Arthur Penhaligon-Price stood in the back room of Thomasina Ellery's workshop on Abingdon Road and understood, with a clarity that felt like cold water poured into his spine, that he had been living inside a blade all along.
The workshop had belonged to Margaux Duval-Lacombe for eleven months. It had belonged to Thomasina for three weeks before that. Arthur had never met Thomasina—he knew her...
The Oxford industrial estate at three in the morning was a landscape of held breath. Margaux Duval-Lacombe had been gone for eleven months, and still Arthur Penhaligon-Price walked her routes—the exact paths she had mapped in blue pencil across seventeen sheets of graph paper, each one a frequency corridor leading to a single point of resonance.
She had called them "the distant whispers." Not...
The house on Harrow Lane had always smelled of dried lavender and forgotten things, but it was only after Clementine Ashworth-Cross's funeral that Arthur Penhaligon-Price discovered the attic existed at all.
Not that the attic had been hidden so much as forgotten by everyone who had ever lived in the house. The stairs ran up behind the landing cupboard on the third floor—narrow, steep, the kind...
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