by Selina Kray
Tim lifted a hand to quiet her. “But you put the others in the ground. Why not this one?”
Amos shifted away from his sister, cowering by Han’s legs.
“It wasn’t right, Merry. Them little ’uns was suffering. It wasn’t right to give ’em the blessing.”
“The blessing? You mean the laudanum?”
“Aye. Babes need milk. Need to grow. Not...” He violently shook his head. “It wasn’t right!”
“You’ve done well, Amos. Thank you.” Tim focused his attention on Sister Merry, who stood fast against his scrutiny with a stern, closed visage. “‘Though this be madness, yet there is method in ’t.’ Shakespeare understood villainous ways better than most. To commit a crime of this nature is the height of lunacy, but there is reason embedded in its execution. A gentle soul such as Amos could not have planned and carried out such an elaborate deception. Not alone. And, in my opinion, not at all.”
A chorus of gasps from the other Daughters. Sister Merry lunged at Amos, screaming and cursing, arm raised to deliver a battering blow. Amos, cowering, scrabbled behind Han.
A shot rang out, exploding the grass between them. Everyone froze.
Callie strode forward until her revolver was aimed point-blank at Sister Merry’s head. Han hurried Amos away over to Sister Nora, who welcomed him into a consoling hug. Both wept, the day’s misery-making revelations too heavy to bear.
“You would beat the brother who’s kept your secret all this time?” Callie hissed at Merry. “Depended on you for everything. No family, no place, no home without you. And who would believe him if he tried to tell? He was your original victim, powerless, trapped in a hell he couldn’t escape. But he found a way.”
Sister Merry turned and spit in her face. Callie pressed the barrel of the gun between her eyes until a grunt from Han forced her slight retreat.
“I never asked for this!” Sister Merry cried. “Not him, millstone round my neck. Not our new mission, straying from our Holy Mother’s wishes. Our Rebecca never would have approved! Not the endless wailing of the needy whelps we kept who killed Dad and ruined Mum. Kept me from the fields, doomed to watch my brothers let them wilt. Kept me from the land I loved. But always a greedy mouth to steal the milk from my cup. Always one, two, three squalling brats to bounce on my hips till I couldn’t barely stand. Their crying ringing through my head day and night till I forgot my own name!
“I thought here, finally, I’d find some peace, but then she”—she stabbed a finger at Sister Juliet—“stole it all away! More hungry mouths, more caterwauling, mums and babes both! The gall of her to say Mother Eve wanted this... this...” Her voice cracked. “And now my garden is burning! All Rebecca’s good work. All my pains and aches, my raw hands, my crabby knees, my knotty back... None of those little demons was ever going to replace Her! None of them’s anything but food for worms!”
“Enough!” Sir Hugh bellowed, his handsome face contorted into the most anguished expression Tim had ever seen. “Get her from my sight.”
Sister Merry had the gall to scoff. “I won’t answer to a man who sells his mistress and child for sainthood. Wouldn’t be a scourge of infants if your ilk cared for their own.” She knelt down in the middle of the petal wreath, gazed up into the tree’s billowing boughs. “There’s only one who can judge me now.” She steepled her hands in prayer. “Bless me, Mother!”
Only when she threw her head back did Tim spot the tiny bottle clasped between her palms. He let out a shout. Callie dropped her gun and raced forward, but the deed was done. Sister Merry’s face swelled a violent red. Spasms wracked her as she choked, slumped to the ground.
“No, Merry! No!” Amos wrestled away from Sister Nora, fell down at her side.
“Sweet boy,” Sister Merry wheezed, then sank into the grass.
The sound of Amos’s wails echoed across the garden. Tim heard only the giggles of the all the babes she had wronged, their souls finally at peace.
Chapter 23
Hiero stared down into the solemn little face of Felix, the babe he cradled. Short-lashed, boat-shaped eyes fluttered as he slept, oblivious to all but the heat that coddled him. His life was only a few days old and already tumultuous—kidnapping, attempted murder, almost buried alive. Hiero kept waiting for someone claim him, but the few Daughters busied themselves with caring for their patients. In the corridor beyond, the chatter of officers could be heard attempting to interview and reassure dozens of expectant mothers while dodging their questions, along with Callie enumerating, at top volume to Winterbourne, all the reasons why the Daughters should be permitted to continue on despite Sister Juliet’s arrest.
Though his instinct was to spirit them all away once the Yard took the lead, Hiero knew Kip was not well enough to travel even the few short hours to Berkeley Square. After allowing Sister Zanna to redo the recovery work his obstinacy and—it had to be said—tenaciousness wrecked, Kip had given over to slumber. Hiero, not about to leave his side while they were still in enemy territory, had snuck a rocking chair into the quiet corner where Kip rested, hoping no one inquired about his back.
Despite the nose hair-withering stench of the poultice coating Kip’s chest, Hiero felt his eyelids drooping as he rocked, the warmth of the babe in his arms and his empty brandy glass conspiring against him. To say nothing of his exhaustion. When a hand landed on his shoulder, he barely even startled. A familiar ruddy face peered over him.
“All’s well, Mr. Bash?” Angus asked, grinning down at the babe. “And who’s this, then?”
“The Daughters have named him Felix, though it doesn’t suit.”
“Handsome fellow, he is.” Hiero didn’t mistake the wistfulness in his eyes. “I’ve refitted the back of the carriage, as Mr. Han suggested. Soon as DI Stoker feels up to it, of course.”
“I fear it will be some time yet before our business is concluded. Care to sit?”
Angus hesitated, eyes only for the boy. “Reminds me of our wee Ting, he does.” He nudged a finger into one of the little hands. “Is the mother not about?”
“Returned to her post, it seems.” Hiero sighed. “Like so many of us, he’s alone in the world.”
“He’s not spoken for? A looker like him?”
Hiero watched the emotions play across Angus’s broad-jawed face, letting him come to his own conclusions. When none were forthcoming, he pressed the issue.
“And will we be hearing some happy news from you and Jie soon?”
Angus, ever good-natured, chuckled. “You know very well that after the last time...” He blew out a breath. “A few hours longer, you say? Long enough for me to ride home and back?”
“If you care to make the journey twice.”
He shrugged. “Was gonnae have to with DI Stoker in a bad way. Won’t be two ticks.”
Hiero couldn’t help but smile as he raced off. He dropped a kiss to the babe’s brow, welcoming him to the family. A strained chuckle from the cot drew his attention.
“You can’t save them all,” Kip rasped, his voice a shadow of its former self.
“How well I know it. But this charming one we did save.” His gaze met Kip’s moss-green eyes, red rimmed and squinted with fatigue but ever bright. “And before you object, I have plans for the mothers as well.”
“Sister Zanna?”
“Yes. If this haunted place can be rehabilitated. If not, elsewhere.”
“Good. Their work should continue. Minus the zealotry and torture.”
“Precisely my thinking. Or rather her thinking, bankrolled by a consortium of patrons Callie and I will marshal.” Hiero snickered to himself. “I rather think Winterbourne will be in for a hefty donation.”
“I fear you may be disappointed on that account.”
“I can be very persuasive. I’ve even been known to draw blood from the boulder-minded yobs at the Yard.”
“As Superintendant Quayle reminds me at every opportunity.” They shared a laugh, eyes only for each other. Hiero itched to take his Kip’s hand, wishing there we
re a cradle near for the first time since their ordeal.
“Who would I be if I abandoned these women after ruining their one chance to offer their children a proper start?” Hiero said, returning to his favorite topic: himself.
“You did not see the orphan asylum.” A coughing fit overtook Kip, but he had not spoken his last on the subject. “Perhaps for the best if you aim to rehouse every babe who gleams its eyes at you.”
“I do have a fondness for strays.”
“It also appears that despite many protestations to the contrary, you are a good man.”
This sobered Hiero. “I have not been, in the past. Timothy, you must never forget that.”
“‘Timothy’? Oh, dear. Am I in for a scolding?”
“I have cheated. I have swindled. I have stolen and lied and... well.” Hiero pressed into the rocking chair, the sizzles around the edges of his back a painful reminder. “But perhaps, through our work, I might find a measure of grace. Even I can find it in me to believe in that.”
Kip considered this. “Ours is not a kind, or a just, or a patient world. But it is ours, and we must make of it what we can.”
He beamed at him then, and Hiero wished again they were at home alone.
A second shadow fell across Hiero, this one less familiar. Ghost of Future Perils, perhaps?
“I don’t care to remind you to be quiet again, DI Stoker,” Sister Zanna chided. “Bed rest and only necessary communication for at least a fortnight.”
Kip nodded, chastened.
“And I expect you, as his... accomplice of some sort? To respect the demands of his health,” she continued. “Understood?”
Hiero dutifully bowed his head, thinking of all the things he could do to with Kip’s talented mouth to distract him from his aches.
“Your wish is my command.”
Sister Zanna harrumphed but made no further protest. With her hair wrapped in a messy scarf bun—she, and many of the Daughters, had unraveled their winged plaits upon Sister Juliet’s arrest—and her apron askew, she appeared in her element. She’d barreled through the events of the day with the fortitude of a war nurse and now, victorious, effortlessly led the charge.
“I’m afraid this one is due for a look-over.” She pinched his golden cheek, then eased him out of Hiero’s arms. “Can’t be too careful at this age.”
“If you must. But don’t stray too far, if you please. Now he’s found a home, it wouldn’t do to lose him.”
“Has he? That was fast work.” Sister Zanna clicked her tongue as the babe began to fuss. “I’ll see he gets a bath. Have him smelling fresh for his new parents.” She scrutinized Hiero as she bounced him. “And you, Mr...?”
“Bash.”
“Ah! How fitting.” Her lips curled into a cautious smile. “Your back, I’m told, suffered some abuse. If you’d care to join me in the examination room?” She misinterpreted Hiero’s scoff as condescension. “Or we could summon your personal physician.”
“No need,” Kip interceded. “The only victim of the blast was Mr. Bash’s jacket, the shirt beneath quite intact.”
“And the smoke.” Sister Zanna sighed, unimpressed. “Let me fetch you a poultice.”
Hiero shook his head, letting his distaste mask his worry.
“Another brandy would be capital. Otherwise I’ll continue my vigil until the Yard requires me.”
“‘Vigil.’” Kip snorted. “Not rid of me yet.”
“Necessary communication only,” Sister Zanna reminded him before taking her leave.
As soon as she’d disappeared into the examination room, Hiero slid—well, staggered—over to the cot and perched on the edge. He adjusted his posture until it felt like only his sides scraped like a knife over sharpening leather. He angled his legs to conceal how he twined his inner hand with Kip’s. He brushed his thumb over callused knuckles, wishing they could speak freely, and not just for medical reasons.
“Promise me you’ll have someone see to your back,” Kip murmured. “And not Han.”
Hiero nodded. “I’ll have one of Apollo’s old acquaintances call when we return. He is discreet. Of our tribe.”
“Good.” Kip exhaled a wheezing breath. “Hiero—”
“Shh. Be a good boy, and you’ll have your treat.”
He stroked the underside of Kip’s hand, then turned it over. A whirl of Hiero’s wrist, and Sister Juliet’s necklace dangled from his fingers. The diary key swung like a pendulum until it landed in Kip’s palm.
Kip coughed around his squeak of delight. He pointed to his discarded jacket, from which Hiero retrieved the diary. A click of the lock, and the pages were laid out before them, a buffet of secrets for Kip to feast on until he was hale and hardy once more. Hiero, enacting the part of podium, canted the book toward the light as Kip searched for the answer to the one mystery left to solve. His skimming finger came to an abrupt halt, underlining a certain entry as his mind checked and double-checked its facts.
Hiero could have eaten the resulting smile with a spoon.
“Fetch Sir Hugh,” he urged with the last of his voice, sending Hiero off with an affectionate squeeze.
Callie caught the tiny hand that threatened to tug off her wig, kissed it to mask her annoyance. She couldn’t blame the little mite—the recent purchase, a spring-curled flaming red to contrast with her wavy blonde society persona, itched like mad. Coarse and overly perfumed, she resisted the urge to scratch the back of her neck rawer than it already was. If the heat flush that spread over her shoulders was any indication, her skin probably matched her wig. If only higher collars were in fashion.
She stifled a growl when the boy sneezed into her shoulder. Shahida, sensing how close Callie was to breaking character—and the obsequious smile on Mr. Crook’s face—rushed to scoop him out of her arms. Callie mined the last reserves of her patience as she petted his scraggly head and gazed adoringly at the son the philandering Sir Hugh did not deserve.
Not that she wished this boy, or any child, dead. But she kept the memory of the babe who had died close to her heart, having the previous day delivered the news of Sister Merry’s cruel treatment of him to his harried and dismissive father. They hadn’t been able to locate his mother. Callie privately thought this a mercy. Shahida had suggested knowing what became of her son might only crush what was left of her spirit, and Callie could not disagree. She wanted to be glad of Sir Hugh taking responsibility for his child, since so many others did not, but could not overlook the actions that had led them to the orphan asylum that afternoon. Could not help but wonder if a creature like Sister Merry was born out of the impulses of rich, callous men.
Then she recalled Sir Hugh had offered Amos Scaggs a position on his gardening staff, where by all accounts he was settled and content, and found the poise necessary to take his arm as they left the asylum.
As soon as they’d rounded the corner where the carriages were parked, Sir Hugh cleared his throat. Not once but four times. He released her to seek out his handkerchief, turning his face away. After a flurry of sniffling and dabbing that had Callie clutching to her antipathy with strained fists, Sir Hugh reached to Shahida.
“Give him here.” He crushed the boy to him.
Looking at them, no one could doubt their similarities, even if the little lad favored his mother’s coloring. A spark of hope lit in Callie’s chest, for which she was grateful. These errands of Tim’s, which she’d brashly taken on whist he convalesced, had given her a greater respect for the demands of his position. Little wonder he preferred chasing down possessed fangs and cracking codes to playing nurse to society’s troubled.
“Miss Pankhurst, I am in your debt.” Sir Hugh, having collected himself but not relinquished the boy, bowed in her direction.
“If you feel you owe me anything, let it be allegiance to our mutual friend. Protect him, that our work may continue.”
“You have my word of honor.”
“Then I wish you and...” She smirked at the boy, already asleep on his fa
ther’s shoulder. “What will you name him?”
“Jonah, after my bother.”
“Spat back from the bowels of a whale. Perfect.”
They parted ways as they reached the carriages, Sir Hugh spiriting Jonah off to his new life. Shahida fell in beside her as they watched them go, a wry expression curving her lips.
“You could do worse.”
Callie scoffed. “He’d have me hosting soirees and serving as some duchess’s lapdog before I could blink.” She pried out one of the pins holding her wig in place, then scrubbed the end under her ear.
“He’s gentle. Righteous. Well placed but not too well placed.”
“Do pass the cyanide.”
Shahida laughed, but it didn’t meet her eyes.
“You’ve been granted many liberties. Many in lower circumstances would envy that. Mind you don’t forget it.”
Callie, chastened, hooked her by the arm. She glanced down at Shahida’s belly, just beginning to round out, and made a silent vow.
“Never.”
The door to their carriage clattered open, and Han poked his head out.
“Though I do agree. You can do much better,” Shahida whispered when Han hopped out onto the street.
Callie elbowed her in the side as they moved to join him.
“All’s well that ends well?” he asked.
“For wee Jonah Winterbourne, I daresay yes,” Callie replied.
“Then all is as it should be.” He broke into an uncharacteristic grin, one Callie found she couldn’t move away from. Until she heard Shahida’s snort. “Where to?”
“Hyde Park.” She took Han’s hand as she climbed into the carriage, wishing she could ride up front with him.
But then Callie spotted her mother’s elated face and settled in beside her.
“I’d have thought you’d had your fill of gardens,” Han remarked, lingering in the doorway.
“I’m not as partial to them as some.” She glanced at Lillian, rosy cheeked and restored from her ordeal. “But it would do us all good to take a bit of air.”
“I bow to your wisdom.” Han spared her a wink before taking the carriage reins.