towards the entryway, past Jay, as if he no longer mattered. “Take the poison in your pocket, don’t take it, I don’t much care. Leave her out of it. Stay away from her and do so as quickly as possible so the damage you’ve wrought isn’t irreparable.”

Levy spread his palms at his sides, as if he was pushing down the air, the wind itself, preventing it from tearing apart his house. He turned to Jay. “Do you know how old I am?”

Jay started. Where did that question come from? He shivered again. Nothing made sense, everything was wrong. He had to be dying or already dead.

“Do you know my brother-in-law is only forty years old?” Bernard’s tone was clipped. “Only a decade older than you, I believe. You’re almost closer to his age than Ursula’s. Good night, Mr. Truitt.”

As the retreating steps reverberated through the house, Jay held his head in his hands. Forty years old? The man looked at least fifty-five, his own father’s age. Is that what caring for an ill spouse did to one’s body?

Would he do that to Urs? Would years of exposing her to his demons—demons he could never slay destroy her too? He’d been so sure the other day, he’d believed that perhaps, if he could work hard enough he could build something real. But was staying worse than leaving?

He pulled out the bag again. This time he withdrew a tablet and held it in the moonlight. Beautiful.

Yes. He needed it. If that made him weak it no longer mattered. Nothing mattered. His mind was done, tired, dead. He had to sleep. Sleep would make everything palatable.

It was too late for him. There were too many walls, so high he could never scale. He should have realized.

Jay closed his eyes and opened his mouth. That’s what he’d tell his parents. He’d deaden himself first, but he’d make them understand that he was beyond redemption.

No.

No. Not in the house. She’d know.

He shoved the pill back in the sack and stomped into the courtyard. He panted as he faced the bricks composing the outer wall.

With as much force as he had, he slammed his fist into the white mortar. He pounded the immovable barrier—as intractable and thick as the mess he’d made. Over and over he beat his target, his knuckles bloody and throbbing. Spent, Jay choked and coughed, but managed to stay upright as he staggered back into the house.

He stumbled to the bed, stretched out, and closed his eyes. He’d punished his body enough to permit it to overtake his mind.

However, just before oblivion took him, a thought, a lucid, almost clever thought sparked. Mathematics weren’t his strong suit, but something Bernard said, something nagged at the deepest corner of his mind.

If Judah was merely forty and Urs was twenty-one and Amalia Levy had died at twenty and she and Judah were born on the same day...the numbers made no sense. The first conversation between Bernard and Judah—the one he forgot to tell Urs.

She’s his daughter, you know? If someone had gone to a tailor and ordered the female version of Judah... Bernard’s words repeated over and over. She’s his daughter. She’s his daughter.

He writhed under the sheets, clutched at the pillow with his good hand. He had to stay awake. He had to think. He had to figure this out, for her sake. He gripped and pushed, but nothing happened. His limbs wouldn’t obey.

No.

He repeated the word over and over, but exhaustion finally won and he fell into a deep sleep.

Chapter Twenty-Six

How many bloody rounds of chess could she play with Isaac? Locked in the house too, with nowhere to go due to the rain. Between that and the heat, steam rose from the cobblestones outside, ruining all hemlines and boots.

Three days of glares and stares and Ursula had about enough. Three days since Jay woke with a fever and hand so swollen he couldn’t hold a utensil. Her father and Uncle Bernard quarreled about a doctor, but she’d done the tending herself. A doctor might prescribe something he shouldn’t and if she refused to give it to Jay, everyone would know.

At least his head was cool now and he’d been awake for almost an hour. Still, he hadn’t even said two words to her. Instead, he’d sipped his tea and traded glum glares with the fireplace. They needed to speak. When though? Her uncle made things tricky. And Isaac just took her rook. Blast it all. Before she could make another move, feet skidded across the varnished floor.

“Mr. Nunes, Ursula, everyone, I’m so sorry.”

Everyone in the room turned towards the doorway. Lydia’s hair was disheveled, her bonnet at her side while she clutched a newspaper. The butler stood behind her as she panted, free hand on her chest.

“My father—my father will be over shortly, but I ran here as fast as I could. It isn’t his fault. They broke into his office. They knew you were his client and had heard the rumors, knew something had happened or at least there was more than met the eye. I’m so sorry.”

Tears rolled down Lydia’s cheeks. Ursula’s mind stuttered. She was apologizing? For what?

Her palms started to sweat. There was plenty of money and even if there wasn’t, money wasn’t everything. They’d always be fine no matter what happened. Also, who was “they”?