THEODORA APPEARED in the morning plainly dressed in grey wool, a worn tartan shawl over her shoulders. Still, her clothes were well-made, if drab. Where we were going, she would stand out.
I glanced down at my own clothes. I had left Sherlock’s donated suit hanging in the wardrobe and resumed the collected bits and pieces I had first worn to go find Peach. I would stand out, too, but far less.
‘Are you sure you want to go, yourself?’ I asked.
She smiled with a touch of humour, despite the pallor of her cheeks. ‘You think I ought to let you go by yourself? You and a few scrappy friends? On that leg?’
‘No, but you might let Mr Grey go. It seems to be a dangerous time for women…’
She made a noise deep in her throat and tossed her head. ‘It’s always a dangerous time for women. This entire
