Free The Music of Razors by Cameron Rogers Page B

that Finella had died, and that Henry had been there. And Dysart…when his absence was noticed, that would be more than Jukes would be able to contain.
    Like something rising from a black ocean the reality of what Henry had to do became clear.
Leave Boston.
Or this thing would track him until it brought him down.
             
    He walked home with the sun gone but some light remaining.
    After they had burned the clothes, after they had removed the jewelry, Dorian asked that the last be left to him. Henry had not even crouched, touched her, kissed her good-bye.
    He could not remember where he had spent the following day. Only that he was aware of being transcendently exhausted, and burning with thirst. His skin tasted like salt.
    Mrs. Brown’s boardinghouse glowed ghost-pale in the evening light. Figures gathered on the porch like shades, conversing low. Mustaches and truncheons.
    Police.
    Standing in the door, lips moving quickly, hands fluttering, speaking his fill, was Newspaper Jack. An old hand touched down on his shoulder from behind, stilled him, drew him gently inside. Mrs. Brown appeared, anxious. Said very little, and then the door closed.
    The police stood there, hats tucked under their arms, looking squarely at one another. A conclusion had been made.
    The door opened again. Dorian emerged in hat and coat, weighed down with a suitcase in one hand and a heavy package of tied paper in the other. He placed the suitcase down, doffed his hat to the officers, turned, and closed the door behind himself. Then he picked up his luggage, bid a second farewell, and walked down the three wooden steps to the street, limned briefly by the passing of a cab’s lantern, and away from Henry.
    And he was gone.
    Eventually the police gave up any hope of a second audience and left.
    Henry used his key and walked into the kitchen.
             
    They had found a body that afternoon, bumping up against one of the cutwaters of the Salt and Pepper bridge. Middle-aged. Male. As yet unidentified.
    Headless.

TWO
    LONDON, 1847
    T HIS IS LIFE FROM KNEE HEIGHT. YOU WAKE IN THE DARK beneath woolen blankets. You don’t often see stars and there is no moon. Nonetheless you know and feel the damp on the plaster walls of your little room glistening like silver. You know it is half past four in the morning. Your mother’s door has just opened.
    Millicent’s mother opens her door, pokes her head in on the way past, and says, “Time for work, cherub.”
    You let out your first real breath of the day and blink a few times. You reach out from under the blankets for the damp cloth your mother leaves there. A few mornings your eyes were stuck together with sleep. You were scared, but you didn’t panic, and your mother wiped your eyes open with warm water and a washrag. Now she leaves one there every night, as a habit.
    The rag on your face is sharply cold, and it wakes you up.
    There is a clank from downstairs as Millicent’s grandfather fills the kettle. Millicent puts the rag back on the side table and gets out from under her bedcovers.

    This is life from knee height. You spend your day with spindle and ribbon making silk roses for ladies’ hats, while your mother holds pins for the mantua maker or offers advice on hosiery and jewelry and shoes.
    Millicent has a stool and a table far out the back. When her mother can, she smiles and waves as she walks by, swags of bright material folded over her arm.
    Your grandfather is your best friend, and you are your mother’s dream diary. She talks to you as she might talk to herself. You sit, and you listen, and if she should happen to become weepy you hold her hand and tell her Father will be home someday.
             
    You are back under your woolen blankets, and the damp on the walls glistens like silver. Downstairs Mama and your grandfather—Papa—talk in low voices, because it is dark now, and they are drinking tea. You close your eyes and all you can see are silk