Unraveled

by Courtney Milan

  Smite could almost hear Miranda, could almost see that resigned smile on her face. You are the worst liar. But that unbidden memory nearly overwhelmed him. He shut his eyes and turned away. It was almost a physical pain, that tearing in his gut.

  He took a deep breath and thought of the only thing that could dislodge that wave of sorrow.

  “She locked me in the cellar,” he said flatly. “It flooded. I nearly drowned. I have nightmares about it still, and I can’t bear to be around other people. I hold no grudge against you specifically. It’s everyone.”

  Close enough to the truth.

  “I’m so sorry,” his brother began.

  Smite slapped his fist into his palm so hard that it stung. “Don’t be. It made me who I am. I don’t wish what happened to me undone. And when you do, you wish me less of a person.”

  Ash crossed the room to him. He lifted one hand a few inches at his side, and then let it drop. “Very well,” he finally said. “If you say you’re not angry with me, that there’s nothing you wish I had done…”

  “I didn’t say that,” Smite heard himself rasp out. He didn’t know where the next words came from. He surely hadn’t thought them out. But still they spilled out of him. “You should have saved Hope.”

  It was an ugly thing to say. Ash’s face grew pale. It was entirely unfair. Ash had been little more than a boy when their sister had died. What he could have done to combat that ugly fever, Smite didn’t know. And yet, cruel as those words had been, they felt right. True.

  “You should have saved Hope,” he repeated. His voice shook. “You were older. You were stronger. You always knew how to do everything. You should have found a way to save her. But you didn’t, and I had to face the fact that my big brother was human. That you made mistakes.”

  “Oh, Smite.” Now Ash did set his hand on Smite’s shoulder. “I’m sorry.”

  Smite shrugged the touch off. “I’m not finished yet. You should have saved Mark. When Mother truly began to go mad, you should never have left. You have no idea what I had to go through, keeping him fed, keeping him safe. Keeping him away from her notice when she was at her worst. You should have been there. You should have saved him.”

  He hadn’t even known he felt this way—black and ugly and unforgiving. But he couldn’t hold back the tide of his anger, now that he’d given it voice.

  “You should have been a god. I’ve never forgiven you for being merely mortal.”

  Ash shook his head. “Why don’t you say what you really mean? I should have saved you.”

  For a second, Smite felt choked by floodwaters. He could feel his hands numbing, beginning to lose their grip no matter how hard he held on. But what brought him back to the here-and-now wasn’t his brother’s concern, but the sharp feel of metal cutting into his skin. Miranda’s hairpin was in his pocket. That much of the present, he could hold on to.

  “There you’re wrong,” he said. “I don’t need saving. Nothing is wrong with me.” He took a deep gulp of breath. He didn’t need saving, damn it. And yet…

  “Still,” he found himself whispering, “sometimes I wish that this quest had not come to me. Justice is an impossible beast to track. The trail is lonely, and she offers no reward when she’s caught but the promise of another hunt.”

  Until today, he’d not minded so much. He’d given up a great deal over the years. It had never seemed so much, compared to what he could have lost. But now that he’d had Miranda… No. He wasn’t going to think of her. If he did, he might do something foolish. He might demand a horse and ride for the railway station. He still had a quarter of an hour before her train departed.

  Ash laid a hand on his shoulder. Smite flinched, and his brother took a step back, stricken. “Don’t touch me unaware,” Smite heard himself mutter. “One time, Mother—never mind why. Just… don’t.”

  “God, Smite.”

  “Don’t feel sorry for me. Don’t fuss over me. I’m not broken,” he heard himself say.

  Ash nodded, but he looked so damned concerned. The room smelled of wood and wax, with the faint, lingering scent of astringent black tea. Black tea, not mint.

  He couldn’t call to mind the scent of mint, that sweet calming scent that Miranda always seemed to carry about her. His memory of Miranda had gone cold already, devoid of the animating spark that he’d most cherished. That, more than anything, nearly overset his emotions.

  “I’m not broken,” he repeated. “Although at the moment…” This was what came of violating the sentimentality quota. Everything he kept bottled inside him came out. He shut his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “At the moment,” he muttered numbly, “I may be coming a bit unraveled.”

  Ash let this pronouncement sit. He didn’t say anything as Smite gasped for air. And maybe this was what they’d always needed—the chance to be silent with each other. This time, when Ash reached out, he paused, waiting before he took his brother’s hand. Smite took his palm and clutched it hard. It was just a little touch, but he was almost undone by it.

  The clock ticked, counting past Smite’s allotted sentimentality. It counted the minutes while Miranda sat and waited onboard some railway car. Smite didn’t trust himself to speak until she had gone.

  “I did save Mark,” Ash finally said.

  “Oh?”

  “I left him with you.”

  It was too much. Smite felt his throat close up.

  “I mean it. When I found the two of you in Bristol, you were shadowed. Mark…Mark was just hungry.”

  Smite nodded.

  “I have never wanted to think about what you must have done to keep Mother’s madness from falling on him. But you must have done something. Just look at him. How he can stand to live in that house, I don’t know.”

  Smite found himself smiling through a shudder. “It gave me the cold sweats, just being there for a few hours yesterday.”

  Another pause. “Why did you go? When you said you went to Mark, I knew it had to be dire. Neither of us would go into that house otherwise.”

  Smite shrugged. “It was for Miranda,” he finally said.

  “Miranda.” There was a subtle change in Ash’s voice. “And what can you tell me about Miranda?”

  Her train was pulling away, right at this moment. He thought of her looking up at him and saying that she loved him. He thought of her leaving. Her hairpin bit into the flesh of his palm.

  He thought of her finding someone else, and he let out a little breath of air. Finally, he managed a small half-smile and he looked his brother in the eye. “I saved her, too.”

  THE ROAD MIRANDA TOOK to the railway station was all too familiar. And yet to Miranda’s eye, it seemed entirely different. After the long weeks of her absence, Temple Street had altered. Now, it seemed forlorn and dirty. She’d never noticed the refuse that spilled onto the streets when she lived here. She must have blocked from memory the blackening muck that was never swept from the cobblestones. The smells of manufacturing were thick about her: the scent of vinegar from the foundry warred with tar from the shipyards. The splitting shriek of a steam engine cut through the clatter of horses’ hooves.

  Strange, that this neighborhood had changed so much in just a few weeks. The cart she was in rumbled past taverns she had visited, fishmongers she had argued with, shops she had patronized…

  Better to concentrate on all that she passed, than to think about— “Stop!” she said.

  The cart came to a halt. Dryfuss peered at her. “I’m not supposed to stop,” he said. “My orders are—”

  “New orders,” Miranda said briskly. “I’ll only be a few minutes.”

  “But, Miss…” This protest came from the maid Smite had insisted should accompany her for good measure. It had seemed so excessive; Miranda had never needed a chaperone in Temple Parish. “We were told to take you straight there.”

  “I need to say farewell to someone.” She hopped down out of the cart. She was too visible on the street now. Even though she’d donned a trave
ling habit, a dull brown high-necked gown designed to hide the dirt of a journey, passersby glanced at her. The gown was tailored to her form, leaving no room for the bending and moving that a working woman required. The bustle and petticoats were too wide. And even though the material was plain brown, it was well-made and lustrous. People watched her idly. Speculatively.

  And then someone knocked into her from the side. Gray fabric flew everywhere. Miranda turned, catching herself before she fell. Dryfuss stepped forward.

  “Oh, dearie me,” said a familiar voice.

  “Mrs. Blasseur!” Miranda said. “I’m so sorry. I was just standing here, looking around—I didn’t even see you coming.”

  Mrs. Blasseur began to pick up the laundry that had spilled from her basket. The tips of her fingers were blue, her movements slow. Miranda knelt beside her as best as she could in her stiff corset, and helped her collect towels.

  When they’d finished, Mrs. Blasseur looked up. “Well, look at you.” She paused, took a step back. “You look well. Very well. I haven’t seen you in an age.” She wrinkled her brow. “When you said your father had left you a bit of money, I hadn’t realized it was quite so much.”

  Miranda simply shook her head and picked up the basket. “You’ve never been stupid, Mrs. Blasseur,” she said. “You know quite well how I came by this.”

  The woman gave her a small, pained smile. “Indeed.” She coughed heavily into a handkerchief and looked away.

  “I’ve come…I need to talk to Jeremy, actually. Is he in?”

  Mrs. Blasseur gestured in front of her. Miranda opened the door, and then held the basket for the other woman.

  Once inside, she turned to her. “Do you need—”

  Mrs. Blasseur rescued her load of laundry. “Shoo,” she commanded with a shake of her head. “Go talk to Jeremy.”

  Miranda smiled. The store was like Temple Street itself: the same as always, and yet substantially dingier. The bolts of fabric looked cheap to her eyes, the ribbons pale and faded. She was almost afraid as she made her way to the back of the shop. Afraid that she herself would have altered so much that…

  But no. Jeremy sat in his usual spot on a stool, mending a seam on a pair of trousers with infinite patience. He didn’t look sullen or scuffed to her eye. He still looked utterly dear.

  “Jeremy,” she breathed.

  “Miranda!” He stood up, smiling. “Oh, you look fabulous. What are you doing here?”

  She crossed over to him and put her arms around him. He stiffened slightly, but hugged her back. “I’ve come to say farewell,” she whispered. “I’ll be leaving soon—leaving Bristol. Possibly forever.”

  He nodded sagely. “Going with your protector?”

  “No.” She took a deep breath, and dropped her voice. “It’s not safe for me here. I have to leave. The Patron threatened Robbie—set him up for a hanging offense. I don’t want to be next.”

  Jeremy turned utterly white. “Robbie? The Patron threatened Robbie? Who—no—why—” He took a breath. “How do you know?”

  “He sent a note, mentioning me. The Patron wants something. I can’t fathom it, either, but I don’t intend to wait around to find out what it is.” When the danger had passed, of course…

  “Ah,” Jeremy muttered. “God. Not again. This isn’t happening again.” He set his needle down and looked across the room, his eyes shadowed.

  “I don’t know what he wants,” Miranda said, “but the Patron has proven that he’ll pursue the ones I care about. Jeremy, I’m worried about what he might do to you.”

  Jeremy didn’t look at her. “I’m not in any danger from the Patron.”

  “I don’t care if you’ve paid for protection. Something different is going on. The normal rules are suspended.” Miranda looked away. “Assume the Patron knows everything. He knows we’re friends. He knows I’d want you to stay safe. Maybe you should…”

  But of course Jeremy wouldn’t come with her, not with his mother in such straits.

  Her eyes fell on a display of top hats—rat-eaten, battered, and coming apart at the seams. So limp, they’d scarcely stay on a head. They were in a bin next to some shabby coats. Someone had pinned a label to one of them: “Old hatts for the Guy. 2d.”

  It was close to the Fifth of November. But the possibility of buying a hat wasn’t what caught her attention. She reached and picked up the foolscap label. That handwriting… That spelling. It couldn’t be.

  Her world swirled around her.

  “Trust me,” Jeremy said behind her. “I’m not in any danger from the Patron. I’m certain of it.”

  She knew that hand.

  “I see,” she heard herself say. Someone from the shop must be working with the Patron. Closely. She’d received letters from him.

  Could it be Jeremy himself? No; she knew how he spent his days. She knew his writing, too.

  But that left…

  The smell of tobacco smoke wafted into the room. Up front, Old Blazer had lit his pipe. She’d smelled that scent before—that exact same smell, that same dreadful blend. It had come drifting to her through a rosewood screen once. And…and on the two days when she’d visited the Patron, Old Blazer hadn’t been in the shop. He’d been out—sick, Jeremy had said, but how was he to know? Jeremy had been left alone. Old Blazer hadn’t been in.

  The writing, the tobacco smoke…none of those things added up to proof. But she knew Old Blazer. He was canny: he saw too much, bargained too well. He was reasonable—until he was crossed, and then his temper could not be controlled. The man had little love for the law. She’d heard his diatribe about the magistrates. He blamed them for the death of his only son.

  She spoke very softly. “So. One of the Patron’s trusted workers is in this room.”

  Jeremy grimaced. “Not quite. The Patron wants…damn, there’s no good way to say this.”

  Miranda sucked her breath in on a sudden, cold certainty. How would Jeremy know what the Patron wanted, if he wasn’t working with him? How would Jeremy be so certain of his own safety?

  There was only one way. Old Blazer wasn’t working with the Patron. He was the Patron.

  Miranda unpinned the note from the hat and slipped it into her skirt pocket.

  “Tell me, Jeremy. What is it that the Patron wants with me?”

  He looked around and then leaned in. “The Patron,” he whispered in low tones, “is planning to step down. The Patron will do whatever it takes to win the compliance of the heir apparent.” There was a bitter hint to his words. “Why do you think George disappeared? Of course the Patron wants to talk to you. He needs a replacement. George is just leverage. As was Robbie.”

  It would have made just as much sense if Jeremy had told her that the Rat-King of Andor had chosen her as his successor. She could think of absolutely no reason that the Patron would have picked her to take her place. “I don’t understand. That doesn’t make any sense.” But then, it didn’t make any sense to threaten Robbie. And senseless as it seemed, it fit the evidence. The Patron was desperate to talk to her.

  Jeremy gave her a grim smile. “The only thing you need to understand is that I’m the one person the Patron won’t endanger. How do you think I’ve felt, all these weeks?”

  She knew how Old Blazer looked at his only grandson. The old man adored him.

  Across the room, Old Blazer puffed on his pipe. He watched her so idly, she never would have guessed his interest. He saw her looking at him, and slowly he raised his hand. The greeting seemed all the more sinister for its nonchalant friendliness.

  “Get out of here, Miranda,” Jeremy said softly. “Don’t worry about me. Just get out.”

  She nodded. “Farewell.”

  “Maybe, in a few years…” He trailed off.

  She didn’t know what to say. It was too much, to lose Jeremy and Smite and Robbie, all within the space of twenty-four hours. She felt as if she might be losing herself. All of her friends…

  But she hadn’t lost Smite. Not if she knew who the Pa
tron was. It was her duty to tell him, no matter how that recounting might affect Jeremy and his family. She simply had to walk out of here as if this were one last good-bye. She embraced Jeremy again and slipped out the door.

  But outside posed a greater problem. The cart had disappeared. Dryfuss had vanished. Her maid was nowhere to be seen. Miranda was utterly alone in Temple Parish—a wealthy-looking woman without luggage. Without protection. For the first time, as she looked around streets that had once been familiar to her, she felt truly unsafe.

  She swallowed and started up the street toward the bridge. Even though the insistent beat of fear in her throat suggested otherwise, she had to hope they’d gone to the station to load her luggage. Once she found Smite, all would be well once more.

  But the passersby brushed against her. The shoves grew more aggressive the farther she walked. Her heeled boots hadn’t been made for long journeys. She’d never been so glad to turn the final corner, to see the gray stones of the Bristol Bridge in front of her. Even without her driver, she’d made it.

  The blue uniforms of several constables, waiting at the gate, seemed even more welcome. She raised her head and strode forward.

  One of the constables stepped in her way. “Your pardon,” he said. “But we’re looking for a woman answering to your description.”

  The first thought that went through her was that Smite had changed his mind. A bolt of hope shot through her. He’d not given up on her—on them. But then the constable put his hand about her wrist and held her tightly.

  “We’re told you’ve got something that doesn’t belong to you,” he said. Behind him, his companion reached out and put his hands into her skirt pocket. He rummaged about, and then pulled out a watch. It was tarnished and battered, but it ticked complicitly in the man’s hands.

  She stared at it blankly. “That’s not mine,” she protested.

  “We know.” The grip on her wrist tightened. “Make a note of it. She admits it.”

  “No! I mean I don’t know how it got there.”

  “They never know, do they, James?”

  “Oh, no. It’s always planted there. You’re all innocent—the lot of you.”