by Selina Kray
Hiero was so proud of himself for that deduction that he attempted to make another. For so long that the sudden clearing of Sister Merry’s throat startled him. He found a pair of eyes staring at him and a trio of bowls cooling in the damp air. Hiero fingered the handle of his spoon, cowed by their scrutiny.
“What a rare treat, in’t, Amos?” Sister Merry finally remarked. “To have a priest bless our meal.”
“Ah!” Hiero was too practiced an actor to miss such a cue. “Forgive me. I find myself much preoccupied with the day’s events.”
“All the more reason to eat up. If you would, Father.”
Hiero wrung his hands in his lap, unsure of which of the five poses of benediction to enact. He decided to steeple his fingers over his bowl, as it seemed the most humble. While he intoned one of the only liturgical speeches he knew, he felt a surge of gratitude toward Barnaby Douglas, playwright, papist, and drunkard, who had hornswoggled him into playing Thomas à Becket in Canterbury Tale: A Fowl Murder is A-Foot. The Skaggs’ facial expressions when he was done perfectly mirrored those of the audience for its one and only performance. And some of them must have understood Latin.
“This looks splendid.” Hiero basked in the savory scent of the broth.
And it was. The Skaggs made much of what little they had, and, with a vibrant garden just outside the door, it would take actual work to ruin such fresh produce. Their love for the land and her bounty sung from every slurp. Hiero found himself asking for seconds before he could get them talking. But as the stew and bread were replaced by tea and a lip-smackingly tart berry crumble, Hiero grew more curious about his amiable hosts.
“Thank you, both of you, for opening your home to me.” Hiero toasted them with his teacup. “I confess I did not expect for Mrs. Sandringham and I to be so warmly welcomed among you.”
“Sister Juliet’s got the gift,” Sister Merry said. “Sees right into your heart.”
“Forgive my impertinence, but it seems you must have known this Mother Rebecca?”
She nodded. “I was one of her last novitiates. She ascended a year later.”
“You have a child?”
“Oh, no.” She chuckled. “Nothing like that. That work started with Sister Juliet. I remember the day she came to Rebecca, skinny as a goat except for her belly-full.”
“Sister Juliet has a child?”
“Aye. Had, rather. Stillborn.” She leaned in closer despite the fact they were alone, save for her brother. “Between you, me, and the wallpaper, it was her coming that ruined things for Rebecca’s situation. No Messiah wants to be born in a house with a blood mark.”
“She wasn’t no Moses,” Amos added, making Hiero jump.
“An’ we in’t in Egypt,” Merry agreed.
“So you were passed over?” Hiero asked.
“Warned, more like. The sickness fell upon Rebecca soon as Juliet came. We all doubted, at first, that hers was the new way forward. For some, losing the child was sign of her wrongness. But as soon as she was able, Juliet was nursing her aunt and preaching her scripture. Didn’t think we’d recover after Rebecca ascended with her own unborn babe. But Juliet...”
“Had the magic touch?”
Sister Merry threw him a stern look. “I witnessed it, the day the Mother first came to her. She lay hands on Rebecca, and she just... flew into her! Her spirit, silver and sparkling, before us all. Then it swooped over Juliet, hugging around her, two gold wings. And when she spoke, we heard the echo. Mother Eve, Mother Rebecca... three voices, one song. It was glorious.”
Hiero was certainly impressed Sister Juliet had somehow convinced her followers they had witnessed astral projection. He feigned a beatific smile, shouted out to the heavens in praise. More Latin—suitably, a cry for help.
“And she hasn’t led us astray,” Sister Merry continued. “It was her who bought the extra lot to stretch the Garden, opened Sunday services to all. Invited the fallen women to find shelter with us. Redeemed us in the Mother’s eyes. And now Mrs. Sandringham brings us her blessings.”
“Are you surprised Sister Juliet herself is not the vessel?”
“How could she be? Her son died before he could be born. And she’s said many times we are her second chance.”
“Her redemption.” Hiero nodded in understanding, admiring how deftly Sister Juliet had woven herself into the tapestry of their beliefs. “Thank you, Sister Merry. You have put my heart at ease. Ever since Mrs. Sandringham came to me, worry is my constant companion.”
“You’re home now, Father.” She patted him on the hand. “And a better one you’re not likely to find. Right, Amos?”
“Garden keeps us. Better than before.”
Sister Merry sighed. “Hard to say how much he remembers.”
“You came from... difficult circumstances?” Hiero asked.
“Farm life in Suffolk. It’s a common enough tale. Dad kept busy tilling the land, Mum kept busy having babes. When the last one came, Dad fell sick. Older boys took over the farm, but were more interested in distilling the grain than selling it. Their love of liquor and a few rainy years spoiled too many crops. Mum minded some of the local children—raising ’em up was all she knew, and we girls could help. Staved off the inevitable for a few years, time enough for me to grow and get out. I took Amos with me as thanks to her. He was always my favorite. Wasn’t you, sweet boy?”
“Aww, Merry.”
“You were, at that. Came to London hoping to work in one of them rich houses, in the garden or the kitchen. Didn’t know how rough it would be. Heard Mother Rebecca speak at a market, and I knew we’d found our place. She was kind to Amos and me. I said her tomatoes looked like they had the pox. She asked, ‘Can you do better?’ And here I am.”
More echoes. The details differed, but the basic facts of their lives were the same. Born into a large, stifling family. A dream of escape, never to be realized. Hardship, then fate intervenes. And suddenly a way out. A way to be the person in those dreams, if you worked hard enough and made the right alliances.
“Mistress of a magnificent garden,” Hiero said.
“It’ll do.” Sister Merry chuckled. “I’ll be more at ease when the inspector catches the fiend who...” She shivered. “Such wrongness shouldn’t live where goodness grows.”
“In peace,” Amos declared.
“What’s that, sweet boy?”
“Rests in peace.”
“Aye, but our garden isn’t a graveyard, is it? It’s no place for such a thing as that.”
“Give him to the ground so he will rise up.”
“You’ll have to forgive him, Father. He’s confusing scripture with what’s happened.”
“I think he has the right of it,” Hiero said. “What better place for a little one than in the Mother’s garden? I half think the killer had the same notion.”
“Of course you’re right, Father. I didn’t think of it that way.”
“If I may be bold... Where do you bury those, like Sister Juliet’s son, who...”
“Ah, the unfortunate ones. Depends on their mother’s wishes, but nowhere here. As Rebecca said, ‘Our Garden is a source of abundance and renewal. It will nourish those who hunger; it will cleanse those who ache.’ I’ll have to pray many an hour to forgive the one who fouled it.” She shook her head as if to clear it of such dark thoughts, then stood and gathered their plates. “Is there anything else you’ll be wanting before I head out, Father?”
“You’re going?”
“Aye, to Castleside.” A glance over her shoulder caught his surprise. “Oh! You didn’t think I’d be staying? It wouldn’t be proper, even for a woman who wears her years. But don’t you worry. Amos won’t be any trouble, will you, sweet boy?”
Amos furrowed his bushy brows so deep Hiero could trace the outline of the hoof that had clopped him.
“But Merry, the creepers.”
Hiero struggled not to gape at him. “Beg pardon?”
“At night. In the quiet. ‘Cree, cree, cree!�
�� They steal my sleep.”
“Oh, don’t start with that rubbish. You’ll scare the father!” She cuffed him upside the head—not the punishment Hiero would have chosen, given his history.
“When clouds cover the moon. All night, all night. ‘Cree, cree, cree!’”
“Owls,” Sister Merry almost growled. “We’ve screech owls and other birds nesting in the eaves. He don’t understand.”
Hiero tried to laugh it off, but his chuckles rang hollow even to his ears. “Fear not, Master Amos, we’ll brave the beasts, fake or fowl, together. I’ll summon down St. Michael himself should someone threaten us.”
Amos leaned over the table, locked eyes with him. “You’ll see, when they come for you. You’ll see. ‘Creeeeeeeeee—’”
A loud bang sounded. Hiero white-knuckled the arms of his chair, fighting the urge to hide under the table. Sister Merry, ladle in hand, hammered the pot a second time. Amos curled into himself, whining at the top of his lungs.
“Forgive us, Father. He hasn’t been himself since—”
“No need to explain. If you don’t mind, I think I’ll retire. I wish you both a peaceful night.”
Hiero never thought he’d be so happy to draw the quilt curtain closed. He checked his candle supply, then retreated to the pallet—too hard, too short, too cold for comfort. As he huddled under the thin cover, he played an old game with himself, listing the ways this miserable situation was better than times in his past.
He wasn’t wet. He wasn’t hungry. He was alone. Straw was better than dirt or cobblestones. A candle was better than none. His clothes were thick and clean... but with no Kip to complain about them, Hiero knew it would be a long night indeed.
He almost looked forward to the creepers.
Chapter 9
Callie turned her hand mirror until it caught the moonlight. Curled up on the sill of their third-floor side-facing room, she peered into the dark street, searching for the outline of the carriage. She felt confident Tim and Han hid themselves on the side street and not on the cricket field across from the front gate. But given the height of the building and the lack of local tree cover, they had few other options. Unless Tim didn’t care to conceal the fact of his surveillance from the Daughters, a strategy she doubted he’d embrace.
She huffed a long breath. Whorls of mist drifting off the cricket field thickened the blackness and diffused the scythe moon. The deflated-balloon wheeze of Miss Kala’s snores warned her away from crawling back to bed. She pressed her face to the windowpane in a vain attempt at expanding her view. The chill of the glass soothed her brow but did little to reveal the carriage’s whereabouts. If only she knew which direction to aim for...
A soft knock at the door startled her. Callie fumbled her way into lighting a candle, then, tossing on a robe, answered it. Sister Juliet, bruise eyed and spectral pale, hovered in the hallway beyond as if only half-tethered to their dimension. Sister Nora loomed in a doorway down the hall, her expression watchful, worried, expectant.
Sister Juliet glanced over Callie’s shoulder into the moonlit bedroom.
“Have I disturbed you?”
“Not at all. It’s a rare night my thoughts permit me to rest.”
“I am much the same. I can’t help but think of all the work there is to be done, even though sleep would better prepare me for it.”
Callie smiled. “The burden and the privilege of serving the Mother.”
“Amen.” A second glance told Callie she expected to be let in. Callie eased the door open enough to reveal the slumbering Miss Kala. With a nod in her direction, she slipped into the hallway. “Are you comfortable? Do you want for anything? I heard you’d taken ill.”
“To speak of one who doesn’t sleep.” Callie rubbed her belly. “Forgive me for interrupting your prayers. I fear the events of the day quite overwhelmed me.”
Sister Juliet sighed. “We turn to prayer and reflection in such times, and yet they seem somehow inadequate.” She seized Callie by the arms in that way of hers, as if unsure whether to coddle or to kiss. “I hope you didn’t take it as an omen.”
“I took it as it was. A tragedy.” That, at least to Callie’s mind, was the truth. “I have been called here by the one who rules me. For what reason I cannot yet say. But I do know this: I was meant to find that boy. I was meant to bear witness. And if I have been called here, then my purpose shall reveal itself in time. Perhaps it already has.”
Sister Juliet slid her hands up to Callie’s shoulders, almost cupping the base of her neck. She wondered if her intent was romantic or murderous. Or both, given the manic zeal that dewed Sister Juliet’s eyes.
“What a blessing it is to behold you, an eye of calm amidst the storm.”
Callie fluttered her lids, flashed her eyes white. “I fear thunder will roil and lightning crash before the break of a new day. Beware.”
Sister Juliet shrank away from her. “Of what?”
“The serpent, the dragon, the One.” Callie returned her clench with equal fervor. “Did you think he’d failed to notice the quality of your works? You are being tested, like all holy ones before you.”
Sister Juliet recovered herself quickly. Only the clenched corners of her mouth hinted at any distress.
“Are you their harbinger?” she whispered, the caution in her tone unable to disguise the curiosity. “Is that why you have come?”
Callie didn’t have to feign her outrage. “I heed only the Mother’s call. She’s rallying her angels, branding each one with her sacred mark.” She yanked up her sleeve, played her trump card. For the prophet herself couldn’t dismiss hard evidence, even in a private conversation.
“The Tree of Knowledge,” Sister Juliet murmured, retreating into her touched naif routine. She stroked reverent fingers down Callie’s exposed forearm. “Forgive me, Daughter. I am rightfully humbled. I should have known you from the first.”
“Nonsense. You have proved nothing but an inspiration.” Callie spread an extra layer of butter on this particular piece of bread. “I’m eager to learn, to grow under your guidance. And not just outward.” She laughed, patting her stomach.
A flicker of something in Sister Juliet’s face tempted her to push for more. Instead she tucked it away for later use.
“As I look forward to your company and counsel.” Sister Juliet found her smile. “A true sister. The Mother’s ways are mysterious indeed. But bed for now. You’ve given me much to reflect upon. For which I’m grateful and say welcome home, Daughter.”
“I feel at home.” Callie met her hands in a clasp. “Good night.”
As she tiptoed back into her room, Callie heard the slow creak of the door closing behind her.
And the hard click of the lock being thrown.
Tim lifted the lid off the small pot of stew Angus had fetched from the inn. The savory aroma that wafted up had his stomach singing an aria of gurgles in anticipation. His hands shook as he broke off a piece of bread roll and dipped it into the rich gravy. It was lukewarm and not quite to Minnie’s standard—dinners at Berkeley Square had reminded him how good food could be and spoiled him for every future meal, except perhaps dinner with the Queen. But ten minutes later he licked the last from his spoon, wishing there was more.
Han, so still in the seat beside him Tim might have mistaken him for one of his statues, poured him a mug of tea from a towel-shrouded pot. Also lukewarm, but Tim appreciated the effort. They clinked mugs, then settled in for the long night’s surveillance. Han had fashioned a small blanket bed in the carriage’s main cabin, but it was too early for one of them to retire. If sleep managed to lure either of them under that night. Though they had both seen far worse in their travels—or so Tim assumed of Han, of whose history he knew little—they would not soon forget the discovery of Little Bean.
Tim wriggled around in the tartan throw that mummified his legs and lower torso to dig Sister Nora’s silver book out of his pocket. He considered daring a small lantern, angling the shutters away from the house,
but thought better of it. As soon as the wind blew the clouds off the weak moon, he’d have enough light for a cursory examination. If not, he’d retreat to the inn for an hour. Or five.
“Your client.” Han’s sonorous voice startled Tim out of his thoughts. “What will you tell him?”
After dealing with Hiero’s curlicues and quotation marks for so long, Tim had come to appreciate Han’s forthrightness. This wasn’t the first long night’s surveillance they had passed in each other’s company, and he had come to enjoy them.
“Hopefully that I’m making progress. Though I doubt that will be the end of it.”
“You think the child his?”
“I’ll need proof before I bring this to him, but... yes. The resemblance is strong.”
“A rich man?”
“An important one. I fear his reaction.”
“For yourself or for justice?”
“Both.” Tim topped up their mugs to keep the nervous quiver out of his hands. “As undermanned as we are, this case won’t be solved by half the Yard stomping the grounds, intimidating the Daughters. It requires our special touch.”
Tim caught Han’s curt nod out of the corner of his eye.
“I admire a man who can admit when he’s wrong.”
Tim took a long sip of the cooling tea. “Is that what I’ve done?”
“Not to all the injured parties, but I trust you will.” Han let out a snorted cough, the closest he ever came to a laugh. “Hiero is particularly fond of groveling.”
“I dare say Callie isn’t much averse to it.”
A grunt. “No.”
“Is it wrong? To want to prove myself to my betters? To desire to serve this city as I was meant to?”
Han remained silent for so long Tim began to fear he’d offended him.
“How is what you are doing now any different from before? You said yourself no other team has a hope of bringing the boy’s killer to justice. Why do you wish to return among the ranks of those who banished you? What would it prove? That you are worthy? You are.” A hint of a smirk quirked one of his lips. “That is why Hiero fought for you to join our team.”