by Selina Kray
“And why, after you’ve connived your way to this audience, should I pay anything you have to say any mind?”
“Because I’ve come to speak of revenge.”
Which was how, sometime later, Hiero found himself at the gate to Daughters’ compound, seconded by the commissioner of the Police of the Metropolis.
The unlocked gate.
Hiero swung the gate just wide enough for them to slip through, then eased it closed behind him. Though Winterbourne rushed up the walk to rap on the front door, Hiero had a cautious glance around before joining him. Everything looked much the same as the previous day, and someone could simply have neglected their duty, but given how disciplined the Daughters were... could this be a sign of munity?
They waited for long minutes after a succession of knocks, Winterbourne gusting out breaths like a dog straining his leash. Hiero struggled to harness his brash impulses, to stop himself from abandoning Winterbourne on the doorstep and sneaking around to smash in a conservatory window. While that would prove a mighty distraction, masking Callie and Han’s maneuvers, it might also cost Kip his life. Though most of his plans tended to go pear-shaped, never were the stakes so high. Trouble was Hiero couldn’t think his way around the puzzle to save his life, let along Kip’s. His Plan A was the only letter in his alphabet.
“Where are they?” Winterbourne practically frothed at the mouth.
“Hiding the silver?”
“Do not tell me you have brought me here without doing the least bit of reconnaissance.”
“Might I remind you it was your dallying dilly dicked up to the point of requiring our assistance.”
“I hired DI Stoker, not your menagerie. A fact I freely admit was a gross miscalculation.” He grabbed the knocker and gave it a quick, vicious pound. Little wonder his lady friend fled both him and their child. “Soon to be rectified, if the residents of this nunnery haven’t already shuffled him off this mortal coil.”
Hiero took some heart in this most obvious of Shakespeare quotes. Perhaps Winterbourne wasn’t such a beast after all.
“None of the Daughters’ dark deeds would have been uncovered if not for DI Stoker’s efforts.”
“If only he’d unearthed some evidence to convict them with.”
He lifted his fist to pound again when the door creaked open. A lone brown eye peered through the crack, then shot wide. A spooked Sister Nora wordlessly bade them enter, curtseying with a deference that surprised Hiero. And had him wondering if this was the first time Winterbourne had visited Castleside, as he claimed. Given how quick she was to recognize him, Sister Nora was either as well versed in their clientele as Sister Juliet, or she’d had cause to escort him to her office before.
They hadn’t traveled ten paces before Sister Juliet herself appeared at the end of the long corridor, a queen awaiting her audience. Winterbourne instinctively slowed his stride, giving weight to his every step. If he was half the soldier everyone claimed, he’d be assessing the terrain, noting the house’s weak points and any lurking dangers. Hiero had warned him not to accept any food or drink and recommended not removing their gloves. Still, the charge in the atmosphere sparked Hiero’s nerves. He fought not to twitch at every skitter and rustle in the so-called holy house. The rattle of chains seemed to echo around him the closer he moved to the viper in chief.
Though they towered over her, Sister Juliet vibrated with command, a pious Napoleon poised to conquer their kingdoms. Hiero noted she’d wisely evolved from her air of touched innocence to a steely pacifism. As with all career dissimulators, she was smart enough to know no one could win if she kept changing the rules.
“Sir Hugh,” she greeted, her ice-blue eyes placid as a frozen lake. “To what do we owe the honor of your visit?”
“You know very well the reason I’ve come,” Winterbourne snarled. “The only question that remains is what you’re going to do about it.”
Never bring a hammer when a chisel will do, Hiero thought, cursing Winterbourne’s blunt nature. He rushed to save what little artifice remained in this gambit of his, stepping in front of the commissioner.
“Permit me to interpret.” Hiero raised his hands to shush her. “I’ve apprised Sir Hugh of the recent death amongst your... offspring, and he requires a full and thorough explanation.”
“Forgive my ignorance of the ways of the law.” Perhaps she hadn’t abandoned the wide-eyed innocent routine entirely. “But has DI Stoker not availed you of the results of his investigation?”
A telling gamble, to divide and conquer. Hiero moved aside to let Winterbourne answer. This he had prepared him for.
“He has, and they’ve proven most unsatisfactory. Much like my dealings with you.”
“Your dealings?” Sister Juliet feigned astonishment.
Her first mistake. Hiero stole a glance at Winterbourne, whose wan countenance had warmed into the red of stoked embers.
“Let us adjourn to your office,” he seethed through gritted teeth, “where we may discuss the matter fully.”
“As you wish,” she agreed, gracious as ever. “But if you mean to parrot the vile accusations of this thief and charlatan, I’ll insist on the presence of a witness.” She shot Sister Nora a meaningful look. Which, Hiero noted, inspired panic in her formerly faithful servant. “Interrogate us if you must, but I will not speak a word until what is ours is returned to us.”
On cue, Winterbourne turned on Hiero.
“What does she mean? What have you stolen?”
“Her box.” Hiero couldn’t help the upward curl of his lip. “Or rather, the fabled one belonging to Rebecca Northcote.”
“The first brick in a mighty foundation.” Sister Juliet reached out to grasp Winterbourne by the forearms in her influential way. “Our most sacred relic, pilfered by this heathen whilst pretending to be a priest.”
Hiero fixed his stare on Sister Juliet. “Little more than her prophetess’ mad ravings and a useless map.”
She whipped her head round, squinting at him with cold fury. Hiero gave a little wave to mask his grin.
“If that’s the case.” Winterbourne yanked his arms out of her grip. “I’ll require your full testimony. On this and the other affair.”
“Of course.” To her credit, she rallied seamlessly. “I’m happy to provide you with any and all answers you seek. So long as that man is not party to our conversation.”
Winterbourne gave curt nod. “Report to Constable Brooks back at the carriage. And while you wait, consider whether you might return the box to its rightful owners posthaste.”
“With gratitude, Sir Hugh.”
“Nora, see that he obeys,” Sister Juliet ordered, “then join us.”
After coiling her arms around his, Sister Juliet led Winterbourne to her lair. Sister Nora watched them go, her heart so transparent it was reflected in the shape of her face.
“Better, as they say, to have loved and lost,” Hiero counseled.
She bowed her head but couldn’t hide her upset.
“I’ve lost nothing but my moral compass. So everything.” She gestured toward the infirmary and, by consequence, the hell door. “This way.”
“Forgive me if I don’t care to be reentombed in your cellar.”
“Retire to the carriage if you must. But I dare say DI Stoker will be disappointed.” At his reaction, she dared a smile. “It’s him you’ve come for, is it not?”
“My dear girl.” Hiero choked back his relief, hoping upon hope it was not premature as he followed her. “Let me be the first to say heartache becomes you.”
Chapter 20
Astride a branch in a tall tree across the road from the Daughters’ garden, Callie found herself riveted by the red dawn. Against such a fiery canvass, Castleside resembled an embattled fortress in the highlands, the flames of the surrounding villagers’ torches roasting it alive. Flooded with crimson rivers of light, the garden stretched out—lush but empty—as though already slain. Only the Tree of Wisdom, whose leaf-laden boughs undu
lated in the breeze, remained animated.
The unlucky oak Callie perched in had just missed receiving the gift of the Daughters’ green thumbs. Solid but husklike, with shards of peeling bark and anemic leaves, the tree and its beyond-the-wall siblings proved there was some overseeing magic guiding the Daughters’ hands, at least where gardening was concerned.
Callie stretched out on her stomach, crossing her bent legs at the ankles and tapping her toes against the trunk of the craggy old oak. Decked in her Archie the Pageboy guise, she relished the scratch of the bark through her shirt, the snug of her breast binder, and the tickle of the ends of her slicked-back hair against her earlobes. Jie had sent her damaged corset for restructuring; she hoped it was beyond repair. She snickered as she imagined her dressmaker’s reaction to the ripped and deboned corset. Callie prayed it caused a scandal.
A low whistle from below snapped her back to attention. She braced herself as a carriage roared past, but the sturdy tree muted the reverberations.
“Sir Hugh, do you think?” she stage-whispered down to Han, who emerged from his surveillance spot in the nearby brush.
He nodded. “I spotted Hiero’s handkerchief around one of the spokes. How does it look?”
“No one about. But let me...”
She straddled the branch, gripping two strong-looking offshoots in order to gather one foot, then the other, beneath her. After shifting her weight toward the trunk, she stood, testing the bough’s support with a quick stomp. Skirting her fingers along higher branches to help balance, Callie walked out as far as she dared—which proved to be too far for Han’s liking. Or so she interpreted his grumbling.
“Anything of note?” he asked.
Her slight change in perspective opened up another world. Specifically two busy figures stuffing boxes and bags into a delivery wagon.
“Quite possibly.” She fell to her knees, swung around the branch, let her legs dangle a moment before dropping down to the road. She wished an artist had captured the expression on Han’s face, a flicker of awe and delight she would linger upon when alone. “Prepare yourself. The wagon is coming out.”
Callie threw on her coat and cap, fetched her revolver from the satchel they had stowed in the brush. Han patted each of his hidden pockets, checking for his knives, his horse whip, extra oil and matches, and of course their copy of the map. A small lantern hung from each of their belts in case they got separated. She wished they were better prepared, with bassinettes and blankets, and a rack to painstakingly stretch out a confession from the murderous fiend in question, but needs must. Part of her burned to bring this particular villain to justice. Part of her hoped they would find nothing.
“Who is it?”
“Sister Merry and Amos, with quite a bounty in tow.”
“A bounty of...?”
Callie shrugged. “They could be going to market. Or the orphan asylum.”
“Or fleeing.”
“A situation they may or may not be the cause of.”
“What’s our approach?”
Before she could answer, the gate swung open. and the horse trotted out, driverless. Well trained, it stopped when the wagon had cleared the gate. Callie let Han take the lead lest she be recognized. They walked around the far side to block any escape attempts. While Han poked his head over the back of the wagon to see what it contained, Callie snuck over and unlatched the horse. They couldn’t chance losing any suspects.
A scream brought her running back to Han to find Sister Merry near doubled over with laughter.
“Oh, you gave me a fright!” She pressed a steadying hand to her chest. “Amos...” She turned back to find no one in the yard behind her. “Amos! Where have you gone, sweet boy?”
“We mean you no harm,” Han reassured her. “We are associates of DI Stoker’s.” He produced a set of forged credentials that would have convinced the Queen. “Come to follow up on some evidence.”
“But the inspector...”
“Is indisposed. We know.” Han waited a pregnant beat before adding, “Our superior is with him now.”
Sister Merry’s look of surprise could not have been faked. She darted her stare back and forth between them, both hands now clasped to her breast.
“As the Mother wills it. I’m sure Sister Juliet has everything well in hand.” She flicked her eyes to the back of the wagon, their faces, the road to London. She cleared her throat. “Will you be needing any help with your inquiries?”
“Perhaps.” Han played up his enigmatic nature to full effect. “If you could begin by telling us where you’re going?”
She let out a blustery sigh. “Back to Suffolk, as the crow flies. No point in deceiving you. Leaving the garden’s like leaving one of my own, if I had ’un, but...” She threw up her hands. “If life’s taught me anything, it’s take care of yours. It were different when Rebecca guided us, but that time’s over.” She bustled back into the yard, calling for her brother. “Where’s that boy gone?”
“Told him your plan, did you?” Callie asked in her best Cockney basso profundo.
“It’s the critters. He don’t want to leave ’em.” They followed her over to the barn, which proved empty except for the animals. “Only ones here ever paid him any mind.”
“The other Daughters see him as a threat?”
“They’d never say as much, but we’ve been through this before. When the law can’t find someone to blame, they look to the easiest.”
“He’s had troubles with the law in the past, your brother?” Han asked, moving closer to emphasize the difference in their heights.
Sister Merry glared up at him, undaunted. “He has never hurt another living soul. I swear it on the Mother’s grace.”
Callie believed she believed it, but that was no answer.
“Mayhap you could help us since you’ve been delayed.”
Sister Merry firmed her chin. “What do you need?”
“Directions.” Han unfurled the map from one of his hidden pockets. “To the cellar beneath the farmhouse.”
“The what now?” Her surprise appeared just as genuine as before, but Callie edged toward unconvinced. “Oh, the grain room. Nothing down there but bags of feed.”
“No bother for us to examine it, then,” she countered.
“‘Examine,’ eh?” Sister Merry straightened her posture, crossing her arms beneath her breasts. Finally the matron emerged from her jolly, accommodating persona. “What’s it worth to you?”
Callie and Han shared a look, then he asked, “What’s your price?”
“I should think that be obvious: liberty.”
“Not in the habit of letting suspects escape.” Callie scoffed. “Boss wouldn’t approve.”
“Suspects, is it?” Sister Merry scowled. “Aye, you’re like all the rest. All the dippy little princesses Juliet invites into our ranks with an eye to Papa’s billfold. But the ones used to real work—the scullery maids and cress sellers and beggars and tarts—they never get to ascend, do they? Just shuck them and send them back to the hell they come from. And us, stuck with their get.” She growled under her breath. “What reason have Amos or me to interfere with the likes of them? We come from dirt, and to dirt we return. Who are you to stand in our way?”
Han raised a pacifying hand. “If you fear we mean to scapegoat your brother...”
“Not you. Them.” She glared toward Castleside but softened to a wistful look as she took in the garden. “I grew this patch from the roots, I did. It weren’t nothing but a tree and a fallow field before I came. Haven’t known a day’s rest since I was spat into this world.” She shook her head. “If he’s the cause, you’ll not take him from me. I’ve seen enough in my long years of life. I’ll not see him hang.”
They waited out her anguish, wondering if she’d just made her brother’s confession. Callie cursed herself for using her Archie guise, wishing she could call upon her sisterly compassion without sounding a false note. In the end Han closed in on her, the solidity of his poise and s
ize reassuring her as it had Callie so many times.
“Show us the grain room.”
She nodded, chin still jutted up in defiance.
A frantic knock at the door woke Tim. Sister Zanna leapt from the chair by his bedside to answer. Tim lifted his eyelids to a slit to observe them. A Daughter he recognized as the nursery attendant, looking spectral with her white skin on white uniform and round, spooked black eyes, whispered a message into Sister Zanna’s ear. They sped off. Neglecting to shut the door, but, after craning his head over the side of the bed, Tim saw the infirmary beyond was empty.
Though he still felt as if a rhinoceros had charged into his sternum, its savage horn tearing up his throat and crushing his windpipe, his alertness was improved after so much sleep. His fever had broken in the dawn hours. Weak from the stress of the case and the arduous poisoning, three bowls of porridge and fruit that morning had done their work restoring some of his strength. Enough to ease himself into a seated position, waiting for the world to still and his breaths to even before peeling back the sheets. He slipped his still-raw legs over the edge, testing them on the cold wood floor. His clothes lay folded atop the medical cabinet across the room. Conscious of the seconds ticking away and the wheeze in his breaths, Tim inched his way down to the bottom of the bed before daring to stand.
The screech of panicked voices in a nearby room nudged him on. He planted two hands on the lower board, then hoisted himself up. Ten breaths to steady, ten to recover. Every speck of him longed to kiss the floor except the small part that contemplated a leg amputation. He reached out for the cabinet. Too far. Shuffling his feet one by one until his anchor arm fully extended, he tried again. Too far. Frustration quickened his breaths; he wanted to dive back in the bed, pull the covers over his head, and not emerge for a decade.
Instead Tim lunged. He slammed his forearms on the edge of the cabinet, shouted into his clamped teeth and lips. Fell onto the window in the cabinet front, scrambling to stay upright, but didn’t break the glass. Just as he grabbed for his clothes, his knees gave way. Fortunately he brought his suit down with him.