The Angel of the Crows by Katherine Addison

Author:Katherine Addison
Language: eng
Format: azw3, epub
Tags: historical fantasy, fantasy, alternate reality
ISBN: 9780765387394
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates
Published: 2020-06-22T22:00:00+00:00

19

The Christian Names of Dr. Doyle

Much later that evening, I made a reluctant pilgrimage to the house of Mrs. Cecil Forrester. Miss Morstan deserved to know what had happened to the treasure, a share of which had hypothetically been hers, and more than that, she deserved that I should tell her the truth about myself, so that she would not be left wondering whether she had been imagining things or, worse, whether, since she was not an heiress, I considered her literally not worth my time. I dreaded the conversation, but the idea of her thinking I had merely been making a cynical gamble was excruciating.

The first part went well enough. Miss Morstan and Mrs. Cecil Forrester were both agog at the adventure yarn (in which I had carefully changed all the names, just as I have done here), and when I had done, Miss Morstan said, “I can’t very well repine for a fortune I never had and don’t want. I’m just glad neither you nor Mr. Crow came to harm.” Her eyes widened. “But I owe you your fee, and Mr. Crow never even said what it is.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” I said, “and Crow will not charge you anything exorbitant. He doesn’t really do this for the money.”

“He almost forgot to bill me at all,” Mrs. Cecil Forrester chimed in.

“But you’ve been to all this trouble,” Miss Morstan said. “And I’m perfectly capable of paying.”

“No one said you weren’t,” I said. “But I help Crow as a friend, and what he charges you is a matter of his business, not of mine.”

“You are a remarkable friend, Dr. Doyle,” said Miss Morstan, and I saw in her eyes the exact light I had hoped not to see.

Mrs. Cecil Forrester made some transparent excuse and swept out of the room.

The silence was paralyzing. I could think of no way to say any of the things I needed to, nor of any conversational gambit that might get her to talk while I tried again to find some way of explaining the matter without actually having to explain.

Miss Morstan began to look uneasy. “Dr. Doyle? I thought you must want to speak to me.…”

“I do,” I said. “That is, I feel that I owe you an explanation.”

“An explanation?” Her expression changed from uneasy to angry. “No, there is no need for an explanation. I can give it for you: ‘I regret if any actions of mine, Miss Morstan, led you to believe I had any interest in you greater than pure and Christian friendship, for such was never my intent.’ Am I right?”

Really, I should have said yes. Let her think of me what she would and disappear from her life as good riddance to bad rubbish. But at least half her anger was directed at herself, and I could not bear to let her go on thinking she had made a fool of herself.

“No,” I said. “That’s not it.”

“It isn’t?”

“No, you weren’t wrong. I did—do—feel more for you than friendship.

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