“Excuse me,” she said, “I was wondering if you could—”

Her words died in her mouth as she faced the man across the counter, his massive shoulders spanning the width of a sign above him that read:

Physicians Prescriptions Carefully Compounded

“I . . .” Grace’s voice was as forgotten as it had been in Boston, her mind losing all words as she regarded the man whose portrait she and Thornhollow had been drawing for so long without any defining characteristics.

The vague shape of what they had anticipated filled out in flesh and blood provided a rush of details that her mind locked on to. He was tall and broad, his shape more what one would expect behind a blacksmith’s hammer than a chemist’s counter. His eyes were bright, avoiding hers at all costs as a flush crept over his face. Grace turned to pull Elizabeth’s bottle from her pocket and felt them dashing over her body, his curiosity devouring her in the only way he was capable. When she glanced up and locked her eyes with his for the barest of moments she could see his intelligence, no less quick than her own. She reminded herself to be wary and clenched her fingers as they itched to touch her scars.

“I apologize,” she said, fanning her face. “I think some of the perfumes may have overwhelmed me for a moment.”

“Quite all right,” he said, eyes rooted on the counter, cheeks still flushed red in her presence. He cleared his throat and seemed to steel himself before he raised his gaze. “What can I help you with, Miss . . . ?”

“Madeleine Baxter,” Grace said. “I’m in town visiting an old friend and her mother has run out of her favorite scent. Since they’re putting me up for some time I thought I’d try to make a little gesture of thanks by refilling it, but you don’t seem to have anything with quite the same fragrance.”

She set the bottle on the counter and he removed the stopper, sniffing it. “Seems to be a simple compound of rosewater, although there may be a touch of bergamot as well.” He held it up to the window, the tiny blue of the glass nearly lost in his hand. Grace watched him as he sniffed again, dabbing his palm with the stopper, all confidence restored when he was lost in his work. The bottle went back to the sunlight, followed by the stopper, and he frowned.

“I can’t make out any manufacturer’s mark on the bottle, so I won’t be able to order a replacement, but I can mix up something similar for you, Miss—” His eyes returned to her. His voice dropped off and there was the slightest tremor in his hand when he set the bottle back on the counter. He cleared his throat again. “Miss Baxter,” he said, nodding toward the ground as if to confirm that he’d finished his sentence.

“That would be lovely, thank you,” she said. “Have you been away? I couldn’t help but overhear the gentleman in front of me saying how glad he was that you’ve reopened, and I must say I’m rather pleased myself.” She smiled, hoping to put him at ease.

“No, no, not closed up entirely,” he said, eyes drifting over her shoulder. “My mother was feeling poorly at winter’s beginning, so I spent a few days with her every week. She lives down in Pomeroy, so I wasn’t able to keep regular shop hours.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Beaton,” Grace said, waiting to see if he’d correct the name she’d picked up from the first customer. “I hope she’s quite recovered,” she added when he didn’t. “When should I return for the scent?”

He avoided her eyes, looking to the ceiling as he stammered for an answer. “I—I can prepare it in about a day, but I’ve been returning to Mother over the weekends. Could you come back on Monday?”

Grace was set back for a moment herself, all days of the week having no meaning to her in the asylum. “Is it—” She broke off, her indecision evident. “Is it Friday today?”

Her broken composure seemed to stream into him, and he managed a small smile as he held her gaze. “Yes, Miss Baxter. Today is Friday.”

“I’m sorry,” she said, feeling her blood rising to her cheeks to match his. “One loses track of time when on a holiday.”

“I understand.” He nodded, his smile wider at the sight of her blush. “I will see you on Monday then, Miss Baxter.”

“Monday,” she agreed, eyes still locked with his.

THIRTY-TWO

Thornhollow was not in his office when she returned, so Grace went to work at the blackboard alone, filling in the missing pieces. The puzzle fell together with ease, holes neatly filled. She heard the office door open behind her, and Thornhollow’s step as she continued to scratch away with the chalk.

“Grace, why are you wearing your town dress?”

“Doctor, come here,” she said. “I’ve found something.”

“Grace,” he said more slowly. “Why are you wearing that dress?”

She turned to face him, chalk still in hand. “It hardly matters,” she said. “I’ve found our killer, seen him face-to-face. It’s just as you thought—a large man, definitely flustered interacting with women, he even mentioned his moth—”

“Grace!” Thornhollow pulled the chalk from her hand. “Why are you wearing that dress?”

“I . . .” She felt her shoulders sag under his scrutiny, and she corrected her posture before answering him calmly, her tone icy. “I went into town, Dr. Thornhollow.”

“For the love of—” He walked away from her, flinging the chalk across the room.

“I won’t say I’m sorry,” Grace said, following close behind. “When you hear what I—”

“When I hear what, Grace?” He turned to face her, fuming. “When I hear that you left the grounds without telling anyone, I’ll jump for joy? When I hear that you came face-to-face—your words, Grace—with our killer, a man who knocks women senseless and then—” He broke off, his face contorted against emotions he never allowed himself to feel. “Dear God, woman, please tell me what is the point of keeping track of your father when I can’t even keep you in the building!”

He threw himself into the wing chair, hands buried in his hair.

“Doctor,” Grace said. “You must hear me out.”

“And you must not tax my nerves,” he muttered to the carpet.

Ignoring him, she continued. “You were right in most respects, Doctor. He’s a large man, easily capable of crushing a rag against a woman’s face and holding her against her will until she succumbs.”

“Which he could have done to you.”

“In broad daylight in his own shop?” Grace countered easily. “Doubtful.”

“A shop?” Thornhollow asked, drawn in despite himself. “What kind of shop?”

“Chemist,” Grace said. “With the tools and the knowledge to mix ether, no doubt.”

“A chemist.” Thornhollow groaned at the floor, stamping his foot. “Damn me for a narrow-minded fool. Why were you in a chemist’s shop in the first place?”

“I was getting some perfume for Lizzie. He’s going to match the scent for me.”

“Oh, of course. How foolish of me not to assume that. Go on.” He waved a hand in the air. “I might as well know it all since you’ve gone and learned it.”

“As to his feelings toward women,” she continued, “there was a marked difference in his behavior with me as opposed to the male customer I saw him interact with. He’s definitely nervous around women, although when I showed some hesitation myself he seemed to gain strength from that.”

Thornhollow glanced up, one hand still buried in his hair. “Interesting. Perhaps he feels more confidence around women he perceives as weak-willed. A positive alternative to his mother, perhaps.”

“Whom he mentioned,” Grace said. “He said she’s been feeling poorly this winter and he’s been giving her care in her home, leading to him only having the store open certain hours.”

Thornhollow rose from his chair, hair standing on all ends as he surveyed the notes Grace had added to the blackboard. “Abandoning his business solely to see to his mother seems a bit extreme.”