The door slammed shut behind Silas, the sound reverberating through the cramped boarding house room like a gunshot. For a long moment, neither of them moved. Alistair's hand was still outstretched where he'd gripped Silas's arm, his knuckles white, trembling with the aftermath of violence barely restrained. Elara stood frozen, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps that had nothing to do with her illness and everything to do with the fact that her would-be murderer had just been standing three feet away.
The scalpel lay on the floor between them, a glint of silver on scarred wood.
"He'll come back," Elara said again, but this time her voice was different. Not prediction. Certainty. She moved to the window, pressing herself against the wall, peering down into the narrow street below. In the gaslight, she could see Silas's retreating figure, his gait unhurried, almost leisurely. He paused at the corner, looked back up at the building, and even from this distance, she could feel the weight of his gaze.
Then he smiled.
Not a grimace of defeat. A promise.
He tipped his hat, a mockery of civility, and vanished around the corner.
Elara's hand flew to her mouth, bile rising in her throat.
"Elara." Alistair's voice cut through the roaring in her ears. He was beside her suddenly, his hands on her shoulders, turning her away from the window. "Look at me. Not at him. At me."
She forced her eyes to his face. In the dim light, she could see the strain there, the same fear that was clawing at her insides mirrored in the tight line of his jaw, the shadows beneath his eyes. But there was something else too. A fierce, protective anger that steadied her more than any words could.
"He didn't touch you," Alistair said, each word deliberate, anchoring. "He tried. He failed. We have the advantage now."
"The advantage?" She laughed, a brittle, desperate sound. "He knows we're here. He knows we're working together. He knows..." Her voice broke.
"He knows we're not afraid anymore," Alistair finished quietly. He released her shoulders but didn't step back. "That's what frightened him. Did you see it? When you held up that blade. When he realized you weren't the helpless girl in the sickbed anymore."
Elara thought back to that moment. The flash of uncertainty in Silas's eyes. It had been brief, barely a flicker, but it had been there.
"He's a man who relies on control," Alistair continued. "On being the only one who knows the truth. But now he knows we know. He knows you're alive. He knows I'm protecting you. The game has changed, and he wasn't prepared for that."
"So what do we do?" Elara whispered. Her hands were still shaking. She clasped them together to hide it.
Alistair was silent for a moment. Then he moved to the small writing desk, pulling out the carefully organized stack of papers they'd been compiling for weeks. The falsified death certificate. The witness statements they'd quietly gathered from servants who'd been at the house the day Elara "died." The financial documents showing Silas's debts, his desperate need for her inheritance.
"We finish what we started," he said. "We don't wait for him to come back. We go to the authorities first."
"They won't believe me," Elara said, the old fear creeping back in. "A woman legally dead? Dug up from a grave by a..." She stopped herself, but the word hung between them anyway. Resurrection man.
"They won't believe you alone," Alistair agreed, spreading the documents across the desk. "But they might believe Mrs. Dobbs."
Elara's head snapped up. "Mrs. Dobbs?"
"She's been with our family for twenty years. She's known in the neighborhood as honest, God-fearing, unimpeachable. If she testifies that you've been living in our home for the past month, recovering from a grave illness, that she witnessed Silas's threats..."
"But she doesn't know about Silas. She doesn't know anything about..."
"Then we tell her," Alistair said simply. His eyes met hers, steady despite the enormity of what he was proposing. "Not everything. Not about the basement. Not about the cemetery. But we tell her that you fled an abusive household, that your stepbrother tried to have you declared dead to steal your inheritance, that you came to me for help as a physician."
It was a half-truth. A carefully constructed scaffold of lies with just enough reality to bear weight.
"And Clara?" Elara asked softly.
Alistair's expression softened, pain flickering across his features. "Clara's recovery speaks for itself. A month ago, she was dying. Now she can walk to the window. She can take meals sitting up. She can laugh." His voice caught. "Thanks to you."
The words settled over Elara like a physical weight. It was true. In the weeks since that terrible night in the basement, since Elara's shaking hands had inserted the drainage tube and pulled Clara back from death's door, the girl had improved steadily. Not cured. The consumption was still there, would always be there. But managed. Controlled. She had time now, where before she'd had only days.
"Mrs. Dobbs already loves you," Alistair continued. "She credits you with saving Clara's life. She'll want to help you."
"She'll also want to know where I came from. My family. My history."
"Then we give her a history." Alistair pulled out a fresh sheet of paper, his physician's careful handwriting already forming the outline of their new story. "You're the daughter of a merchant who died young. Your mother remarried a man with a son from his first marriage. Silas. When your mother passed, you were left at your stepbrother's mercy. He controlled your inheritance, tried to force you into a marriage that would benefit him financially. When you refused, he..."
"He had me declared dead," Elara finished, seeing the shape of it now. "And I fled to you, the only physician I knew who wouldn't ask questions."
It was close enough to the truth that the lies would be easy to remember. Far enough from reality that the grave, the basement, the scalpel poised over her unconscious body would remain buried.
"Tomorrow," Alistair said, "we go to Mrs. Dobbs together. We tell her everything. This version of everything. We ask for her help. Then we go to the magistrate."
"And if Silas gets there first? If he tells them I'm a fraud, that I'm..." Dead. The word stuck in her throat.
"He won't." Alistair's certainty surprised her. "He can't go to the authorities without revealing his own crimes. He declared you dead falsely. He sealed the coffin. He profited from your 'death.' The moment he acknowledges you're alive, he admits to fraud at minimum. Attempted murder if we can prove it."
"But the grave..." Elara's voice dropped to barely a whisper. "If they investigate, if they find it empty..."
"The groundskeepers filled it in," Alistair reminded her. "Remember? They thought it was animals. It's been smoothed over for weeks now. And even if they did exhume it..." He paused, choosing his words carefully. "The coffin is there. Empty, yes, but that could be explained a dozen ways. Grave robbers. A pauper's burial with no body. You escaped before burial. Without proof of who took you, without a witness, it's just an empty box."
Elara wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe that the nightmare could end with something as simple as walking into a magistrate's office and telling a carefully edited version of the truth.
But she'd seen Silas's smile.
"He won't let me go," she said quietly. "Even if the authorities believe me. Even if they investigate. He'll find another way."
Alistair stepped closer. In the confined space of the boarding house room, they were nearly touching. She could see the fine lines around his eyes, the silver beginning to thread through his dark hair. The marks of the past terrible months.
"Then we don't just expose him," Alistair said, his voice low and fierce. "We destroy him. Financially, socially, legally. We make it so he has nothing left to fight with."
"How?"
"The documents," he said, gesturing to the desk. "We've been collecting evidence. But evidence is just the beginning. We find out who he owes money to. We make sure those creditors know his primary source of income is about to disappear. We find the business partner he tried to marry you off to. We make sure he knows the deal is dead. We..."
"Ruin him," Elara finished. The word should have felt harsh, vindictive. Instead, it felt like justice.
"Yes."
She thought of Clara, breathing easily in her sleep. She thought of Mrs. Dobbs, who'd held her while she cried after one of Clara's bad nights, who'd never once asked her to explain herself. She thought of this man standing in front of her, who'd nearly killed her through his own desperate science and had spent every day since trying to atone for it.
They'd built something here, in the aftermath of horror. Something fragile and strange but undeniably real. A makeshift family held together by secrets and survival.
Silas wanted to take that away. To drag her back into the grave, literally or figuratively.
She wouldn't let him.
"Tomorrow then," she said, meeting Alistair's eyes. "We tell Mrs. Dobbs. We go to the magistrate. We end this."
A knock at the door made them both freeze.
It was soft. Tentative. Nothing like Silas's demanding pound.
"Dr. Finch?" A woman's voice, unfamiliar. "Dr. Finch, are you there? I have a message."
Alistair and Elara exchanged a glance. He moved to the door, positioning himself between it and her. "Who is it?"
"Martha, sir. From the boarding house across the way. A gentleman paid me to deliver this." A pause. "He said it was urgent."
Alistair opened the door a crack. A young woman, barely more than a girl, stood in the hallway, her apron stained, her face anxious. She thrust a sealed envelope through the gap.
"He said to give it directly to Dr. Finch," she said, then fled back down the hallway as if the letter itself might burn her.
Alistair closed the door, bolted it, and turned the envelope over in his hands. It was fine paper, expensive. The seal was red wax, pressed with an ornate S.
"Don't open it," Elara whispered.
But Alistair was already breaking the seal. He unfolded the single sheet of paper inside, his eyes scanning the contents.
The color drained from his face.
"What?" Elara demanded, crossing to him. "What does it say?"
He handed it to her wordlessly.
The handwriting was elegant, almost beautiful:
My dear sister,
How delightful to discover you so thoroughly alive and in such interesting company. I confess, when I heard reports of a mysterious woman residing with the good doctor, I barely dared to hope. But tonight's little performance confirmed my wildest suspicions.
I wonder what the authorities would make of our family drama? A woman risen from the grave, living unchaperoned with an unmarried physician of questionable reputation. The scandal alone would be delicious.
But I'm a reasonable man. I'm willing to forget I ever saw you tonight. All I require is your signature on a simple document. A transfer of your inheritance to my care, made of your own free will, of course. A small price for your continued privacy.
I'll be at the Crown and Anchor tomorrow at noon. Come alone, or I'll be forced to share our fascinating tale with far less sympathetic ears.
Your devoted brother,
Silas
Elara's hands were shaking so badly the paper rattled. "He's threatening us. Both of us."
"He's bluffing," Alistair said, but his voice lacked conviction.
"Is he?" Elara looked up at him. "Think about it. A woman who should be dead, living with an unmarried man. Even if we tell our version first, the scandal. Mrs. Dobbs's reputation, Clara's prospects, your practice. It would destroy everything."
"Then we don't give him the chance." Alistair's jaw set in a hard line. "We go to the magistrate tonight. Right now. We..."
"No." Elara's voice was quiet but firm. She set the letter down carefully on the desk. "We meet him."
"Absolutely not. Elara, he's dangerous. If you go there alone..."
"I won't be alone," she said, meeting his eyes. "You'll be there. Watching. We'll have witnesses of our own. We'll..." Her mind was racing now, pieces clicking into place. "We'll turn his trap into ours."
"What are you talking about?"
Elara moved to the desk, pulling out a fresh sheet of paper. Her hand was steadier now, purpose driving out fear. "He wants me alone at the Crown and Anchor. He wants me desperate enough to sign away my inheritance. But what if I show up with something he doesn't expect?"
"Which is?"
She looked up at him, and for the first time since Silas had walked out that door, she smiled. It was a small smile, hard-edged and determined.
"Evidence," she said. "Witnesses. And a magistrate who's very interested in hearing about a man who falsely declared his stepsister dead to steal her estate."
Alistair stared at her. Then, slowly, understanding dawned. "You want to use his own meeting as the trap."
"He's expecting a frightened woman with no options. We give him exactly what he's not prepared for. The truth. Or at least, our version of it."
"It's risky."
"Everything about this is risky." Elara's eyes were bright now, almost feverish. "But I'm tired of hiding. I'm tired of being afraid. I died once already, Alistair. I'm not going to let him put me back in that grave."
For a long moment, he just looked at her. The woman he'd nearly killed. The woman who'd saved his sister. The woman who'd somehow, impossibly, become essential to his fractured life.
"All right," he said finally. "We do it your way. But we do it smart. We get Mrs. Dobbs on our side tonight. We contact a magistrate I know. One who owes me a favor. We make sure every move is witnessed, documented, legal."
"And if Silas doesn't cooperate? If he tries to..."
"Then we have another plan," Alistair said grimly. He moved to the corner of the room, to the small bag he'd brought from the charnel house. From it, he pulled a familiar object. The scalpel from the floor. He cleaned it methodically, then handed it to her. "You keep this. And if he gets within arm's reach..."
"I know what to do," Elara said quietly, taking the blade. Its weight in her palm was familiar now. Comforting.
They stood in the shabby boarding house room, surrounded by evidence of conspiracy and survival, and made their plans for the morning. Outside, London carried on, oblivious. Somewhere in the night, Silas was making his own plans, confident in his control.
He had no idea that the woman he'd buried alive had already died once.
She had nothing left to fear.
And everything to fight for.