to think about how Touie felt about her mother, her parents, tells me that she wasn't that close to them. And so I doubt she'd feel you had to comply with handing over your children for an extended visit right now. Or ever if you don't want to."

"If my head was clearer, I probably could have made that deduction myself."

"Your head'll clear in a while," he said, reaching over and touching Arthur's hair gently. Arthur pulled Harry against his side, settling him there, Harry's head on his shoulder. "Tell me what Adelaide had to say. I need to think about something else," he admitted.

"Well, she wants me to quit the opium."

"You already know I approve of that suggestion. I know you're using it for pain, but now that you're involved with a doctor, we should be able to find a more positive and healthful way to address those issues."

"I was just going to ask for my pipe back."

"You're a grown man, Harry. I'm not going to hide it from you and try to tell you what to do."

"How would you 'address' my issues?"

"Well, in the absence of reducing the strain on your body and choosing a less dangerous line of work, which I know isn't an option, I would try relaxation and massage techniques, and milder medications with fewer side effects."

"The mild stuff doesn't work, and the massage...sometimes it helps, sometimes it doesn't."

"I doubt you're being massaged by a medical professional who knows where your injuries are. The amateur efforts of a comely female don't count."

"Sounds like a little jealousy there, Doc."

"Florrie's a pretty girl but I doubt she's a trained masseuse, and she certainly doesn't strike me as having attended medical school."

"Can't argue with that."

"I also would hazard the guess that she hasn't viewed your x-rays."

"Most of my friends haven’t. I don’t exactly pass them around. I didn’t really plan on you seeing them, either."

"I can't stop you from doing what you do to yourself, but I can care for you after you do it."

"You want to do that?"

"I don't want you to be in pain, more than you have to be. If you want your opium, and it helps, just be honest with me what you're using, how much, how often, so it doesn't pose a danger to you."

"Nobody except my mother ever worried about me that way."

"I won't lose you if I can avoid it," he said, kissing the top of Harry's head.

"Do I look like I'm going anywhere?" he joked, sighing.

"You're already feeling tired, aren't you?"

"A little," he admitted.

"Time to get you back in bed. I can give you a back rub, see if that relaxes you enough to sleep."

"I thought I was ready to be up and around. Guess I'm not."

"You lost a lot of blood, Harry. More than they could replace with a single transfusion. You'll be fine but you need time to regain your strength. Come on, my love. Listen to your doctor," he said gently. Harry's arms tightened around his middle, and he didn't move right away.

"I love you, Doc."

"And I love you as well," he replied, kissing Harry's temple.

Vera was tidying up the guest room, so Arthur guided Harry back to the master bedroom.

"Why don't you take off the night shirt and lie on your stomach?" He'd no sooner said it than he was surprised Harry didn't pounce on it and tease him mercilessly. After all, it sounded like he was propositioning him rather than offering him a massage. Either Harry was that tired or he understood that Arthur wasn't really prepared to make love with him this soon after his wife's death, and least of all in the bed he'd shared with her. Arthur suspected some blend of both.

Harry followed the suggestion and laid the night shirt over the footboard of the bed. He was still wearing a pair of silky boxer shorts, though they didn't leave much to the imagination. He stretched out on the bed on his stomach, and Arthur covered his lower half with the blankets. He fetched some muscle ointment from the bathroom and returned, closing the door behind him.

"Vera's not going to think it's weird you're in here with me?" Harry asked.

"She knows I'm acting as your doctor. I doubt she'll draw any inappropriate conclusions from that."

He rubbed some of the ointment on his hands and sat on the side of the bed. He began up near Harry's shoulders, working the tight muscles there. He tried to ignore how good the soft, pale skin felt under his hands and focus on making Harry feel good. Judging by the low moan of pleasure that escaped him, it was working.

“That stuff doesn’t stink.”

“What a glowing endorsement,” Arthur said, chuckling. “I should hope not. I’ve used it myself on occasion. Touie never could stand the odor of some of the liniments available for pulled muscles, and as one ages, being Man of the Match results in a few strains here and there. So I came up with this combination and had it made at the apothecary.”

“You’re quite the chemist, aren’t you? This is the second potion of yours I’ve been treated with so far.”

“Is that a complaint?” he teased, frowning at a scar he hadn’t noticed before on the back of Harry’s shoulder.

“No, they both worked,” he said. He seemed to notice Arthur’s thumb tracing the faint scar. “When I was first practicing my underwater escape, before I did it on stage, it wasn’t as rare to have to break the tank so I didn’t kill myself at it,” he admitted, snorting a little laugh. “I landed on some broken glass, cut my shoulder.”

“Sometimes it’s very hard for me to be happy about your line of work.” On an impulse, he leaned forward and kissed the scar. Even though he felt it would be extremely inappropriate and grief still seemed to be keeping his inclination toward any physical passion at bay, he found himself longing for intimacy with Harry. Sharing the words and touches of lovers.

“Is that why you never come to my shows? I thought you just found the whole spectacle uninteresting.”

“I suppose that’s what I’d prefer to have you think. Just like you pretend not to have much appreciation for Sherlock Holmes.”

“So it bothers you to watch me do it?” he asked, leaning up on one elbow, looking back at Arthur.

“Very much,” he replied honestly. “It has for some time now. I know you love what you do, and you’re a born entertainer, Harry. I would never ask you to not be what you are, or do what you love. But I can’t watch it over and over again. At the very least, I know it often hurts you, and at worst...”

“I’ll be careful, if that makes you feel better, Doc,” he said, holding Arthur’s gaze, as if the whole notion of what Arthur said had moved him deeply.

“Please do,” he replied, smiling, then he touched Harry’s head gently. “Lie down again. You’re going to undo all the good of this massage if you don’t relax.”

Harry grinned at him and obeyed, closing his eyes and releasing a long breath. Arthur continued to work out any knots or tautness he felt until Harry was so relaxed he was snoring softly into the pillow. He covered him with the blankets and sat in a nearby chair, watching his sleeping face until he nodded off himself, still feeling the exhaustion of mourning and the disturbed sleep that comes with it.

********

Chapter Text

While Harry slept, Arthur spent a substantial portion of his day with the children, though they had little interest in playing or doing much more than quietly reading or listening to Arthur read to them. Just being in his presence seemed to be what they craved, and he drew a great deal of solace from being with them. He spent some of the time going through the files Adelaide had left, though he wasn’t sure what she’d discussed with Harry. He found his mind latching on to the case, wanting some distraction from sitting around the house feeling horrible. The next day, he would have to send the children out on some errands with Vera, and then perhaps back to school. If sitting about the house moping was having an ill effect on him, it couldn’t be doing the children much good, either.

Eleanor Randolph had lived only a mile or so from his home. He couldn’t remember Touie speaking of her specifically, though she socialized with quite a few of the ladies in the area. He remembered when she disappeared, and how vigorously her husband objected to any inference that she had run off. He supposed it was a sad commentary on their society that Nellie Opperman’s death had caused less of a ripple in the community than the Randolph missing person case. After all, prostitutes were hardly as important as society matrons, were they?

Female constables were hardly to be taken as seriously as males, and two men who fell in love with one another were deviants...

He leaned back in his desk chair and decided to take a page from Harry’s book. He rounded up the children, told Kingsley to go get his ball, and they went out in the yard to play. It was dispirited and lethargic at first, but after a while, the children rose to the occasion of throwing the ball and catching it, ganging up on their father to challenge his skills.

About a half hour into their outdoor time, Harry made an appearance on the back porch, dressed except for leaving off his formal collar and tie, wearing his overcoat to combat the chill in the fall air, and sat in the old rocking chair there. Arthur took the excuse to occupy the other chair there for a while and let the children continue while he caught his breath.

“You’re looking well,” he said. “You must have an excellent doctor,” he quipped.

“He’s okay, but it’s my masseuse that really knows what he’s doing,” he replied, smiling. “Good idea getting them out of the house for a while.”

“We were all becoming a bit too morose and depressed sitting around the study.” He was quiet a moment. “Touie’s been gone for so long, in a way...it’s more like mourning the death of hope than anything else. Our daily routine is unsettling in its familiarity.”

“That’s been one of the hardest things to adjust to with my mother’s death. All my life, she was there. Even when I came to Europe, she traveled with me and she was always in my suite, just a room or two away.”

“Maybe I should have been less optimistic and more honest with them,” he said, nodding toward the children.

“Maybe you should get them a dog.”

“Excuse me?”

“A large hound that can be heard howling on the moors at night.”

“Very funny,” Arthur replied, but he did laugh. Harry was obviously going to distract him from another round of self-blame in how he’d handled Touie’s illness and death. “I thought you slept through most of what I read to you.”

“I was listening.”

Arthur reached over and took his hand, then used his other hand to take Harry’s pulse and carefully check his bandages. It wasn’t entirely necessary to hold his hand while he did that, but it was a very smooth and viable excuse to do so.

“Seriously. Get them something that will change their routine,” Harry said, brushing his thumb quickly over Arthur’s fingers to let him know he understood the surreptitious bit of hand-holding. “Give them something new to concentrate on.”

“A dog to chew my slippers and soil my carpets?”

“You can’t tell me they wouldn’t have fun with one running around and playing out there. They have to walk it, train it, feed it, clean up after it. Sounds like a distraction from less happy things to me.”

“I’ll consider it,” Arthur said, though he had to admit it was a good idea. Another mess to clean and mouth to feed, but still, the children would be delighted and distracted by the new responsibilities. Vera, on the other hand, was less likely to be thrilled with the notion. More disorder brought on the household by its flamboyant guest. “I was reading through the files Adelaide left. If these people are all victims of this cult, they are making a concerted effort to vary the type of victim they choose.”

“Mrs. Randolph is the big departure from the pattern. Aside from her, you have an orphan child, a prostitute, and a card reader and medium. Probably trying to kill off the competition,” Harry joked. “Mostly people whose cases wouldn’t be top priorities with Scotland Yard.”

“That woman was a fraud,” Arthur said. He had recognized her name as the medium who had pretended to channel Touie’s spirit, but she’d made the mistake of referring to her as if she were already dead. “She pretended to reach Touie but she also referred to her having died. So even though she was right about another murder at the Magdalene Laundry, she wasn’t above cheating to line her pockets. She wasn’t living in poverty or even in as rough an area as Nellie Opperman, but she certainly wasn’t wealthy.”

“Adelaide’s trying to match up gold dental work to Mrs. Randolph. If that falls through, I’m inclined to think maybe Eleanor Randolph did run off on her marriage or met some other fate than this cult. Why would they want to attract that kind of attention?”

“It would seem counterintuitive to their goals.”

“One of the items in the dish was a Miraculous Medal. Addie’s checking to see if the babies at the orphanage are given those.”

“God forbid.” Arthur paused. “I know it bothers you why they had your mother’s ring. I’m sorry if I compounded that by what I suggested.”

“We’re looking for answers. I know you didn’t say it to cause me pain. But you also know I’m not about to believe in the appearance of demons.”

“I would be shocked if you did,” Arthur replied.

********

During the next few days, Harry got his old energy back, the children returned to school, and Arthur was ready to jump more wholeheartedly into the investigation of Abigail Harrington's strange resurrection and tracking down the cult they assumed must be associated with her escape from the grave.

Harry resided in the guest room now that it was available again, but he also knew he’d have to officially establish a residence in a hotel or suitable rental his business manager set up for him. After all, it would look peculiar for him to set up permanent residence with Doyle and his children, as much as he enjoyed that idea. They continued to enjoy a little kissing or harmless expressions of affection when they could get away with it in moments alone, but Harry knew Arthur wasn’t quite ready to jump headlong back into the physical aspect of their romance. That was okay, he’d had long dry spells before and survived.

Both Adelaide and Arthur were in favor of him reducing or eliminating his reliance on opium for pain, among the other emotional and psychological reasons he sometimes used it, and he’d been willing to do that. It wasn’t that he was exactly a depraved drug addict anyway. It either numbed pain or made him care less that he had it, and sometimes it relaxed him enough to sleep when he might not have otherwise. He’d gotten a couple nice massages from Doyle in the meantime, but his back and shoulder were giving him trouble tonight, and Arthur was at a symphony concert to be followed by a reception including some members of the area literary and intellectual community.

Not only did the evening sound like a crashing bore, but he could hardly show up as Arthur’s “date” at these events, and near as he could tell, the Sherlock Holmes author was the most well-known luminary on the guest list, so the last thing he wanted to do was steal his thunder. He did wish he could hear Arthur give his brief remarks at the reception, and be there for moral support since it was his first outing after Touie’s death, but all in all, it seemed wisest for him to stay home.

Which put him in a gloomy frame of mind, even though he agreed with the decision not to attend. The fact he <i>shouldn’t</i> attend, that he couldn’t go out for the evening with Arthur, that what they felt would always be a dirty secret...that didn’t sit well with him. His own career was as much to blame for that situation as Arthur’s. He’d barely escaped being branded as a suicidal drug addict after the incident at the Savoy. The last thing his career could take was him being exposed as a homosexual on top of the rumors that would persist for a while about what “really happened” when he fell mysteriously “ill”. Doing jail time for real, where he couldn’t escape when he felt like it, didn’t appeal to him much, either. Oscar Wilde had been less than completely cautious with his situation, and it had earned him two years’ hard labor and no small amount of public disgrace.

Depressed with those thoughts and in pain without his “personal physician” around to ease it, he opened the window and resorted to what he planned would be a short session with the pipe. Just enough to calm him down and get him in the mood for sleep.

********

Arthur was never so glad to be home in his life as he was when he entered the house after leaving that reception. Touie was the socializer of the two of them, and while he certainly was socially competent in those situations, he didn’t enjoy them. The evening had made him feel tense and lonely, longing for the company of both people who would have made the evening bearable. Touie, because she was gone and would never be with him again, and Harry, because some miserable old society matron somewhere would begin wagging her forked tongue about him having an “unnatural affection” for Houdini if he’d brought him along. He’d heard the way people talked about men they suspected of having certain...preferences. It was not flattering.

He trudged up the stairs, planning to quietly look in on his companion, hoping he was still awake. Houdini was a night owl, so perhaps they could enjoy a bit of time together. He knew it was probably selfish, when he wasn’t prepared to engage in any intimate relations just yet, but just having Harry in his arms a while, maybe kissing him a bit...it was a lovely thought.

He tapped softly on the door. Harry would hear it if he was awake, but if he was sleeping, it wouldn’t wake him. When there was no reply, he assumed he was sleeping and carefully eased the door open for the guilty pleasure of looking in on him. After all, he would soon have to get his own lodgings, and then these little stolen moments would be fewer and farther between.

He was not prepared to see Harry crouched in a corner of the bedroom, straight razor poised beneath one ear, in the opposite hand, as if he were about to swipe it across his throat from ear to ear.

“Harry, no!” he shouted, rushing toward him. Harry stared at him with wild eyes, his body covered in cold sweat, his hand shaking a bit.

“She was here,” he said. “She told me I promised not to leave her. I have to go with her.”

“No, Harry, you don’t, and that wasn’t your mother,” Arthur said firmly, tossing his top hat and white gloves on the bed, crouching on the floor near Harry, who squinted at him as if he were confused who Doyle was and why he was descending on him. Perhaps it was the all-black formal suit, or the cape... “Give me the razor, Harry.” He tried to keep his voice steady and authoritative, hoping that would get through to Harry before he injured himself with the razor. “It’s all right now, there’s no one here but us,” he said, softening his tone a bit. “Let me have the razor,” he said, gently grasping Harry’s wrist, then pulling the razor out of his unresisting hand. Casting it out of reach, he helped him stand and led him to the bed, urging him to lie on it.

“She’s lonely, Doc. She was so sad. I have to go with her. I promised.”

“Listen to me, Ehrich,” he said sternly, hoping Harry’s real first name would get his attention more fully. He brushed damp curls off Harry’s forehead. “Your mother loved you more than her own life. She would never want you to hurt yourself. Isn’t that right?”

“She’s lonely.”

“Even if she were lonely, she would want you to live, to be healthy. You know she wouldn’t want you to cut your own throat.”

“I’m losing my mind, Doc,” he said, covering his face with both hands, then he rolled on his side. “I’m going mad,” he sobbed into the pillow.

Arthur took off his cape, and began gently rubbing Harry’s back.

“You are not going mad. It’s going to be all right.”

“It’s not going to be all right! I’m going to wind up like one of those loonies shuffling around in a white nightgown picking my nose and soiling myself all day.”

“You aren’t a loony,” he said softly. “How much of the opium did you have?”

“I don’t know. I don’t remember.”

“It’s all right now. Try to calm yourself.”

Harry sat up, turned and wrapped his arms around Arthur, holding on for dear life, as if he were dangling over a cliff.

“I don’t want to go crazy. Don’t let me lose my mind.”

“Nonsense,” Arthur chided gently, holding him, stroking his hair soothingly. “You’re not going mad.” He didn’t really know that for a fact, but Harry showed no other signs of mental illness or incompetence, and Arthur knew from bitter experience with his father what a descent into madness looked like. Then a thought occurred to him. “Have you ever seen your mother when you didn’t use the opium?”

Despite his upset state, he was quiet a second, then replied, “I...I guess not. Maybe once or twice I thought I saw her in the audience at one of my shows. And that one time on the ship, on the deck.”

“But these frightful apparitions where she tries to convince you to harm yourself, or the times you’ve seen her when you’ve been afraid of it...were those all times related to the opium?”

“I think so,” he said, moving back a little. Arthur took out his handkerchief and wiped Harry’s face, drying the combination of sweat and tears off his skin. “I don’t understand. I didn’t have that much. I feel so...strange.”

“You’re still feeling strange? Stranger than you would normally feel from it?”

“Yeah, a lot. My head’s all foggy...” He reached up and touched his forehead.

“For now, lie back and relax. You’re safe, and everything’s going to be all right.”

“But my mother--”

“Something else is going on here,” Arthur said, looking around for the pipe. He found it near the night stand, with the container of the drug and the rest of the paraphernalia for preparing it. “You never used to hallucinate from using it before, did you?”

“No, never. It’s not like I use it often. Just when the pain’s bad or...I need to feel better.”

“Did you use it often before your mother died?”

“No, not really. She could smell it in the air, and I know she didn’t approve.” He rubbed his temples, blinking. “Sorry I...went crazy on you.”

“We should have this tested,” he said.

“What? Where would we do that?”

“Maybe Adelaide can get me into the police laboratory. If not, I have a friend at the university who might be able to get me into a laboratory there. Perhaps this is tainted somehow.”

“I guess it could be a bad batch.”

“How long have you had this?”

“A few months, I guess.”

“Since your mother died?”

“Probably a little before that.”

“Come on,” Arthur said, handing Harry his cape. “Put this on, it’s chilly outside.”

“Where are we going?”

“Fresh air. Let’s clear out your lungs a bit, clear your head. Take a little walk.” Arthur knew Harry had a coat, but he liked the idea of him wearing his cape, of looking after him even in such a small way.

They walked down the deserted sidewalk, and Harry took in some deep breaths of fresh air.

“How’d your speech go?”

“It wasn’t really a speech. Just a few informal remarks. I suppose it went all right.” <i>I missed you by my side. I wish you’d been there.</i> Arthur reached over and took Harry’s hand, not sure how he’d react to something as simple as walking down the dark street hand in hand. It was a little risk they could take. No respectable people in his respectable neighborhood were out on the streets at this hour. It was dark, somewhat overcast and moonless. No one would witness the horror of two men who loved each other holding hands.

“I bet you were bored without me,” Harry joked, squeezing his hand, smiling.

“As much as I know it will make you insufferable to live with, yes, I did miss you there.”

“Too many dry literary types?”

“I <i>am</i> a dry literary type,” he replied, chuckling.

“On the surface. Underneath, you’re something much, much different.”

“Really? What am I?”

“You’re too warm to be one of them. You’ve got a big heart.”

“Must be the company I keep,” he said, wishing he were brave enough to risk taking Harry in his arms and kissing him out there in the shadows.

“Could be,” Harry agreed.

“Feeling better?”

“Yeah, the fresh air helped. Think you could stay with me a while tonight?”

“Yes, I think we could arrange that.” He sighed. “I wish we didn’t have to. Arrange it, I mean. I wish...”

“Me, too,” Harry admitted, squeezing his hand again. “But we’ll find ways to be together. There’s always a way.”

********

It wasn’t long after they returned to the house that there was a soft tap at Harry’s door. A moment later, Arthur snuck in, clad in his robe which he had clutched tightly around him. Judging by the sight of his bare legs, he wasn’t in his usual longjohns. Harry was in his silk pajamas, but he didn’t expect to see Arthur in anything less than his usual head to toe night wear.

“Uh, Doc, did you forget something?” he asked, pausing by the side of the bed. He had been about to get in when Doyle arrived.

“I didn’t forget anything. I just...thought...” He seemed so uncomfortable and embarrassed that Harry didn’t have the heart to make him suffer.

“I like the way you’re thinking,” he said, sliding his arms around Arthur's waist. He moved the robe aside a bit and began kissing the soft skin and springy chest hair there. Arthur's fingers slipped into his hair, his breathing quickening.

"I want to be with you," he said, sounding a bit breathless. "I shouldn't have come in here...like this."

"But it's too soon."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. You can still stay with me, right? Get up and sneak out before dawn?"

"I'd like that," he said, touching Harry's cheek and looking into his eyes. "I could look into your eyes forever," he whispered.

"Good. I'll hold you to that." He planted one more little kiss over Arthur's heart. "To tell the truth, I still feel a little weird."

"Do you feel ill?"

"Not exactly. I don't feel crazy anymore, either. Just tired and kind of strange."

"When I saw that razor at your throat...I think you shaved ten years off my life."

"Almost shaved a few off mine, too," he quipped, hooking his hand behind Arthur's neck to pull him in for a kiss. He was glad Arthur smiled at that. "Can't believe you're finally wearing less for bed than I am."

Harry hastily took off his pajamas, leaving him in his shorts. Arthur tossed his robe aside, in a mingled pile with Harry's pajamas. They got into bed, and Arthur spooned himself around Harry, arm around his middle. He began kissing Harry's cheek, his neck, his shoulder. He felt Arthur's warm breath on his skin, and heard him inhale, as if he were taking in Harry's scent. He tried to ignore the raw, honest eroticism of that thought, but he knew his body was taking interest in it. After all, they were practically naked and Arthur's cock was nestled between his cheeks, and even if Arthur thought it was too soon, his body hadn't agreed to that notion.

It was as if they communicated silently, because Arthur pressed himself harder against Harry's ass, while Harry moved back against him, a soft moan escaping him. Arthur's hand moved down and cupped him, slipping into his shorts, fondling him gently until he began more aggressively stroking him as they moved together.

Harry slipped his shorts down, then pulled at Arthur's until he helped get them out of the way. They kept up the friction, while Arthur kept up the motion of his hand on Harry's erection. He smothered his reaction, burying his face in his pillow as he came, feeling Arthur coming against him, the warm rush of liquid between his cheeks as Arthur's body arched and then relaxed.

"I didn't mean to..." Arthur whispered, sounding like he was ashamed of himself for giving in to temptation. Harry turned over to face him, not surprised he was avoiding eye contact there in the shadows.

"I love you," he said, pulling Arthur into his arms. "It's okay."

"I shouldn't have done that. I know it's wrong and I can't help it."

"Wrong because I'm a man, or wrong because you think you're betraying your wife?"

"It's too soon. I'm dishonoring her memory. It's not your fault. It's mine."

"Loneliness is a painful sentence to serve, isn't it?" Harry asked gently, kissing Arthur's neck, staying close to him. "You're the most honorable, decent guy I ever met. Stop punishing yourself every time you feel joy or happiness. You don't deserve to always be sad and alone."

"I do love you so," he whispered.

"Let's just sleep now. It's okay."

"I don't know what to feel," he admitted softly.

"You love Touie and you miss her. I know that. Why is that incompatible with this?"

"I find it hard to believe that you can keep on making allowances for me."

"Quit pressuring yourself to divide up all your feelings in tidy little packages. Love is messy and it doesn't follow the rules." He kissed Arthur's cheek. "Kind of like me," he added, grinning.

"You are a treasure, Ehrich. I will never lose sight of that again." He closed his eyes and Harry could feel him relax in his arms.

********

“Well, I have good news and I have potentially disturbing news,” Adelaide said as they sat around Doyle’s dining room table that late afternoon. The shadows were growing long, and there was a faint scent of dinner cooking. It was raining outside, heavily at times, an occasional rumble of thunder in the distance. Doyle had a fire roaring in the fireplace.

“What is the good news?” Doyle asked.

“It’s potentially good news for Mrs. Randolph. The gold dental work is not hers. I even showed her husband a few other items from the dish, and he didn’t identify any of them as belonging to her.”

“Okay, I’ll ask the next obvious question,” Houdini said. “What’s the bad news?”

“Mother Superior at the Sisters of Mercy Orphanage confirmed that the Miraculous Medals are issued to infants baptized there at the orphanage. They are not individually inscribed so there’s no way to know for sure that this one belongs to the missing child, but it is identical to the ones they give the children.”

“We were thinking Mrs. Randolph was quite a high profile victim for this group,” Doyle commented. He cast a look at Harry, who was rubbing his hands together and looked as if a fine chill was running through him. Adelaide was surprised when he stood, took off his suit coat, and put it around Houdini’s shoulders. He felt Houdini’s forehead and checked his pulse.

“Are you all right?” Adelaide asked.

“Just a little cold,” he said. “And my doctor is a fussbudget.”

“You’re still recuperating from a substantial blood loss. Someone has to fuss over you since you won’t get adequate rest unless I were to chain you to your bed.”

“Yeah, like that’d work,” Houdini joked, winking at Adelaide. Still, he seemed to be more comfortable with the extra garment, pulling it closer around himself. Now she understood why the roaring fire was crackling in the fireplace. Houdini's recovery was going well and he seemed to be mostly back to his old self, but he was still a bit frail around th edges, and Doyle was certainly playing the role of devoted doctor.

“We do need to ask you a favor,” Doyle said. “I need access to a laboratory, unofficially.”

“A laboratory? Why?”

“I believe the opium Houdini has been using may have been tampered with or contaminated in some way, and I would like to test it.”

“That would explain a lot,” Adelaide said. “What led you to that conclusion?”

“I had another episode where I...reacted badly to it.”

“It’s the same supply he had at the time his mother’s ring was stolen,” Doyle added.

“What if it was never about the ring, or your mother, at all?” Adelaide suggested. “You said yourself that she had much more valuable jewelry. You do, for that matter, judging by what you said about that cufflink you lost. And yet the item they stole was fairly nominal in value, but perhaps was out in plain sight?”

“Yes, it was. My mother wore it a lot, and she’d left it on her night stand. It’s part of why she was so upset, because she felt as if she’d been careless with it.”

“Your focus was on your mother, and trying to find her ring. My guess is that you probably paid very little attention to your own belongings, and if you did notice something out of place, you’d attribute it to whomever stole the ring, not to someone whose goal was stealing your belongings or tampering with your things.”

“That would be a way to deflect attention from the real purpose of their break-in,” Doyle agreed.

“I believe my friend at the coroner’s office can get us back into the laboratory, possibly this evening. If the drug is tainted, that would explain the strange effects it’s had on you.”

“Be a clever way for someone like Abigail to get revenge for you trying to discredit her,” Doyle said. “We also don’t know the intent until we know what, if anything, was used. It could be an attempt to sabotage your sanity, or an attempt on your life, and you just haven’t had a large enough dose to be fatal.”

“If you don’t count me trying to kill myself twice.”

“Twice?” Adelaide asked, her eyes widening.

“I saw my mother again last night...asking me to come with her. Luckily Doyle here showed up before I could do anything about it.”

“I’ll contact my friend at once.”

“Any luck on the ice houses?” Harry asked.

“This is rather urgent,” Adelaide said, already standing.

“Has anyone stopped to think that maybe one or more of these missing people are still alive?” he suggested. “We’ve written them off as probably dead because Nellie Opperman is. What if they’re saving up for a big party on Halloween? That would make any part of this case pretty urgent, too.”

“I suppose I have been viewing the odds as fairly dismal for these people if their cases are related. The only one we have a solid piece of evidence on his Ms. Opperman, because of that matching button. The others are only possibilities,” Adelaide concluded. “If someone is trying to kill you or drive you insane, I think we should find that out sooner than later. I’ll check into the availability of the laboratory. If your theory about the missing people is true, they are most likely safe until Halloween, which gives us two more days. You’ve already nearly been killed twice. That seems a bit more urgent to me.”

********

Houdini watched, intrigued, as Doyle went about testing the opium for purity. He was examining a slide under the microscope now, and finally straightened up, looking dour.

“This is not pure opium. There is another substance blended with it. It will take some time, and probably a more highly trained chemist than I to determine what it is, but I do know the structure has been altered. I will go through some of my chemistry books at home and see if I can identify it.”

“Wow. You’re really smart, aren’t you, Doc?” Harry said, smiling at Arthur, who stared at him a bit puzzled.

“That’s what has you most impressed about this situation?”

“We kind of figured the drug was tampered with. It’s just interesting watching you work, that’s all. So how do you know that’s not pure?”

“Various substances have different structures when viewed under a microscope,” he said. “Here,” he said, pointing to a diagram in the book open next to the microscope. “This is what pure opium looks like,” he said, guiding Harry over to look through the lens. “Now, this is what yours looks like,” he said, switching the slides.

“Definitely different. But how do we know what it is?"

"Well, as I said, a more expert chemist might recognize it. We'll engage someone to test it fully, analyze the compound. At least for now we know that there is something wrong with it. The most important thing is that you won't be harmed by it any further."

"I don't use it often anyway, you know."

"You're a grown man, Harry. You don't need to justify what you do for my benefit."

"It matters to me what you think. I don't want you to think I'm a drug addict."

"I think nothing of the sort," Arthur replied. "I know why you need something for pain."

"The Chinese swear by it as a pain remedy."

"I have heard that, too. I'm a doctor, remember? I'm aware of how the drug is used, why, its origins, and I also know a drug addict when I see one. I've never thought of you that way."

"Okay. Good."

"Adelaide should be here any minute. After we share our results with her, we'll go home."

"I got a telegram from my business manager," Harry said. Sighing, he added, "He found me a place. It's a house, actually. A nice place I can rent for at least the next six months."

"Six months?" Arthur smiled. "So you're planning to be here at least that long before you go overseas again?"

"Well, yeah. I can make some short trips, do other European engagements during that time."

"You don't sound too happy about it."

"I am. Sounds like a great house."

"We knew you had to get a place," Arthur said, touching Harry's shoulder. "If I had my way, you'd always stay with me," he added.

"I don't want to go." He looked at Arthur, knowing his emotions were right there at the surface. "I hate that I have to."

"So do I, my love. It isn't fair." Arthur surprised him with an embrace. "It won't change anything, I promise."

"How can it not? I know it has to be. I don't have to like it," he concluded.

"Is everything all right?" Adelaide asked, surprising them as she entered the room. They moved apart quickly.

"We were celebrating," Harry said. "Turns out I'm not crazy after all. The opium was tampered with."

"Well, I'm glad to hear that...I guess," she said, looking puzzled. "I'm not sure the fact someone tried to drive you insane or kill you is good news, but I suppose it is preferable to being concerned that you actually are unstable."

"Exactly! Thanks to the doctor here, I know I'm not crazy."

"I have a friend at the university who may be willing to do a more extensive analysis for me. I think that's preferable to running it through any official channels," Arthur said. "I don't know <i>what</i> the substance is that's mixed in, but I do know this isn't pure."

"Identifying the other substance could be helpful in connecting it to Abigail," Adelaide said.

"This shouldn't be part of the official investigation," Doyle said. "If we're right, they're guilty of many far greater crimes, and there's nothing to be gained from this other than opening Houdini's private life up to unnecessary scrutiny."

Houdini felt warmed by that. Not that he wasn't about to suggest something similar himself, but he wasn't used to having someone look out for him so diligently and protect his reputation out of love and concern. It made him that much angrier that the closest thing he'd ever had to a family was going to be ripped apart for the sake of appearances. To satisfy the wagging tongues of people who had no right to make his personal life their business.

"I spoke with the manager of the major ice supplier in London," Adelaide said. "There were very few things out of the ordinary in their customer records, which made two accounts stand out. One was a private country estate, the second was a local restaurant. Now the owner of the restaurant said the reason they needed the ice was for a wedding reception they were catering, and that story checks out. That leaves the private estate, which belongs to the Cooke family. The only person I have record of residing there is Alistair Cooke, a man in his sixties, a widower."

"What does a guy that age, living alone, need a huge shipment of ice for?" Houdini asked, frowning.

"My question precisely," Adelaide said. "In addition, if you’ll recall, one of the letters we found in Abigail’s correspondence was signed by a gentleman named Alistair. It was the one that described how lovely it was to see her at the recent soiree. I think we should pay him a visit."

"It would be unwise to try it tonight," Arthur said. "I'm familiar with the Cooke estate. I attended a fox hunt on the grounds about ten years ago. The storm isn't letting up, and taking a motor car or carriage on the roads leading to it would not be safe. Some of those roads become flooded in weather like this."

"A fox hunt?" Houdini asked. "Seriously? A bunch of guys on horses chasing a little tiny fox through the woods?"

"Yes, that is the premise of a fox hunt," Doyle replied.

"You like that kind of thing?"

"I've participated in a few fox hunts. It's not as if I do that every weekend. You have something against fox hunts?"

"Not personally, but the fox probably isn't crazy about it."

"Bringing the conversation just a bit back toward our investigation," Adelaide said, "in your experience, how long will the roads be an issue in reaching the estate?"

"It depends on how long the storm continues, but it could be a couple of days."

"That would take us past Halloween. If this estate is tied into all this, we could be too late if we wait that long," Houdini said.

"Well, we have to at least wait until daybreak and assess the road conditions. We'll go as soon as it's passable. Did you know the Cooke family?" Adelaide asked Doyle.

"I was the friend of a friend of the current resident's nephew. Not a very strong connection."

"Would he remember you?" Houdini asked. "Maybe you could get more information out of him."

"Alistair was there. I vaguely recall meeting him, but that was years ago. I don't know if he'd even remember me."

"You're pretty famous, Doc. I'm sure he'd remember," Houdini said, smiling.

"Let's plan to attempt the trip tomorrow morning. If we find the route is unsafe, we'll have to come up with another plan," Adelaide said.

********

Chapter Text

Arthur sat at his desk, laboriously writing thank you notes to the many people who had sent flowers, food, cards, and other remembrances for Touie's funeral. Harry sat in a chair in the study, reading a book, not distracting him from his task but there with some silent moral support. The rain was still falling, the occasional rumble of thunder and flash of lightning still persisting. He could hear footsteps upstairs, and glanced at Arthur, who had heard it, too.

"I can go check on the kids if you want to finish up what you're doing," Harry offered.

"I'm almost done for the night." Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose, blinking. Harry walked up behind him and started massaging his shoulders. "That does feel good," he admitted, leaning into the touch.

"How long has it been since someone chipped away at the granite you've got here that passes for normal human muscles?"

"A very long time."

"Try to relax, Doc. You're not the only one who can give a decent massage."

"I should go check on the children."

"It's not that late. One of them probably can't sleep. I'll go up in a minute." He kept up the rubbing motion on Arthur's shoulders.

"Go check on the children. I'm fine." He patted Harry's hand and went back to writing the note he'd been working on when the massage started.

"Okay, but we're not done here," he said. Arthur smiled faintly at that.

Harry climbed the stairs and paused by Kingsley's room, easing the door open quietly. He found the boy sitting by his window, watching the storm.

"Can't sleep?" he asked. Kingsley jumped a bit, obviously not having heard him come in.

"No."

"Thinking about your mom?" Harry asked, sitting on the foot of the bed, not far from where Kingsley was sitting in a chair.

"Yes."

"It's hard at night, isn't it? When you can't sleep and you start thinking about her, and all the things that are happening you want to talk to her about, but she's not there."

"How did you know?" he asked.

"My mother passed away just a few months before yours did. And I still miss her every single day," he added, feeling a lump in his throat.

"But you're a grown man."

"Doesn't matter. I loved her. She was my best friend. I could tell her anything...and now she's gone and...sometimes I don't know who I can tell those things to now."

"I miss my mother, too. She used to sing to me at night when I couldn't sleep." He was fighting emotion, trying to keep from crying. "Did you cry when your mother died?"

"Yes. A lot."

"Men aren't supposed to cry."

"Maybe not, but we do it anyway, because it's a silly rule. Do you know who was kind to me and spent time with me when my mother died?" Kingsley shook his head, still sniffling. "Your father."

"He didn't tell you to be a stalwart man?"

"I don't know. He could have said most anything and I probably wouldn't have listened. I was too busy crying all over the place and my nose was running on his suit and everything." Houdini smiled when that made Kingsley laugh. "Your dad's a stalwart man, and he's still got a very kind heart underneath all that. And he misses your mother terribly. And he's had to learn how to do all the things your mother did for you and Mary. My mother was always the one who came when I had a nightmare or took care of me when I was sick. My father was a good man but he didn't know the first thing about doing any of that right. Your father's trying, and he's learning."

"When did you stop wanting to cry when you thought about your mother?"

"Hasn't happened yet. Sometimes I still cry because I just want her to be here," he said, his eyes filling up. "I miss her so much, and I keep hoping I'm going to wake up and that'll be the day when it doesn't hurt anymore."

"Me, too," Kingsley said, his voice barely a whisper. He got up and approached Harry and put his arms around his neck. Harry returned the hug, just holding on for a few seconds while they both stopped fighting their emotions. "Perhaps tomorrow will be better," Kingsley said.

"Maybe each day will be a little better, what do you think?" Harry asked, smiling as Kingsley moved back a bit.

"Perhaps," he agreed. "Mother used to sing beautifully."

"Your father's not much of a singer, huh?"

"No," he replied, smiling at the thought.

"I'm not too much of a singer, either. As a matter of fact, I'm so bad at it that your father made me promise never to sing to you or your sister." He smiled and Kingsley laughed.

"Was your mother ill a long time?"

"No. She died very suddenly," he said, swallowing hard. "I didn't have a chance to say goodbye, either."

"Father kept saying she would get better."

"He was hoping she would. He did everything he could to make her well." Harry sighed. "Come on, get into bed. Do you have a favorite story, something I can read to you?"

Kingsley got up and took a book from his shelf, handing it to Harry. "This one."

"Ah, Sherlock Holmes stories," he said, smiling. "Don't tell your father I said this, but they're my favorites, too," he added, and Kingsley smiled at that, climbing into bed. Harry sat next to him, against the headboard. He read to him for quite a while, even after Kingsley was sleeping soundly. Harry finally looked up and noticed Arthur standing there in the doorway, watching them.

"I think he's fast asleep," he whispered.

"I just wanted to know how the story turned out," Harry quipped, easing himself off the bed and setting the book aside. He pulled the door shut as quietly as he could. "You done with your notes?"

"For tonight. The words are starting to run together."

"Sounds like I should finish my massage, get you relaxed."

"If I relax much more, I'll be sleepwalking," he replied.

"Come on. It seems to be my job tonight to get the Doyle men tucked in."

"You're wonderful with the children," Arthur said as they went into the guest room, which Harry was trying not to think of as his room. After all, he'd be moving out soon. Arthur's words took him by surprise and made him smile.

"They're great kids."

"Touie was such a good mother to them. They take after her," he said.

"Mary's just like you," Harry said, guiding Arthur to sit on the bed, and settling on his knees behind him, resuming his massage.

"I think she resembles her mother."

"She has your hair and your eyes, and your personality."

"Kingsley wants to be a writer."

"And Mary wants to be a doctor. Sound like anyone else you know at that age?"

"I've always thought of them as resembling their mother."

"You probably see a lot of her in them, but I see you in them. Probably why I like spending time with them."

"Harry, I've been thinking," he said, catching Harry's hands and holding them. "You really don't want to move, do you?"

"I know I have to. I don't have to like it."

"What if you didn't?"

"Didn't move?"

"You're the one who told me that I had to stop worrying about what everyone was going to think about everything we did. That if I felt guilty about it or as if there was something wrong with it, that's what everyone else would think. Do you believe that?"

"I think it's a good way to draw suspicion to yourself...if you feel guilty, you look guilty."

"It might not be a permanent solution, but for now, our family has been through a loss, and you're here to offer moral support and the children love being around you... You haven't officially announced that you're moving to London, so we're offering you our hospitality while you're performing here."

"Except I'm not performing."

"Well, you likely will be soon, if your business manager is worth his salt."

"True," Houdini agreed, chuckling.

Arthur tightened his hold on Harry's hands, leaning back against him. "Live with me, Ehrich. We'll have to plan the future...determine how best to handle it, but your leaving is wrong, and I can't reconcile myself with it."

"Really?" Harry asked, swinging himself around somehow to land in Arthur's lap, arms around his neck. "You sure about this?"

"Yes, I'm sure," Arthur replied, kissing him. "When Touie fell ill...I didn't think I could ever be happy again. That I could ever...feel again. When you're with me...with the children...it's like a cloud being lifted that's been over our heads for so long. I know that probably doesn't make any sense."

"It makes sense." He smiled at Arthur. "Nobody's ever told me I dispelled clouds before."

"I'm sure you'll think of a way to work it into your act," he teased, kissing Harry's neck, ruffling his fingers through his curls.

"When you were shot, it was like the world stopped," Harry whispered in his ear. "Is it that bad for you when I do my act?"

"No, not that bad," Arthur said, caressing his cheek. "I know you have a way to get yourself out of whatever ridiculous thing you've done to yourself. Besides being an entertainer, you're very skilled at your craft."

"Because if it was, I couldn't do that to you all the time."

"I worry, but not as much as if you were critically injured or ill."

"Good. Because I do know what I'm doing."

"Maybe it bothers me more that other people are being entertained by the notion you might wind up killing yourself, and I find myself angry at the audience."

"I suppose I prefer to think of it as them rooting for me to overcome the danger, versus waiting to see me kill myself on stage," he said, laughing.

"Perhaps you have a less dismal view of human nature," Arthur said.

"I'm not unaware of the tendril of hope that lurks in most of my audience to be shocked or horrified by something. Otherwise, they wouldn't be watching a thrill act. But they do applaud when I get out alive, so I guess they're satisfied with that outcome, too." Harry sighed. "Longjohns again?"

"What do you think?" Arthur replied, chuckling.

"I have to tell you, Doc, it's a good thing that what's under there is worth the effort, because I can get a woman's corset undone faster than I can get those things off you."

"This from the world's greatest escape artist. Foiled by a suit of longjohns," he teased as Harry undid his tie and collar.

"I can free myself from a jail cell, too, but it doesn't mean I want to do that every time I take my lover to bed."

"Just think of it as keeping your skills sharpened. I can't make things too easy for you, or you'd lose interest without a bit of challenge."

"Nah, I wouldn't lose interest in you. You're enough of a puzzle with or without your underwear."

Several minutes and some fancy maneuvers later, they achieved the hard-won state of mutual nakedness and slipped under the covers.

"Do you know how to do it?" Harry asked. He hoped Arthur would know what he meant, because asking about it in so many words was a little embarrassing, even for him.

"I've never done it before, in there."

Well, at least they were both embarrassed. He had a doctor using terms like "in there" instead of being anatomically correct with his words.

"Neither have I. Not much reason to. You're the only man I've been with."

"Well, there's no natural lubrication, so we need something for that."

"Does it hurt a lot? I mean, I can handle pain, but I like to be prepared."

"Not very appealing if you have to brace yourself for pain."

"You can do it to me first. Besides, you're a doctor, so you'll probably know what you're doing more than I would."

"Oddly enough, they don't have a course on this in medical school." Arthur was quiet a moment. "Vaseline."

"That's what you use?"

"I understand it's very useful for...intimacy in some cases."

"You have some?"

"In the medicine cabinet, yes."

"I'll get it."

"Harry, wait." Arthur took hold of his arm. "When did we decide to do this now?"

"You don't want to do it?"

"Well, yes, but...it's a big step."

"You just told me I could stay here, that we were going to figure out a way to live together. That's a big occasion. I thought..."

"I don't want to hurt you and it's not fair of me to ask you to do something I'm not prepared to do myself."

"So you'd like to try it on me but you're not too convinced you want to be on the receiving end...pardon the pun?" Harry asked, grinning.

"Something like that. Shameful, isn't it?"

"You spend way too much time being ashamed of yourself for being human, Doc. Besides, you didn't ask, I offered."

"Just because you have a high tolerance for pain and you love me doesn't mean I should selfishly take advantage of you."

"You're assuming this is going to be some awful thing for me that's equivalent to a badly healed fracture. I mean, some men must like it or nobody would be doing it."

"Yes, I expect the men who are doing it to other men may be liking it. I'm just questioning how the men who are...receiving it are feeling about it."

"I'm thinking some of them must like it, too." He paused. "Is it me? Do you not want to do that with me? Because if you don't, you can tell me."

"No, Harry...no, it's not that at all. You're the only man on Earth I'd want to do this with."

"Let me go get the Vaseline. If we change our minds, we can go to sleep and forget it."

"I'm not too sure I can do that, either," Arthur admitted, glancing downward with a little flush of embarrassment.

"I'll be right back," Harry said, getting up and putting on his robe, then sneaking out to the bathroom for the little jar of Vaseline. He returned, grinning, holding his prize. He set it on the night stand and got back into bed.

"Is the door locked?"

"Oops," he replied, getting back up and locking the door. "Satisfied?"

"Not yet, but I hope to be soon."

"That's the spirit," Harry joked, wrapping his arms and one leg around Arthur, kissing him passionately, bringing their partial erections together.

He sensed a shift in Arthur's mood then, the way he responded, holding Harry close, returning his kisses, leaving him breathless before he began moving down his chin, lips and mustache making soft, feathery touches on his skin. Harry gasped when he felt the sharp contrast of suction over his nipple, but still the brush of Arthur's mustache on his chest. He'd have to tell him sometime how crazy that made him, that silky little touch, especially when it contrasted with such intense pleasure.

Arthur's mouth moved to its mate, lips, tongue, and mustache working it over the same way. And then he was moving again, kissing a path down to Harry's navel, tickling the soft skin of his stomach with that mustache. That devil...he knows...I don't have to tell him anything. Then he whispered in Harry's ear.

"Turn on your side, my love."

Harry followed the gentle directive, and he could hear Arthur opening the jar, and found himself wondering if this was such a great idea. After all, he couldn't even get it all in his mouth without choking. Arthur was nicely endowed, long and sturdy there like he was everywhere else.

A finger gently brushed over his opening, and he gasped, more startled that anything else.

"We can stop if you want," Arthur offered.

"No...just a little stage fright, I guess," he admitted.

"We're going very slowly. You only have to say the word for it to stop. You are the last person in this world I want to hurt," he whispered in Harry's ear, spooning around him, holding him close. He leaned back against Arthur, touching his cheek, angling his head back so they could kiss.

Harry wasn't sure what he thought of it when the first finger very gently breached his center. It was an odd sensation, but not altogether unpleasant. The time and attention Arthur was investing in this, the way he was touching him, the way he kissed his neck and shoulder and caressed his skin, the way his breathing was more rapid now...it was an incredible experience to be loved and desired that way. He'd had sex before, but he couldn't remember feeling so treasured and having someone put so much effort into his pleasure, into expressing their love in touches and kisses.

A soft moan escaped him as the finger inside moved a bit more aggressively, stretching him and letting him get used to the feeling. When it was withdrawn, he almost expected to feel Arthur trying to enter him. Instead he felt two fingers return with more of the Vaseline, easing infinitely more gently into him, slowly.

"Let me know if you like how this feels, my love," he whispered, right before his fingers found a spot inside that made Harry bury his face in the pillow and bite into it to avoid letting out a scream that would have carried throughout the house and halfway down the street.

"Oh, my God," he gasped, breathing hard. "Do it again," he said, as soon as he'd recovered. "Why didn't you tell me about that?"

"I wasn't sure that you'd like it. I wasn't sure it would be good at all."

"You're a doctor."

"I know your prostate is there but I wasn't sure what you'd think of it."

"Now we know why men like it. Just do it again!"

"Your wish is my command, Mr. Houdini," Arthur teased, kissing the back of his neck as he repeated the motion that had sent him into such throes of pleasure.

"You might want to get in there before you do that many more times."

"All right, now I need you to remain calm," Arthur said. Something in the dire tone of his voice amused Harry to no end. It was clear that Arthur was far more nervous than he was.

"I'll try," he replied, looking over his shoulder at Arthur.

"Now you're being facetious."

"Sorry, Doc. I'm calm. I trust you."

"Good," he replied, hugging Harry against him, kissing his shoulder. "I'm serious...breathe in and out, slowly and deeply, and relax."

Harry felt Arthur pressing against his center, and then pushing past the entrance carefully. He tried taking in a deep breath and gripping the sheets, but he couldn't stifle a groan of pain.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't give up, just wait a minute."

"You're in pain."

"It's okay. I'll be okay. Just wait."

Arthur began stroking him, working at bringing his erection back to full hardness. The pleasure was a good distraction and it relaxed him enough that Arthur could move forward slowly, gently, until they were fully joined. He sighed against Harry's neck, rubbing his cheek against his curls, whispering in his ear.

"I love you, Ehrich."

"You love that guy, the one nobody knows who's not famous?"

"The man you are under all the facades, yes. He is the one I see in your eyes when you look at me. When you look at my children."

"He's been in love with you for a while now."

Arthur ran his hand down Harry's side, over his hip and down his thigh. He began moving slowly while he stroked Harry's erection at the same time. Harry was relaxing, his little moans and gasps expressing pleasure now. It still felt like a bit of a strain, but the pressure on his prostate and the motion felt good, too, and Arthur's hand around his cock, soft lips and the tickle of his mustache on Harry's skin, and the knowledge of how much he was loved made the strain seem minimal.

He felt his climax coming, and as he buried his face in the pillow to muffle his cry of pleasure, he felt Arthur coming inside him, hearing him struggle to reduce his own response to a muffled growl against Harry's neck. He couldn't silence a little grunt of pain when Arthur eased out of him.

"Are you hurt?" he asked, sounding troubled. Harry turned over and wrapped his arms around his lover, resting his head against Arthur's chest.

"No, I'll be fine. Just stay with me a while, okay?"

"Of course. I want that as much as you do," he replied, holding Harry close. "Are you sure you're all right? I just want to be sure you're not giving me the stage answer." That made Harry smile and give him a squeeze.

"I'll never give you a stage answer, Doc. I promise."

"Good," he replied, slipping his hand in Harry's curls. "You gave me a reason to be happy again, my love."

"You gave me a place to come home to," Harry said, closing his eyes, not letting go of Arthur.
The gentle motion of Arthur's fingers in his hair and the beating of his heart lulled Harry into a happy, sleepy haze.

********

One of the hardest things Arthur ever had to do was force himself to leave Harry’s bed as the first gray signs of dawn appeared at the windows. Still, if they were going to find a way to make this arrangement work, they couldn’t be seen coming and going from each other’s bedrooms on a regular basis. He’d managed to ease himself out of Harry’s arms, making him stir and mumble in his sleep, and slip back to his own bedroom before anyone else in the household was up and about.

He used the pitcher and basin on the dresser to freshen up a bit, and he planned to rest a while before beginning his morning routine. He smiled when he heard someone slipping into the bathroom and then the sound of the pipes. Harry was most likely feeling in need of a bath by then, and Arthur’s movements no doubt disturbed him. It took all of his will to remain in his room when all he wanted to do was join Harry in the tub, run wet, soapy hands over his skin, play with those ridiculous curls of his when they were even more untamed and shameless than they usually were, and be sure he was all right after what they’d done the night before. He would be sore, there was no avoiding that, and it made Arthur feel like a cad to have done that to him and then left him.

He must have dozed a while, because when he opened his eyes he was lying atop his still-made bed and sunshine was streaming in the windows.

“Oh, dear,” he muttered, looking at the clock, seeing it was already eight. They were going to assess the safety of the trip out to the Cooke estate, and knowing Adelaide, she was already at Scotland Yard, growing impatient as the morning wore on, waiting for her two associates to arrive.

He bathed, dressed, and took care of his grooming rituals. He noticed the door to Harry’s room was ajar, so he poked his head in to say good morning, but found the room empty. Figuring Harry was downstairs already, he went down himself, looking forward to seeing his lover and hoping his expression didn’t completely betray his feelings. The children would be on their way to school by now; perhaps Harry had shared breakfast with them while Arthur was unintentionally sleeping in upstairs.

Vera was clearing away breakfast dishes in an empty dining room.

“Good morning, Vera. I see I’ve managed to miss breakfast,” he said, smiling, a bit embarrassed.

“Good morning, Dr. Doyle. The children are on their way to school. I’ll fix you something hot. The newspaper is at your place.”

“Thank you, Vera. Where is Mr. Houdini?”

“I don’t know, sir. I thought he was still sleeping.”

“He hasn’t been down this morning?”

“No, I haven’t seen him, sir.”

“But he’s not in his room.”

She looked puzzled, as if she wasn’t sure what he expected her to do about that situation. It was odd Houdini would get up so early and be out wandering about without having breakfast.

“Perhaps he went for a walk. It’s a lovely morning,” Arthur said, smiling, hoping to dispel the notion that he was overly concerned with Houdini’s habits or whereabouts. He sat at the table and opened the newspaper, though he was still unsettled by his friend’s absence.

“I’m sure he’ll turn up, sir,” she said, heading back to the kitchen.

Only Harry didn’t turn up. When ten o’clock rolled around and Arthur was still alone in his study, having finished breakfast and remained calm as long as possible, he finally went up to Harry’s room to have a look around. The bed was made, the Vaseline was nowhere to be seen, which made Arthur panic momentarily until he remembered that he was involved with a master illusionist, after all. It was likely Harry would be keenly aware of telltale signs that would give them away, and would be expert at making them “disappear”.

“Oh, Dr. Doyle,” Vera said, startled, placing one hand over her chest, holding fresh towels in the other arm as she entered the room. “I was just going to leave Mr. Houdini some towels. Such a considerate guest, already had the bed made and everything tidy this morning.” She set the towels on the foot of the bed.

“Yes, he is... If Mr. Houdini should come in, would you tell him I’ve gone to Scotland Yard to meet with Constable Stratton?”

“Yes, of course,” she replied, smiling, going to the children’s rooms to make them up for the day.

********

“There you are,” Adelaide said as he approached her desk. “I just called your house and Vera said you were on your way.”

“I can’t find Harry. Has he been here this morning?”

“No, I thought he would be arriving with you.”

“I haven’t seen him for hours. That is, I believe I heard him moving about around dawn, but he was gone before I arose.”

“I imagined that Houdini is usually going to bed about that time, rather than rising,” she quipped.

“I’m sure when he’s performing, that’s probably true. There’s no sign of him at the house, and he doesn’t have other lodgings, so I’m not sure where he would go. He knew we were planning to investigate the route to the Cooke estate this morning, so I can’t imagine why he would set off on some outing without leaving a note.”

“Should we contact his business manager? Might he know something we don’t?”

“He wouldn’t have left in such a manner,” Doyle repeated, sitting in the visitor’s chair next to Adelaide’s desk. “Something’s wrong.”

“You heard him up and about at dawn, so he’s only been missing a few hours then?”

“Almost five hours,” he said, knowing it sounded obsessive, but finding himself unable to care how it sounded. He was worried, and he knew Harry wouldn’t take off without saying a word. Not after what they’d shared the night before. “I know it sounds peculiar, but there’s no reason for him to disappear this way. He usually has breakfast with the children and myself in the morning, unless he’s sleeping in, in which case he would be in his room.”

“He seems very content there. I’m afraid you have a long-term guest on your hands,” she said, smiling. He wished he could muster the banter to joke about it, as if that wasn’t his dearest wish, to always have Harry in his home, at his table, and in his bed.

“The children love having him there. He’s been a great comfort to us since Touie’s passing,” Arthur said, not sure how else to phrase it. He’s given me back a joy and a purpose, a reason to be happy again. He makes my children laugh and he loves me with a kind of selflessness I likely don’t deserve.

“I think the feeling is mutual. His mother’s death was very difficult for him, and it doesn’t seem as if his family in New York is any source of comfort, so I’m sure he’s been happy to be among friends here instead of on his own. I think he still misses her terribly.”

“He does,” Arthur said. “What if his disappearance is linked to this case?”

“Well, if it is, we’d better follow the leads we have. I’ll write up a missing persons report on Houdini and then we should continue with our investigation, because unless we receive some other information, we really have no other direction in which to look for him.”

The main road leading toward the Cooke estate was passable, though muddy and marred with puddles. The carriage ride was anything but pleasant. At a point, the coachman stopped altogether. Adelaide and Arthur both got out of the coach. The crossroad, the one leading to the estate, was in such deplorable condition, semi-flooded, that it was unlikely the coach would be able to make the trip safely.

Arthur walked across the grassy field for a bit, scanning the horizon.

“I’ll make the journey on horseback,” he said.

“If the road is not passable, you’re liable to encounter some dangerous terrain traveling across the fields,” Adelaide said.

“If they have Harry, we don’t have time to wait for the water to recede. Tonight is Halloween...the Feast of Samhain. What more perfect human sacrifice for Abigail and her cronies than the man who was constantly trying to discredit her?”

“What if we’re wrong? All we know is that Alistair Cooke ordered a large amount of ice. For all we know, he hosted another fox hunt and needed to preserve food and chill beverages.”

“What else do we have? Look, you have Scotland Yard at your disposal to look for Harry back in town, and if he turns up, then you’ll know I was wrong, and the most I’ll have to do is ask Alistair what he was using the ice for. If he has nothing to hide, he’ll have no objection letting me look around the place for old time’s sake.”

“If they’re a murderous cult planning a human sacrifice, you may never be heard from again. You can’t do this alone. I’m coming with you.”

“That would be insane. I can’t allow it.”

“Excuse me? I don’t recall asking your permission, and I believe you’re losing sight of which one of us is the constable here. It was not a question. I’m coming with you. We’ll return to town, inform Merring of the status of our situation so the authorities are aware of where we are and what we’re doing, and then we’ll set out on horseback to reach the estate. If he is agreeable, we’ll bring additional constables on the trip in the event we find ourselves in a dangerous situation.”

“You said yourself the terrain may not be safe.”

“And you believe I find it acceptable to let our friend die at their hands to avoid a rough ride across a wet field? I am a very capable horsewoman, thank you. I’m sure I can handle it.”

“There’s nothing I can say to dissuade you, then?”

“Not a thing,” she said decisively, climbing back in the carriage. “You’re fortunate that I’m allowing you to participate in what could be a very dangerous situation for a civilian.”

********

Harry opened his eyes, regretting that as the pain flared in his head. The last thing he remembered was stepping outside at Arthur’s house for a breath of fresh air. Looking around, it was clear he was not in a good situation. The first thing that was not in his favor was the fact he was obviously in a subterranean chamber where it was damp and cold, and the second drawback was that he was clad only in his shorts. Arthur would never let him live that down, now having lifetime proof to cite each time he extolled the virtues of modest underwear.

He supposed his captors might have wanted to humiliate him or make him uncomfortable in the cold environment, but there was something else: all the little tricks and tools he might use to pick a lock or make an impromptu escape were in his clothes. He made a mental note to put some kind of lock pick device in the waistband of his shorts from now on, assuming he got out of whatever this was alive and had the opportunity.

The walls were made of stone, the only light filtering in was coming through a metal grate on an opening too far above ground to do him any good. The lone door was wood, but it was reinforced with metal bands and if there was a lock, it wasn’t visible on the inside. It was a fairly effective trap for an escape artist. They hadn’t bothered to put any restraints on him, so he couldn’t escape from ropes and then use them to get up to the metal grate. Assuming, of course, it had any play in it or could be pried out of solid stone.

It was a large room, but it was completely barren. Just cold stone, the grate, and a single door. He ran his hands over the wood of the door, probed the metal bands, searching for any signs of vulnerability. He even tried throwing himself against it where he thought ordinary pressure points should be, but all that achieved was bruising and scraping his shoulders. At least the activity warmed him up a little, if only momentarily.

Sighing, he leaned against the wall, then moved away from it as the coldness of it chilled his back. He finally sat on the floor, knees drawn up, trying to hug himself against the temperature. He hoped he was at the Cooke estate; at least that way there was a fighting chance that Arthur and Adelaide would look for him there. He regretted the fact he was going to have to disappoint Mary and Kingsley. As dismal as their worlds had been lately, they were looking forward to the impromptu Halloween show he had agreed to put on for them and their friends at the Doyle home that night. Vera was planning to make quite an array of treats for the occasion, because she suspected all the children’s parents would also find reasons to be there as well. It wasn’t every day the famous Harry Houdini put on a show in someone’s parlor on Halloween.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t think of a single trick to get himself out of his predicament.

********

Arthur had led the small group of four across the fields in the direction of the Cooke estate. His traveling companions were Adelaide and the two young constables she had been responsible for training. Both of the young men were competent riders and seemed to be fit and physically strong, so they were good additions to the trip.

There were signs that other horses and a carriage or cart had made a similar trip earlier that day, and at a point, those tracks veered off toward the trees.

“There’s a shortcut through the woods. It appears that’s the route they took.”

“A shortcut through the woods? If the roads aren’t safe, how can we be sure that route is?” Adelaide asked as they paused on horseback near the trees.

“Higher ground. Most of this terrain is higher than the roadways, so it isn’t as likely to flood. It’s getting late, and if we hope to reach the estate before dark, we need to cut some time off this journey. This route is faster. The path is narrow, so you’ll have to ride with caution, keep an eye out for branches and other obstacles.”

Despite his warning, Doyle took off among the trees at a somewhat maniacal speed, his traveling companions struggling to keep up and avoid the gnarled claws of the old trees that reached out over the path, causing them to duck and weave. Adelaide would have never suspected that Doyle would ride like a man possessed and manage to stay on his horse while doing so. His quest to rescue Harry from whatever danger he might be in was driving him with a passion uncharacteristic of the reserved gentleman whose calm veneer Adelaide rarely saw ruffled.

********

Chapter Text

Harry wasn’t sure how long he’d been sitting in that shadowy cave, shivering, but it had grown dark in the meantime. No daylight came in through the grate, and it was nearly pitch dark in the room when the door opened, and three figures in dark hooded robes carrying lanterns entered. A fourth followed them, holding a small bundle, with a knife poised near it. In a horrifying instant, Harry realized it was a baby, as the bundle started to wiggle and a few discontented sounds came from it.

“Well, this is theatrical,” he said sarcastically.

“Put this on,” a man’s voice ordered, throwing a white robe in his direction. The voice was deep, with a British accent, so obviously someone from the region. Three of the figures were tall, the fourth, holding the child, was a bit smaller and shorter, as if it might be female. The hand that held the knife looked more like a woman’s hand, though it was hard to tell in the shadows.

“Thanks, but I don’t wear dresses.”

“Let us get one issue resolved now,” the voice said. “You will do as you’re told, because if you do not, we will cut the child each time you refuse. Now, take off your underwear and put on the robe.

“What? Why? What kind of sick games are you playing, anyway?”

The man who had been speaking gestured with his hand, and the figure holding the baby moved the knife as if to cut it.

“No, wait! You seriously are going to cut a baby to make me do what you want?”

“You can call our bluff if you like,” the man said, crossing his arms over his chest. “If you are confident enough to risk the child.”

“Fine,” he retorted, stepping out of his shorts and putting on the white robe. At least it was warmer, and he tried to focus on that instead of why they wanted him to take his underwear off. Hopefully it was just a sick scare tactic, or maybe they liked their human sacrifices naked.

“Come with us, and remember, if you run or resist, or try to overpower us, the child will suffer for your actions. If you should escape, I will slit her throat myself. Is that understood?”

“Yes, you made your point,” Harry retorted, falling into step with them as they led him out of the room and up stone steps into what was obviously a mausoleum. There were two slabs next to each other in the main room, surrounded by crypts in the walls containing the remains of the dead members of the Cooke family, based on the inscriptions on them he could just make out in the light of all the candles burning. Several other people in hooded robes were waiting for them in that chamber. On a black clothed table near one of the slabs was a series of ornate daggers. Not a good sign for the guy in the white dress, Harry thought, trying not to let fear overtake him. There had to be a way out of this.
There are several ways out, if you don’t mind risking them murdering an innocent baby in retaliation for you taking one of those options...

“It seems appropriate that since you spent so much time and effort tying to discredit Abigail Harrington, you should serve as the offering to facilitate her resurrection,” their spokesman said. Four more members of the group came in then, carrying a coffin, which they placed near one of the slabs. After removing the lid, they lifted the corpse out of it and laid it on the slab. Abigail Harrington looked a bit the worse for wear after having been dead a few weeks, but the ice had obviously slowed the decay process enough that she was still marginally recognizable, if not pleasant to look at. She was dressed in a black robe like her cronies, only the hood was left down so her gray, dead face was visible.

“You seriously think that anything you do to me is going to resurrect her? I hate to break this to you, but if you keep moving her around, her limbs are going to fall off. She’s not going anywhere, and now that she’s not on ice, she’s not going to hold together very well.”

He felt pain explode across his back, enough to drive him to his knees, and then it was there again, and again...someone was hitting him with something. When he could risk looking and was no longer curling in on himself to avoid a stray blow hitting his head or face, he could see a heavy black leather strap hanging at the side of one of the figures behind him.

“Your arrogance and insolence will not be tolerated here. You will learn respect.”

“For a bunch of sickos in black dresses? I don’t think so.” He wasn’t even surprised to be hit again, but there was no way he was groveling to these people or “respecting” them if they beat him to death over it. Besides, if they wasted him on that, they’d have nothing left to sacrifice, and it seemed the baby wasn’t part of their ceremonial plans other than as a means to control him.

When the next blow came, he balled his fists and resolved he wouldn’t make a sound. They weren’t going to have the fun of making him cry out or beg, or express anything at all. His pain was his own, and it was none of their business. After all, he was an expert at hiding pain and overcoming it. Only to Arthur did he occasionally reveal his true feelings, and sometimes seek comfort from pain both physical and emotional.

"Enough," the leader said, "I think we've convinced Mr. Houdini of the wisdom of silence for the now. Stand up," he said, gesturing at Harry. He hesitated, then complied largely because he had no desire to be kept on his knees before these freaks. "You slandered our leader, spread vicious lies about her, but she will be vindicated. Tonight, on the Feast of Samhain, she will rise again. The spilling of your blood will restore her."

********

It was dusk when the group arrived on horseback a distance from the main gates leading to the Cooke estate.

"Something's wrong here," Doyle said, bringing his horse to a stop as Adelaide stopped next to him. "It's pitch dark. There's not a single light in the main house."

"We should leave the horses out here, go in on foot," Adelaide suggested. "If we come charging in there with lanterns and something is going on, it's not likely to go well for us, or Harry if he’s being held here."

"I agree. There's a back gate. Even if it's locked, there is place there where the ground is higher and it will be easier if we have to get over the wall." Doyle led the way to the area of the property he was describing, and they tied the horses to nearby trees. Adelaide knew Doyle had a hunting rifle with him, but now she noticed he also had a pistol in his belt and a hunting knife sheathed there as well.

"You're very well armed, Dr. Doyle," she said.

"I am not leaving without Harry, and we have no idea how many people are involved."

"Then may I make a suggestion? Hide the knife in your riding boot. If they disarm you, they won't necessarily think to look there."

"Ah, excellent idea," he agreed, moving the knife to that spot.

"That's where I'm carrying mine," she said, smiling, somewhat enjoying the surprised look on his face. "I'm not giving up easily either," she added. "Simmons and Morrison are armed with pistols as well," she said of the two young constables accompanying them. "Both of them have excellent marksmanship."

The group stealthily climbed over the wall onto the property. Lanterns in hand, they made their way through woods and underbrush until they came near a clearing where the family mausoleum was visible. A soft glow of light came from the building's stained glass windows.

"I think we've found them," Doyle said.

"Dr. Doyle, I have to ask...if we are outnumbered and it becomes necessary, are you prepared to take someone's life? Because it could come to that and it's best to think about it now."

"I'm prepared to do whatever has to be done to get Harry out of there alive. In wartime, one does what one has to do."

********

Harry wasn't sure if, even without the added threat to the child keeping him in line, he could have escaped his bonds. His wrists and ankles were bound tightly with ropes to the four corners of the slab, the ropes attached to metal rings affixed somehow to the slab. The incense was heavy in the air as the group continued low, rhythmic chanting. He occasionally stole a glance over at the corpse on the other slab. He didn't really expect to see anything more than just a dead body lying there, but the dim, candle lit atmosphere and the continuous summoning of evil entities blended with the incense-heavy air were enough to make one's imagination create things that weren't there. Like the illusion that the dead woman's chest was beginning to rise and fall with breath, even when he knew that was a trick of the lighting.

The searing pain in his wrist was a shock. The bindings hurt more than they should have because they were putting pressure on the newly healed cuts there, but the sudden pain made him cry out even when he'd worked so hard not to give them any reaction. Then he realized they were draining the wound into a chalice, the main celebrant in the blasphemous ceremony then raising it and chanting more, as if to seek the blessing of some horrible higher power.

Always in the corner of his eye was the robed figure holding the baby, the blade of the knife kept near her tiny neck catching the candlelight.

********

The cry of pain froze all of them in their tracks, and sliced into Arthur's soul like a knife. It was Harry's voice, surprised, raw, visceral.

"We have to remain calm," Adelaide whispered. "At least we know he's alive," she added.

"Or he was a moment ago," Arthur muttered, more to himself than to her. Whoever had made Harry make that sound, was going to suffer at his hands.

They continued their careful, silent entry through the main door of the mausoleum. Deep inside the pitch dark building was the faint glow of candles, an odd scent in the air that was a mixture of death and incense, and the low hum of chanting.

********

Harry felt his stomach flip as he watched the man holding the chalice pause, and then drink from it. He passed it to the figures on either side, as they all did the same. It wasn't that Harry didn't know their ultimate plan was to kill him, that he was going to be the human sacrifice for that night. Watching it begin was more horrifying than he'd expected. Watching someone drain and then drink his blood was like watching yourself being mauled and...consumed in the midst of overwhelming evil.

The figure performing the ceremony was handed one of the daggers by the figure to his left. He fought to see beneath the hoods, into the shadows there, to see faces. He wasn't sure why it mattered, because if he wasn't rescued then and there, he was going to be dead when he was found. What he saw would mean nothing. Maybe it was a need to know that these beings were humans, even if it was a loose use of the term, and not some kind of monsters, even though he knew there was nothing supernatural about them. Logic was slipping away as the fear of a horrible death was taking over.

The hand that held the dagger was large and strong, pale-skinned, with a heavy ring on its ring finger. He braced himself when the knife hovered over his chest, and then it was slowly, methodically slicing the fabric of the robe he wore, moving from the neck of it nearly to his groin. Setting the dagger aside, long fingers returned and laid open the robe, exposing his chest and stomach.

It was getting harder and harder not to give them a reaction. He was terrified, he didn't want to die, and he didn't want to feel the pain of that knife slicing into his flesh. He didn't want these freaks frolicking in his blood, celebrating his death, using it to resurrect that smelly pile of decaying flesh on the other slab. Not that he really believed she was going to get up...not really.

Please, Arthur...help me...I don't want to die like this.

I love you.

Ma, where are you? If I have to die, please come and get me. I don't want to die alone with these maniacs playing in my blood. Ma, I need you, please...

The man raised the dagger high above him, the chanting reaching a fever pitch. The echoing noise and burst of warm blood was a shock, especially because he thought it was his own, until the man with the knife dropped it and fell forward, across Harry's body. There were more of the deafening, booming sounds and the robed figures scattering, some dropping, as he frantically searched to find the one holding the baby, but he could no longer see that figure out of the corner of his eye.

"Harry!"

It was Arthur's voice. He hadn't dared hope he was going to be really saved, and now, here he was. The person he wanted most in the world to see one last time before he died. But now it wasn't likely he was going to die...but he was going to see Arthur.

"Arthur," he gasped his voice coming out hushed and strained. And then he saw Arthur's face over him, felt his hand on the side of his face, reassuring him before he tossed aside the dead man lying across him as if he were a useless rag doll.

"It's over now," he said, reaching for the restraints, slicing them with a large hunting knife.

"The baby's alive–it must be the one from the orphanage. They have her. One of them was holding her," he said, wanting to just succumb to the relief of not being killed, to soak up Arthur's presence, but there was still an innocent child at risk.

"Stay with him!" Adelaide's voice caught his attention. "We don't know where they all went. We'll go after the child."

"You brought reinforcements, huh?" Harry asked Arthur, needing a little levity in the middle of all this horror, and knowing Arthur needed to know he was essentially all right, or at least he would be.

Arthur had freed both his ankles and his newly wounded wrist, and finally cut the last rope, freeing his other arm. He took off his overcoat and wrapped it around Harry, sitting on the slab and pulling him close. It was warm and safe against Arthur, the familiar feeling of his arms, the beating of his heart, albeit rapid, and gentle fingers slipping into his hair, stroking it and holding his head against Arthur's shoulder all reassuring him that he was safe, alive, and he was going to stay that way.

He was shaking from cold and fear, but he wasn't seriously hurt, and there was a child still in danger.

"Come on, I'm all right. We have to go after the baby, help Adelaide."

"She has constables with her," Arthur said, pressing an almost desperate kiss against the side of his head in that brief moment they were alone. "I thought I'd lost you."

"You didn't. You're not going to, but we have to go. I mean it, I'm all right. Come on," he urged, forcing himself to pull away. Arthur wrapped a handkerchief around Harry's bleeding wrist and helped him stand. Harry quickly buttoned a couple buttons on the front of Arthur's coat, and they followed the path the retreating Satanists had taken, pursued by Adelaide and the two constables.

They could hear Adelaide's voice as she negotiated with someone. There, near a tree, a short distance from the mausoleum, a woman stood with her hood down, holding the baby, knife still hovering near the baby's throat.

“That’s the missing medium,” Arthur whispered to Harry.

“Guess she’s not a victim,” Harry replied. “Big surprise. Birds of a feather.”

"You don't need to hurt the child," Adelaide said, but her gun was aimed directly at the woman, as were those of the two constables, one on either side of Adelaide.

"She's right," Harry called out. "I'll trade myself for the child," he said. "If you don't harm the baby, you can still finish the sacrifice to resurrect Abigail."

"Why should I trust you?" she demanded. "If I hand over the baby, they'll kill me," she shouted.

"You have a knife. I'm going to move close to you, and you're going to hand me the baby, but you can put the knife to my throat instead."

"Are you insane?" Arthur demanded, looking horrified.

"I can move, the baby can't," he whispered. "You're a good shot, right? You already saved me once tonight."

"You want me to believe you're going to let me kill you?" she asked, unbelieving.

"Look, you know I'm not armed. We want to save the child," he said, moving closer, keeping his hands up. "Without me, you're not going to resurrect Abigail. You need me. That child isn't the sacrifice. I am. The clock's ticking and the festival will be over soon, and then Abigail will be dead for good."

"No sudden moves," she said, keeping the knife trained on the baby.

"I'm just going to approach you, and then I'll kneel and take the child, and you can put the knife at my throat."

"Why would you do that?"

"For the baby. She's innocent, and killing her is pointless. At least this way, I can save her, and you can accomplish what you set out to do."

Adelaide and the two constables still had their guns trained on the woman, and she was watching them much more closely than she was watching Arthur. Harry was counting on that as he approached her. He took off Arthur's coat, hoping she would be even more distracted by the sight of him in the white robe, blood spattered on him that was not his own. It seemed to be working, because she appeared riveted watching him move toward her. He knelt on the ground, and was somewhat surprised when she did exactly what he'd asked her to do, and placed the baby in his arms. The child was restless now, crying and fussing, wiggling about. He didn't have long to focus on that, because he soon felt the knife at his throat, and he lurched to one side, shielding the baby with his body.

The knife nicked him just slightly as he moved and then shots rang out. The knife fell to the ground, an instant before the woman herself did. The baby was screaming and crying, but very much alive, as he handed her to one of the constables while Adelaide checked the fallen woman for a pulse. It was unlikely she'd have one, as she'd been hit by bullets from at least three or four guns. Arthur and all three of the Scotland Yard officers had fired on her the instant she put the knife near Harry's throat.

Arthur helped Harry stand, and to his surprise, hugged him close, wrapping the coat around him again, not seeming to care what Adelaide or her colleagues made of it.

"I'm taking you home, Ehrich," Arthur whispered in Harry's ear.

********

Arthur tried to muster some kind of remorse for having opened fire on Harry’s captors, but even as he realized two were dead and two more were critically wounded by shots he’d fired, he didn’t care. Adelaide and her associates had killed one and wounded three more, not including the medium holding the baby. Alistair Cooke was among the dead, so Adelaide and her colleagues searched the house itself, and determined it made more sense to return with reinforcements in the full light of day. There were only a few of the cult members still at large, and finding them lurking in the dark woods around the estate in the first gray light of dawn would be next to impossible.

Arthur helped Harry up on his horse and then mounted the horse with him. He was glad their situation required physical closeness, because Harry was leaning into him, still shivering slightly, as if he were exhausted by the whole ordeal. He was oddly silent during the trip back to town, though his arms were fastened quite securely around Arthur’s middle. Arthur wasn’t sure if that was love or inexperience with being on a horse. He realized then he didn’t know Harry very well at all. He didn’t know if he was experienced with horses, what he liked to do for pleasure – well, aside from the obvious – and what his life experiences had been. They had so much to learn about each other, and he thanked God that he was going to have that chance. Harry had called him a puzzle, but he had the feeling it was going to take him a lifetime to sort out all the pieces that added up to Harry Houdini. No, that wasn’t right. He knew who Harry Houdini was. It was Ehrich Weiss he wanted to know, the real man that lived quietly under the bombastic celebrity that kept him safe.

********

When they walked into the Doyle house, Arthur was glad Harry was still wearing his coat to cover up the bizarre robe he was wearing and the bloodstains, because Mary and Kingsley rushed downstairs faster than they had for dinner that night when Harry had urged them to abandon their manners. They greeted Arthur excitedly first, hugging him, and then moved on to Harry, who was almost bowled over, but visibly pleased to be hugged from both sides as the children told him they’d been worried, that they thought he’d met a bad end. And the phrase that seemed to rattle his control of his emotions the most: that they were glad their father had brought him home, safe.

Vera hurried into the entry hall, looking flustered, nightgown, shawl, and cap in place.

“I’m so sorry, sir. I’ve been trying to get them to stay in bed all night,” she said. "A reporter was here earlier, asking if Mr. Houdini was missing, and the children have been worried ever since. I told them I was sure you'd bring him home safe and sound," she added.

“Your dad always comes through, kids," Harry said, smiling. "I bet you’re tired now,” he added, keeping an arm around each child, since neither of them had made a move to leave his side. "I know I am."

“Were you kidnaped?” Kingsley asked.

“Was it the body snatchers?” Mary chimed in.

“Yes, and yes,” he replied, earning an eye roll from Arthur, and wide-eyed fascination from the children. “But your father showed up and rescued me and helped Constable Stratton put all the bad guys in jail.” It was a gross oversimplification, but Arthur appreciated the credit nonetheless, and sparing the children the gruesome details, which they would have no doubt loved to hear and then been up all night with nightmares.

“Father did that?” Kingsley asked.

“Don’t let your father fool you. He’s pretty formidable when he’s out for justice.”

“Oh, but you have to tell us the whole story,” Mary insisted.

“I’m sure Mr. Houdini is a bit tired for that just now, children. As I am sure you are. If you go up to bed now and get some rest, I’ll excuse you from school for today.”

“But you will tell us what happened?” Kingsley persisted.

“Later, I promise,” Harry said, ruffling the boy’s hair.

After they’d gone upstairs, Vera paused before returning to her quarters.

“Is there anything I can get for you? You must both be hungry after your...ordeal,” she concluded.

“Actually, I am,” Harry admitted.

“I can prepare you a hot breakfast. You’ll feel much better after you’ve eaten,” she insisted, heading for the kitchen.

“She knows,” Harry said.

“Knows what?”

“What do you think?”

“I hardly think that would be her reaction if she knew what it is I think you’re implying that she knows. ‘You’re fornicating with the master of the house, how lovely, let me fry you some eggs’?”

“You worry too much, Doc. Fornicating? Really? Is that what you call it?”

“I’m saying that’s what those who would consider it sinful and depraved would call it.”

“Maybe Vera isn’t as uptight as you think she is.”

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t clarify that with her.”

“Fine. It would just be a big relief if she knew and didn’t care and I didn’t have to hide the Vaseline every morning.”

“Every morning?” Arthur asked, smiling.

“Okay, so not every morning. Don’t get greedy. I still have to be able to walk straight to do my act,” he added, loving the way Arthur looked horrified and blushed into his hairline.

“Good God, man, you have no shame.”

They ate the breakfast Vera prepared, and Arthur was glad Harry had a hearty appetite. He’d been without food almost 24 hours, and now that the fear was subsiding and he was safe, it made sense he’d be hungry. Still, it was a relief when breakfast was over and they could go upstairs for a little time alone. Arthur had the pretext of checking and tending to any injuries Harry might have, and he was too tired and too glad Harry was home, safe, to worry as much as he probably should about what Vera did or didn’t know.

“I’m going to run a hot bath for you,” he said, steering Harry into the bathroom and closing the door behind them.

“Okay,” he agreed, sitting on a small vanity chair in the bathroom, watching Arthur go about preparing the bath for him. He was exhausted now, his body aching, the welts on his back burning and throbbing. Arthur seemed to pick up on his slumped shoulders and silence. He was so tired...

Arthur dispensed with his suit coat and rolled up his sleeves, starting the water and gathering towels and supplies. Harry watched him, both touched and amused by how carefully he tested the temperature of the water in the tub.

“All right, I think we can remove the overcoat now,” he teased. Harry stood and Arthur helped him out of the coat. He was more than happy to strip off the white robe underneath it, balling it up and throwing it in the corner. “Dear God,” Arthur muttered, moving behind him. He’d forgotten that Arthur didn’t know about the beating he’d taken.

“They didn’t like my attitude,” he said, trying to keep his tone light, but he flinched at even the light touch of Arthur’s finger on one of the marks.

“Hot water may aggravate these. I’ll drain the tub a bit.” The fact he didn’t say anything else about it told Harry how upset he was. His face was somber, stiff, his movements almost mechanical. “In you go,” he said, hovering nearby in case Harry felt unsteady. He did, but he managed to get in the tub and lower himself into the warm water. He was glad it didn’t reach the welts; Arthur was probably right that it would sting.

Arthur gently unwrapped his newly cut wrist and carefully washed the dried blood from it, wrapping the cleaned wound in a fresh bandage. “You should keep that out of the water,” he said.

“Okay.” Harry let him go on with the task of bathing him, knowing he should do it himself, but it felt so good when Arthur did it.

“Why did they cut your wrist?” he asked. Harry didn’t want to tell him.

“Does it matter? I’m just glad to be out of there alive.”

“It matters to me,” he stated firmly, washing and inspecting the soles of Harry’s feet, since he’d been trudging around the grounds of the estate barefoot. Adelaide had actually lifted a pair of shoes from the main house so he didn’t have to travel back to the city in that condition.

“You don’t want to hear this, Arthur,” he said softly.

“If I didn’t want to hear it, I wouldn’t have asked,” he replied, then he sighed, looking away. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be cross with you.”

“The guy you shot...the first one you shot, who was going to stab me? He drained the blood into a chalice. I was a human sacrifice, remember? Nothing that was going on there was going to be pleasant.”

“They drank your blood, is that what you’re saying?”

“It was a little weird for me, too,” he admitted.

“I only regret I wasn’t able to shoot all of them,” Arthur said. “There’s blood in your hair,” he said, feeling around until he found the lump. “How is your vision?” he asked, holding two fingers up and moving them back and forth in front of Harry’s eyes. “How many fingers do you see?”

“Six,” Harry said, and then he grinned at Arthur.

“Very funny,” Arthur replied, but he smiled anyway. “I’m afraid I’ll have to wash your hair.”

“You’re afraid? They’re just curls, Doc, they don’t bite. I have a tonic I can put through my hair that will keep it from...exploding when it dries,” he said. He thought he could almost see Arthur’s relief at that.

Long, gentle fingers massaged his scalp, washing away the dried blood. Some of it was his from the blow to his head that must have knocked him out when he was taken, and some of it was from the cult members who were slain around him when he was rescued. Once his hair was clean, Arthur paused before carefully washing around the welts on his back.

“I’ll put some ointment on these, and then find you something soft to wear over them.” He was quiet and still a moment, and then Harry felt the soft touch of kisses along the angry marks, and the soft little brush of Arthur’s mustache. “I’m so sorry, my love,” he whispered.

“You saved my life. You’ve got nothing to be sorry about.”

“If we weren’t hiding,” he began, holding Harry’s shoulders and kissing his neck, “you wouldn’t have been alone. We share the greatest intimacy two people can share and I left you.”

“We don’t have a lot of choice about that, if we want to stay together. That’s not your fault. It’s the world, and you can’t fix that by yourself. You never leave me when it matters.” He took Arthur’s hand and tugged on it, encouraging him to move around the tub so he could look him in the eyes. “You brought me home,” he said, pulling Arthur toward him for a kiss. Arthur held him, carefully, avoiding the marks on his back, kissing him passionately. “And I like your mustache.”

“You do?” Arthur pulled back, chuckling.

“This may come as a shock to you, but I never kissed someone with a mustache before, until you.”

“Since you’ve only dated women, I should hope not.”

“Let’s just say the ones I’ve seen who had them weren’t on my list to court.”

“Understandable,” Arthur replied, still smiling. “How I love you,” he said, caressing Harry’s cheek.

“And I love you. I want to take a long nap with my attending physician. You should probably watch over me while I rest, just to be sure I’m healthy.”

“I would allow no lower standard of care for my most famous patient,” he said, pressing his forehead against Harry’s.

“I’m your only patient.”

“You are enough of a handful to replace an entire practice.”

“Ouch. I guess I asked for that, didn’t I?”

“You usually do,” Arthur replied, kissing him again.

Arthur carefully applied ointment to the welts and found a somewhat worn, but very soft old night shirt he was surprised Harry agreed to put on without argument. Harry reasoned that it was better than getting the ointment on his good silk pajamas. Arthur let him have his excuse; Harry still seemed a bit chilled and acted as if the less stylish garment felt good when he slipped into it. After locking the bedroom door, Arthur stripped to his long underwear and got into bed with Harry, settling him in his arms, careful not to put any painful pressure on his back. They were both exhausted, and he frankly didn’t care what anyone wanted to surmise from the fact they were in the same room together.

“I’m glad you showed up when you did, Doc,” he whispered.

“So am I, my love,” he replied, holding Harry’s hand. He could feel a couple hitches in Harry’s breathing, and he tightened his hold on him. “You’re safe now. It’s over. It’s finally all over.” Arthur thought of all the pain and fear Harry had been through, the tainted opium, the hallucinations it caused, the bumpy beginning of their romance, and finally the sick ceremony at the hands of Abigail Harrington’s followers.

“When I thought I was going to die, I asked my mother to come and get me.” He was quiet a few seconds. “She didn’t come. So I guess now I know it was all the opium, whatever they did to tamper with it.”

“I’m sorry. I know you wanted to have some real contact with her, not a hoax or an illusion.”

“I’m always the one shooting holes in your theories. But I still wanted to see her. I wanted there to be a way...”

“I wouldn’t give up on that entirely just yet. I’m not convinced there isn’t, just because we haven’t found it yet.” He smiled when he saw Harry’s mouth curve up in a small grin.

“You could call me a hypocrite, and you’d be right.”

“I would take no joy in that, my love. Now my convincing you to start wearing my night shirts, I reserve the right to rejoice about that.” Arthur smiled as the last thing he heard from Harry before he dozed off was a quiet laugh.

********

Only a couple of those present at the ceremony remained unaccounted for after Scotland Yard descended on the Cooke estate with tracking dogs and enough personnel to comb the grounds carefully and search every nook and cranny of the house and mausoleum.

Alistair Cooke was the main celebrant of the blasphemous ceremony, and was felled by one of Doyle's bullets. During the full search of the mansion, Adelaide found quite a collection of strange powders, leaves, and grains stored in a small room adjacent to the library, not unlike the evil little chamber at Abigail's house. Though she knew they didn't want to make it part of the official investigation, she took small samples of the substances there, planning to provide them to Doyle in case his friend at the university could analyze them to determine what had been added to the opium. It might give Harry some peace of mind to know what had been used to cause his hallucinations and bizarre behavior.

The most detail they could surmise from piecing events together was that Houdini was knocked unconscious outside Doyle’s home and then transported to the estate via much the same route as Doyle, Adelaide, and Constables Simmons and Morrison traveled. They did, after all, have a five-hour head start. Adelaide hadn’t quite figured out if Abigail had committed suicide with the plan of being resurrected on the Feast of Samhain by sacrificing Houdini to Satan, or if she simply killed herself for reasons of her own and her “followers” took it from there. She was inclined to believe the latter, because Alistair Cooke’s servants confirmed that he’d been having an affair with Abigail, and his own grasp on reality was a bit shaky.

Abigail’s possession of Houdini’s mother’s ring was not officially explained, but Adelaide suspected it was either a trophy she selected to commemorate her invasion of Houdini’s home, or it was a tactic to throw suspicion away from the real crime of tainting the opium. Or, it was part of a plan Abigail died before she could act upon. In any event, Harry had the ring back, and his mother had died peacefully of natural causes.

Exhausted as she returned to her desk and hoping to quit early for the day, Adelaide noticed a copy of the late edition of the newspaper on her desk. At first she assumed there must be news coverage of the arrests of a couple of the cultists and the deaths of the others. It was when she noticed her colleagues snickering a bit as she picked up the paper that she had the feeling it was something more. She read the headline:

The Great Houdini Rescued from Cult by New Sweetheart

She flashed her coworkers an aggravated glare, folded up the newspaper and strode out of the office. When she was finally outside, she opened the paper and looked at the article. The reporter who had photographed all of them in the park had used one of the photographs of her with Houdini, captioning it “the handsome couple” and paired it with the article about his kidnaping and rescue by Scotland Yard, led by their first female constable, Adelaide Stratton, who was recently seen “on Mr. Houdini’s arm” picnicking in the park. The article’s author neglected to mention the fact that Doyle and his children were there, too.

She wasn’t sure which way to go first: to confront the reporter or to confront Houdini, who no doubt would find the whole thing amusing. For all she knew, this was another of his reporter friends, like that hack who perpetuated the Spring Heel’d Jack conundrum and ignited a panic. He’d certainly made an effort to include her in the encounter with the reporter in the park that day. If this was his idea of a clever ploy to bring them together, he had another thing coming.

********

Harry was up and dressed by late afternoon, almost before Arthur was ready to give up on napping. He’d spent some time sitting in the parlor with the children telling them a very sanitized, tame version of the story with just enough spooky elements, like being held captive in a mausoleum, to keep them entertained. As dinner time approached, Harry and Arthur relaxed in the study with a cocktail. Arthur brought in the evening paper, and froze when he saw the headline, closing the study door.

“What?”

“This.” He held up the paper, the headline facing Harry.

“Whoa, what is that?” He got up and walked over, taking the paper. “Well, first of all, exhale, Doc. They’re talking about Addie, even though we both know it’s you,” he said, kissing Arthur on the cheek, grinning at him. “Of course, she’s going to kill me.”

“I suppose I should have looked a bit closer before having the heart attack,” he said, putting a hand on his chest. "This must be the reporter who came here to the house and upset the children. I certainly intend to have a word with him about that."

“They have a picture of Addie and me at the park that reporter took, so he’s woven together a lot of fragments and outright conjectures to turn this into a big news story.”

“The kidnaping of a celebrity is a big news story.”

“Yes, but his details are so sketchy that it’s not really all that much news. They know I was missing a while because Addie filed the missing person report, there was a weird ceremony in a mausoleum on the Cooke estate–I bet one of our new constables felt real important being able to brief the press–he’s quoted here, that Simmons guy. So add that to the fact some people were killed and a couple others arrested, and someone got a look at one of the bad guys in a hooded robe. And Addie was having lunch with all of us in the park a few weeks ago, so of course, she’s my girlfriend now.”

There was a rapid knock at the front door.

“I’ll give you three guesses who that is,” Harry said, sitting down to read the article in detail. A moment later, Adelaide burst into the room followed by a worried looking Vera who apparently couldn’t contain her at the door. “How did I know we’d be seeing you tonight?” Harry joked, but she was not amused.

“I suppose this is your idea of a joke?” she demanded, waving the newspaper at him.

“You think I set this up?”

“I think you were very careful to draw me into that little photo session in the park.”

“So when they published a few of those photos and didn’t make anything out of it, I had myself kidnaped and nearly murdered just so I could create a scandal?”

“I know this is a joke to you, but do you realize how far this sets me back in my career? I’m not a good constable, I’m Harry Houdini’s girlfriend!”

“A lot of women wouldn’t consider that to be the worst fate in the world,” Harry replied, a bit of anger flaring now. “Why are you mad at me about this? I never said we were seeing each other. I said you were a friend, and I talked about a couple of the cases Doyle and I worked on with you. How is this my fault?”

“He does have a point, Adelaide,” Arthur said calmly. “He didn’t set this up. It’s obvious that an unethical reporter took some vast liberties with the facts and made something out of it that wasn’t there.”

“Probably another reporter friend of Houdini’s, doing his bidding.”

“Why would I even do that? What would be the point?” Harry asked. “Look, Addie, you made it very clear you weren’t interested in me that way, and I finally took the hint. I value your friendship, and I’m not about to do something...sordid like this to get back at you for not going out with me. The second time. Technically you did go out with me.”

“You didn’t encourage this?” she asked, ignoring his obvious attempt to tease her.

“I wasn’t really up to doing press interviews when we got back from the Cooke estate. I was asleep most of the day. When would I have done this?”

“Harry’s been through a lot, Adelaide. He hasn’t been plotting with reporters. He’s been recovering from his ordeal, and I’ve been with him all day.”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have jumped to the conclusion that you caused this,” she said, folding up the paper. “You have to understand that this is exactly the type of thing that destroys the career of someone in my position. It certainly damages my credibility.”

“First thing in the morning, I’ll visit the publisher’s office, threaten him with a team of high-priced lawyers coming down on him with a slander lawsuit that will leave me owning his newspaper if he doesn’t fire this idiot and print a retraction and apology. Would that help?”

“I’m sure it would.”

“Then consider it done. If he gives me any resistance, I’ll sue him. Owning a newspaper might be fun. Think of all the free press coverage for my career,” he added, smiling.

“I should have thought this accusation through a bit better, I suppose,” she admitted. “I was so embarrassed I just...jumped to the wrong conclusion. It’s nothing personal, it’s just that when you’re trying to establish credibility as a professional...”

“I get it. It’s okay. No hard feelings. Well, ideally, it’s nice when women are less horrified to be linked to me romantically in public, but I’ll get over it.”

“Vera is almost done with dinner. Would you like to join us?” Arthur asked.

“That’s very gracious of you under the circumstances, but I should be going.”

“Why? Got a hot date?”

“Very funny,” she replied, but she did almost laugh. When Harry stood, she did pick up on the fact he winced and moved a bit carefully. “Are you hurt? We are still finalizing the charges against the surviving cult members.”

“It’s nothing.”

“You’re a doctor. Is it nothing?” she asked Doyle, who looked profoundly uncomfortable at being put on the spot.

“It will heal.” Arthur reached over, without thinking, and touched a spot on Harry’s back he knew was uninjured, his hand lingering there in a gesture of affection. The fact Harry beamed at him like he’d just handed him a million dollars didn’t help deflect attention from the moment, either. Still, Harry was so pleased with the little touch that he couldn’t help his reaction. He struggled with himself not to slip his arm around Arthur’s waist and stand there holding onto him.

“I have a good doctor,” he said. “They kidnaped me and tried to kill me. I’m not sure what other details are really going to get them more jail time.”

“It could lead to stiffer charges against one of the two live perpetrators who was carrying a large black leather strap when we arrested him. Adding assault charges would increase his potential sentence.”

“I don’t want this to go to a long, drawn out trial, with a bunch of lurid details in the press. I just want it over with.”

“Perhaps you can make that happen when you take over that newspaper,” Adelaide said, and Harry laughed at that, relieved she was letting it go, at least for now.

“Come on, have dinner with us,” Harry urged. “Vera’s a great cook. I’m putting on weight every day here,” he said, grinning.

“How appealing,” she replied, smiling back. “All right, if I’m not imposing.”

“Not at all,” Arthur replied quickly. “I’ll let Vera know to set another place. She always makes plenty of food.”

Vera did serve a delicious meal of Cornish hens and all the trimmings. Harry didn’t know if he was even remotely successful at not looking at Arthur with more desire than he was looking at the hen on his plate, but he did his best. He was convinced Arthur had requested an especially nice meal for his safe return, and that thought moved him deeply. If he was moved by that, he was speechless when dessert was served.

“Are those what I think they are?” he asked, stunned as Vera set the plate at the head of the table, and placed small dessert plates in front of each of them.

“It took a bit of doing, but I asked Vera to find a recipe for knedle, and somehow she managed,” Arthur said.

“Actually, I’m very good friends with the Goldmans’ housekeeper, and she prepares them regularly,” Vera said. “I hope they’re up to your standards, Mr. Houdini. They’re my first attempt.”

“What are they?” Mary asked, intrigued. Arthur began passing the plate around the table as everyone took one.

“Plum dumplings,” Arthur replied, because Harry couldn’t quite get words out. He knew his eyes had filled a bit, so he blinked and took a drink of water.

“They look wonderful, Vera,” he said, then he looked at Arthur. “Thank you.”

“It’s the least we can do to celebrate your safe homecoming,” Arthur replied, smiling at Harry, indulging in a brief touch to his wrist where it rested on the table.

Harry noticed Adelaide watching the exchange, which unnerved him at first until she gave him a little smile. Someone had figured them out and the sky hadn’t fallen.

Harry took a bite of the dumpling, and while Vera had a ways to go to rival Marta of Nethermoor in her knedle skills, they were tasty. The flavor didn’t really matter. The gesture was everything.

“These are good,” Kingsley said. “I never heard of them before. How do you spell that?” he asked.

“Typical writer question,” Harry teased. “So, Arthur, how do you spell it?”

“You’re the expert, you spell it.”

“You’re the writer. You don’t want your son to think you can’t spell what you’re serving for dessert.”

“Fine, you win, I’m uncertain of the spelling.”

“K-n-e-d-l-e,” Harry told Kingsley, who was still a bit amused that his father couldn’t spell it. “You found a recipe for them in Marta’s papers, remember?” he said to Arthur.

“Forgive me for not remembering that fine detail.”

“Has your business manager located new lodgings for you yet?” Adelaide asked as they all enjoyed dessert. She still had that little grin on her face, arching an eyebrow at him knowingly.

“You’re not moving?” Kingsley asked.

“I thought you were staying with us,” Mary chimed in.

“My manager did find a place,” Harry said, “but I turned it down because I had a better offer,” he added, winking at the children.

“Then you’re staying?” Kingsley asked.

“Until I manage to drive your father crazy, yes.”

“Too late,” Arthur added dryly, smiling. Harry snorted a laugh at that.

“My manager may have found me a house,” he said, raising his glass. The others followed suit, waiting for the rest of the toast. “But here with all of you, I found a home.”