Unraveled Page 9

  He opened the book and set it on the table. Miranda peered over his shoulder. He turned the pages, scanning them so quickly she wondered if he was even looking at the words.

  “Hmm,” he said, after he’d flipped through ten pages. “This is his arrival record.” He tapped it. “I didn’t see any record of his release. Or of a transfer. Curious.” He didn’t mention the possibility that he might have missed it.

  “Is that bad?” Miranda asked.

  He turned and plucked a more battered volume off the shelves. “The roll call,” he explained without answering her question. He flipped through a handful of pages and then stopped. “He was here five days ago. He wasn’t the day after.”

  “People don’t just vanish into thin air.”

  “No.” Turner frowned. “They do not. Maybe he escaped.”

  Miranda shook her head. “Not George. Why become a fugitive the day before he was to be set free? I find that unlikely.”

  He met her eyes. “I do, too. The most probable answer is that there has been an error. He was moved, or he was released, and it simply wasn’t recorded. These things happen.”

  Miranda wasn’t so sure. Accounting errors did happen. But if this was a simple failure to record, where was George?

  Turner crossed to the gaoler, sketched out the situation in a few words. The man listened, and then shrugged.

  “Sometimes,” the gaoler said, “they disappear each other down there. Takes a while to notice it.”

  Miranda swallowed. But Turner simply nodded, as if such casual mention of murder meant nothing to him.

  The gaoler continued with an indifferent shrug. “Only way to find out is to ask.”

  “Ah.” Turner didn’t move. He stood in the foul-smelling murk for a moment, staring straight ahead of him. “Of whom should I make these inquiries?”

  “The prisoners,” the gaoler said. “Who else?”

  Turner had set his hat to the side of the book when he entered. He picked it up now and turned it over in his hands. “Is there some kind of an interview room up here? How does one go about having prisoners brought up?”

  “Interview room? Brought up? What do you think this is?” The gaoler laughed. “No, you can talk to them right where they are. Don’t worry; they’re shackled. They’ll be at the water wheel now, the ones this fellow would have been with. I’ll take you down.”

  “We need to go down there,” he repeated. If Miranda hadn’t known better, she’d have thought Turner uneasy. His voice sounded sure. Something else in his face gave her that impression, but she couldn’t have identified it. A trick of shadow, no doubt.

  The gaoler shrugged again.

  Turner set the hat down on the table, looked at Miranda once and then shook his head—a short, fast shake, as if he were shaking off raindrops. “Take us, then.”

  The gaoler led them back into the main hall, around a bend, and down a cramped staircase.

  If it had been dim above, it was beyond black below. The darkness seemed to eat at the faint illumination from the lantern. Miranda could scarcely see the stone floor, strewn with straw; some feet away, she could make out the dim shape of thick iron bars. The scent of sewage grew heavier, almost overwhelming. Miranda slid a handkerchief in front of her nose, but it scarcely had any effect on the smell.

  Somewhere in front of them, she heard the splash of water.

  Turner stopped. “What is that? That noise.”

  “The water wheel. The prisoners that are here for hard labor, of course, need to—”

  Water splashed again, this time in a louder rush.

  “Never mind,” Turner muttered beside her. “Not worth it.” He turned in his tracks and started back up the stairs. Miranda stared at his retreating form. She couldn’t believe it. He wasn’t leaving. He couldn’t be leaving.

  She scampered after him. He mounted the steps so swiftly, she was out of breath by the time she caught him halfway up. “Wait. We haven’t talked to anyone. Just a few people. A few minutes. Turner.”

  He said nothing; just turned into the hall.

  “Is it the smell?” she asked. “You’ll grow used to it, soon.”

  “It’s not the smell.”

  She had to run to keep up; his long strides took the stairs two at a time, then three. But he didn’t look at her when they came out into the dark corridor, didn’t look as she came abreast of him.

  “Listen to me,” she started, reaching for him. “I’ll ask all the questions. You don’t even need to—”

  He caught her hand. “I told you before.” It came out almost as a snarl. “I’m not kind. I’m efficient.” He pushed her away and turned down the hall. “Open the door,” he called, and from down the corridor, a widening slit of gray daylight cut the darkness.

  “I understand,” she said, running to catch up with him. “It is a bit much to take in. But I promise, if you’ll just stay—”

  “You don’t understand anything,” he interrupted. His voice shook. She felt as if he’d slapped her.

  “I don’t believe you. You’re acting like an unfeeling brute, and—”

  “Believe it.” The door opened to the day beyond. Clear air streamed through. He strode into the open gray of the rain outside. He kept walking, not looking to see if she followed.

  Miranda darted in front and held up her hands to stop him. “No,” she said. “If you think I’ll allow you to walk off—it’s my friend who’s back there. My friend disappeared. How can you care about justice and not care about what happens once someone leaves your court?”

  “Get out of my way.” He spoke in an intimidating growl.

  Miranda wasn’t about to be intimidated. She set her hands on his chest. “Please. Listen.”

  He put his hands about her shoulders. His face was white, his lips pressed together in tight resolve. For a second, Miranda thought he was actually going to shake her. Maybe even strike her. She felt an instant of real fear. Instead, his fingers bit into her flesh—hard. He lifted her up—she hadn’t thought him so strong as to simply heft her in the air. And he set her down so roughly that she stumbled. Her arms stung where he’d held her.

  “Don’t you dare manhandle me,” she hissed.

  But he wasn’t looking at her. He wasn’t looking back at the gaol he’d quit so hastily. Instead, he doubled over as if in pain and fell to his knees.

  And then, before she could quite comprehend what was happening, Lord Justice vomited into the bushes.

  Chapter Eight

  AFTER THE FIT OF retching passed, Smite became aware of two things. First, the mud was soaking through the knees of his trousers. And second, he’d just vomited in front of a woman. He was dirty and bedraggled. Miss Darling stood behind him, her breaths echoing amidst the sound of falling rain.

  For a long second, he stared at the bushes in front of him, willing Miss Darling to disappear.

  He had thought as long as it was dry and he wasn’t alone, he could manage the darkness. But the smallest sound of liquid—the bare splash of water—and he’d been transported back. Back to that cellar. He had been the one shivering on the cold floor, the one who had felt the water seep through the one thin blanket that had been allotted him. In that moment, he’d been transported back to the truth of his past, and he’d felt all that old terror.

  He took a deep breath of cleansing air and looked up at her. For one second, he hoped she had misconstrued what she’d seen.

  Instead, her face was a mask of confused sympathy. She stood, staring at him, her lips pressed together. She appeared to be searching for something to say.

  “Don’t bother with platitudes. Don’t ask after my health.” He found a handkerchief in his pocket and wiped his mouth off. “I’m perfectly well,” he added, feeling idiotic.

  “Actually,” she said, “what I was going to say was: I’m sorry.”

  He winced. “That’s even worse. Don’t pity me, for God’s sake.”

  “I’m apologizing. I thought you were an unfeeling brute. But—you�
��re not. Are you.” It was not a question she was asking.

  He spat again, his mouth sour. “Don’t make too much of it. It was just bad fish, understand?”

  Her clear green eyes bored into his.

  “You’re a terrible liar,” she said. “That’s as bad as your story about the cats.”

  He bowed his head, not wanting to acknowledge that. “I’ll just need a moment.” He coughed and planted one foot on the ground. “I’ll go back.” He curled his lip, and he attempted to stand. His muscles ached. Deep inside, that image swirled, floodwaters washing up.

  “You’re shaking.” Her hand landed on his shoulder. “Was it…that wasn’t the smell, was it?”

  “Yes,” he said, a moment too late for believability.

  Her nose wrinkled.

  “No,” he amended softly. “It wasn’t the smell. But I can return.” He just wasn’t sure what would happen if he did.

  “No. George isn’t there now. If he was killed by the other inmates, he won’t be any less gone if we go back immediately. You shouldn’t subject yourself to…” She trailed off, not knowing what it was.

  He shouldn’t have been so relieved at the reprieve. “I should have sent my clerk. If I’d been thinking clearly, I would have delegated the task. He’s better at this sort of thing.” He started to stand.

  Her hand was surprisingly strong, driving him back to his knees. For one second, it seemed precisely right that he should be brought low before her. The rain fell around them. It dampened her hair into separate strings; in the uneven light, they seemed bright red against the dark color of her dress. He knelt before her, as if he were some kind of bedraggled knight, and the umbrella lying on the ground before him her sword.

  A fanciful thought, rather belied by reality. The rain fell on his face, belled on his eyelashes. She seemed almost mystical, outlined by the water that stung his eyes. Before her, rain was just rain, washing everything away.

  She reached into her own pocket and drew out a white scrap. And then she reached forward to wipe the rain from his forehead.

  He snatched the fabric from her hand. “I can’t abide being fussed over.”

  “Lord Justice,” she said, “I think you should go home and rest.”

  “Thank you, but no. I’ve no need.”

  “What was that back there? It wasn’t fish, and it wasn’t the scent.”

  He stared mutely at her, and then held out her handkerchief in return.

  She sighed and reached out to help him up. He was shaky enough that he took her arm, and he leaned on it. He let her open the umbrella.

  “Is there anyone here to accompany you home?”

  He glanced back at the gaol. Briefly, he considered lying. Only briefly. He shook his head.

  “Will there be someone waiting for your arrival?”

  His charwoman would be long gone; no other servants would be around today. No need for her to know that. “Yes,” he said.

  “Who?”

  “My dog.” He sighed and looked to the sky. “Don’t look at me like that. He’s very good company.”

  “You’re trying to figure out how to rid yourself of me, aren’t you?”

  “Damn.” The word had no rancor. “On this short an acquaintance, you should not know me so well.”

  She put her head to one side and considered him. So help him, if she spouted one word about what he needed, he was going to walk away and never speak to her again. He didn’t want her bloody pity.

  Maybe she saw the warning in his eyes, because she simply shrugged. “I’m the last one seen in your company, and it would be dreadfully inconvenient if I were to fall under suspicion. I just want to make sure that nobody kills you on your way home.” Only the sparkle in her eyes suggested she was teasing.

  That was the moment when he realized he was in trouble. She didn’t insist on plying him with concern. In fact, she’d believed him when he said he didn’t like fuss. Her hair was dripping from the rain; her gown was spattered.

  He couldn’t remember why he’d thought she wasn’t pretty before. His elder brother would have had something brilliantly charming to say at the moment. Smite could think of nothing.

  “Besides,” she said, “I don’t want to say farewell.”

  She couldn’t mean what he’d heard. If her cheeks were pink, it was probably from the cold. But it was so much an echo of his own impulse that he set his hand over hers and squeezed her fingers.

  “Then don’t say it.”

  SMITE DIDN’T TELL LIES well, not even with his body. He walked back through the darkening streets, his steps this time more measured. She didn’t say anything, thank God, on the return trip. He made his way to the small home where he lived near the edge of town.

  He didn’t have anything for her but silence.

  He wasn’t good with this sort of thing—with the back-and-forth dance between man and woman. He wasn’t even sure if they were dancing, or if she was merely being polite.

  “Thank you,” he said when they reached his doorstep.

  “That sounds suspiciously as if it’s intended as a dismissal.” She wrinkled her nose. “Do you really think I’m going to leave before I make sure that you eat?”

  “Do I look so dire as to need all that attention?”

  She studied him frankly. He could feel his hands trembling, and he folded his arms to hide the weakness.

  “Yes,” she said baldly. “You look awful.”

  Perhaps that simple honesty was why he didn’t send her away. There was a little bit of fuss there, yes, but at least she hadn’t called him a poor lamb. And maybe…maybe right now he wanted the company.

  He shook his head and unlocked the door. A ball of gray-and-white fur launched itself into the rain, jumping and leaping and bludgeoning him with his tail. For a few minutes, amidst the wriggling and the barking, there was no conversation to be had. But eventually, Ghost managed to calm himself, and they entered.

  Smite excused himself immediately to wash. It took too long to rid himself of the feeling of the prison. The oppressive stink had vanished, but still he scrubbed hard. He applied tooth powder and brushed out his mouth, and when that didn’t seem strong enough, he used harsh soap. He scrubbed until he’d stripped away the layers of his weakness.

  Only when his hands had grown steady did he return to the main room.

  Miss Darling was examining the books on his shelves. She was… God, there were no words for her. She warmed up his dark room.

  Maybe the effect came from the fire she’d started from the banked coals, or the lamps she’d lit. Maybe it was the absent wave she gave him when she heard his footsteps—or maybe, that curl of heat came when her expression froze in a half-smile as she took him in.

  He’d stripped to his bare skin to wash, and had only donned his shirt again. The points of his collar were drooping, and the edges of his hair were damp. Her eyes drifted down and then up, and for the first time, she turned away, a faint blush touching her cheeks.

  Ah. Maybe he’d let her come home with him for another reason entirely.

  “Well,” she said. “You should eat.”

  He shook his head, dispelling the prurient bent of his thoughts. He could smell the faint scent of roasted chicken. On the hob behind her, under a cover, lay the dinner his charwoman had left for him. He wasn’t hungry. Not for that, at any rate. Still, he crossed the room and took a plate. Removing the cover, he heaped food onto it—a pile of new potatoes, peas, and a roasted breast of chicken. Ghost padded silently behind him, looking up in obvious entreaty.

  Smite ignored him and crossed to the table. He set the plate down and then picked up a fork.

  Miss Darling simply crossed her arms and gave him a look—the kind of look that said get on with it.

  She shouldn’t have been beautiful—she was too forward, too freckled, too thin. Still… Oh, to hell with it all. He wasn’t hungry, anyway. He reached out and took her hand, drawing her to him. She drifted near, until she was close enough to kiss. Clo
se enough for him to see the green of her eyes, widening as he turned her hand over, palm up.

  “There’s something I’ve wanted to do since the first moment I saw you,” he said. It came out close to a whisper.

  “Oh?” He could feel the puff of breath from that word against his nose.

  “Don’t even think of arguing.”

  She shook her head. Her lips opened, an impossible, inviting fraction.

  He set the fork in the palm of her hand and closed his fingers tightly around hers. “I want you to eat,” he said.

  “But—”

  “I’ve seen your wrists, Miss Darling. And your dinners. When I tell you to eat, damn it, you are going to do so. Now have a seat.”

  He turned and pulled a trunk from the wall, and shoved it up against the other side of the table to form a makeshift second seat. She did sit down, and as he went to pile a second plate high with more meat, she picked up a forkful of chicken.

  When he returned, she glanced at his plate. “You should have peas, too.”

  “Hmm,” was all he said in reply.

  She had impeccable table manners for a woman who lived in the slums. Not for the first time, he found himself wondering about her. There was her accent, changing to match whoever was around her. And then there was Antigone. She was a conundrum, really.

  He ripped a piece of chicken from the bone. She watched him curiously; her eyes narrowed as he held it out to his dog, who took it nimbly.

  “Ghost doesn’t like peas,” he explained.

  She didn’t ask why a duke’s brother had no servants, no long, splendid table set with silver. He didn’t ask her where she’d acquired her manners. It would have broken the spell that seemed to enfold them.

  If this was magic, magic was tiring. It drained him until he was bone-weary, until all that was left was a deep, empty ache, and a desire to belong to someone else, if only for a few moments.

  He spoke as nonchalantly as he dared. “I suppose you’re wondering about what happened. Back there. At the gaol.”

  She gave him a measured look and took a mouthful of potatoes. She chewed carefully and then shrugged. “I suppose I am.”