Chapter 29
Warm air caressed Maeve’s neck as she slowly opened her eyes to a coffered ceiling of rich brown wood. It had to be night; a candle flame flickering in the periphery seemed to be the only light source. Slowly, she trailed a hand along the top of a velvet duvet tucked tightly around her sides, then up over the top buttons of a nightgown, to her bare throat.
It ached from thirst. She needed water. Her fingers raced to pull down the bedclothes. Her fingers .
Each knuckle on her left hand was covered with a thick knot of gauze caked in a gray paste. It smelled of antiseptic mixed with pungent herbs and—was that crematory ash? She brought it closer to her nose. Yes, it was ash. At least three satchels’ worth. Maybe more, since there was some smeared along her wrist. Her fingers ached a small amount, but nothing like before.
Pushing the covers off her, Maeve swung her bare ankles over the side of a bed so enormous, she had to scoot forward before her toes touched the floor. Her nightgown shifted up, exposing a leg with a long bruise up one side, where Mr.Braithwaite’s cane had cracked down.
She ran a finger over the bruise, then up, along the filmy edge of her nightgown.
How she got into said nightgown, she didn’t want to think about. There was no sign of her clothes anywhere—
The love letter.
Her leather saddlebag lay tucked beside the bed, her skirt and blouse folded below it.
She lunged toward the pile, regretting the sudden movement when a wave of dizziness took hold. After a few deep breaths, she inched her way to the bag and searched the skirt pockets until the worn envelope crinkled against her palm. She hugged it to her chest before stuffing it back down the pocket. The next order of business was her thirst.
Simple enough, but the room tilted as she stood, forcing her to walk her hands along the wood-paneled wall to the lavatory, where she braced herself against a porcelain sink and looked in the mirror.
The degree of dreadfulness she felt was nothing compared to her reflection.
Her cheeks were as pale as a dinner plate, while her lips still carried a dark tint from the ink. Her hair was the only thing not deterred by the near-death experience. It fluffed around her in a wild tangle of curls.
Maeve rinsed her mouth, then gulped down an entire cup of water. The moment she slipped her fingers from the sink, she lost her balance and fell, landing on her back.
A door creaked open, and Tristan craned over her, shirt rumpled and face covered in days-old stubble. Her heart leapt at the sight of him. “Lo and behold, the great slumberer has awakened at last.”
The low pitch of his voice brought back memories of her narrow escape from that hellish barn, how he must have found her using a tracking scribing. Then something new occurred to her. Fion Claryman had seen Nan’s article by now and given up her real name. That was why Tristan had tracked her after swearing he wouldn’t. It had to be. He must have believed it was either him or the constabulary, and wanted to get to her first.
But if that were true, he would know whose daughter she was.
Maeve waited for him to volunteer it, but he didn’t. Did he not know who she was?
Suddenly filled with nerves, unsure of how to act, Maeve brought a hand to her wild hair. “I must look like a creature from the depths of hell.”
“No. Never ,” he said, then brushed a tuft from her forehead. He checked her temperature with the back of his hand. “Still feverish.”
“I feel like I may die.”
“You almost did die. Twice now in the past three days, if memory serves.”
Three days?
He helped her to the edge of the bed, and she sat down hard, facing a small table she hadn’t noticed before—with a stack of books beside a crumb-covered plate. Another book sat open on an old club chair.
“My room is down the hall, but you had a most impressive fever and couldn’t be left alone for long,” he volunteered.
Still no mention of Fion Claryman.
Maeve fixed her eyes on her knees, acutely aware of her thin nightgown, how near he stood. “Where am I?”
“The Widdens’ country house.”
“Shea’s here?”
“And Nan.”
Maeve tensed, thinking of the newspaper article.
“Nobody else?” she asked, expecting Tristan to say an officer was downstairs ready to place her in restraints.
His brow furrowed. “It’s just us.”
That made no sense. She hesitated, then asked, “What happened with the newspaper article—about Abenthy’s roommate?”
“The article Nan wrote?”
“Yes. I—I read it right after the exhibition. I guessed it was hers from the pen name.”
He nodded. “She’s annoyingly proud of it, though we’re not allowed to speak of it to anyone because she doesn’t want her clandestine activities to somehow get back to a steward. It caused a small stir, and the Post released the roommate’s name—some professor in Barrow who ran off before anyone could question him.”
Before.
Fion never gave her away. Tristan still didn’t know who she was.
“Aren’t you curious how I found you?” he asked.
“I already know how,” she said, that sting returning. “You heard that I broke into your father’s office and hunted me down.” After promising you never would.
“My father was furious. He sent several people to track Eilidh Hill.” His mouth twitched as he said the name. “I heard they found her, and she described meeting you at the testing location weeks ago. They pieced everything together. Then I had to sit through an hour-long interrogation where they questioned me about everything you ever said to me, which wasn’t particularly difficult given how cagey you’ve been. I didn’t mention the fact that you were looking for that confiscated journal.”
Her eyes snapped to his.
“I’m very curious to know why you risked everything for it,” he said.
Of course he was, but she pressed her lips together, reluctant to say a thing.
He’d tracked her.
His forehead creased to a frown. “Very well. Fill me in later if you want. We have time. Several loggerheads at the Post are searching for you, but it’s rather difficult to find anyone without a name.” He came closer. “I never gave it up.”
He seemed proud of that fact.
And it would mean a great deal if he hadn’t hunted her without her permission. He had saved her life, but he broke her trust.
“Has anyone thought to come looking for me here?” she asked. It came out sounding harsh.
He noticed. “No one. After word got out about your break-in, I ran into Nan, and she was as worried as I was. I told her that I planned to search for you. Shea—Shea doesn’t think very highly of me, but she happens to like you for some unfathomable reason, and after I explained why you’d snuck inside the Post, she offered up this house to use in case I found you. Then she invited Nan here to help get over the fact that a criminal mastermind had posed as her roommate,” he said with a half laugh. “The stewards sent them with a fruit basket and a bottle of punch and gave them a week off of duties.”
A pit formed in Maeve’s stomach. Nan cared about her, but what was stopping Nan from turning in another article? What was stopping any of them from running to the constabulary?
“Do Nan or Shea know my first name?”
Tristan gave her a strange look. “Of course not.”
A small comfort.
The bed compressed as he sat beside her and lifted her left hand, unwinding the gauze bandage, rubbing her knuckles gently between his thumb and forefinger. Ash flaked off.
“Where did you get all the ash?” Maeve asked, mostly to keep her mind from dwelling on how near he sat, how her body wanted to lean into him, while her mind warned her away.
“Shea’s grandfather was a scriptomancer with the university some forty years ago and kept a worktable in the attic with a large supply of it. It’s the only reason you’re breathing right now.”
That wasn’t entirely true. Tristan had played a large part in saving her. She owed him a great debt that could never be repaid. And yet—and yet she wanted to race out the bedroom door.
She must be broken beyond repair to be hurt by such a thing as a boy coming to her rescue, but she couldn’t help how she felt. This was her reality, and she was foolish to believe it could be any different.
Tristan took her chin, forcing her to look at him. She flinched. “If you don’t tell me what’s the matter this instant, I’m tempted to find a piano and make you stand atop it and sing.”
Maeve hesitated, then said, “Why did you track me?”
He tilted his head. “Ah. So that’s what this is about.”
She didn’t realize she was crying until Tristan wiped away her tear. His other hand came up and cradled her jaw. Her breathing notched up at the gentle touch, and a sharp wave of desire reminded her of the press of his body in Molly’s Keep, the heat of his fingers as they’d stoked across her belly. “I think you should go,” she whispered, not trusting herself.
“Maeve—”
“ Now .”
He gave a single nod, then pulled away and walked to the door. Halfway through it, he pressed his forehead to the jamb, then turned to her. “The night you disappeared, I rode to the constabulary looking for you and came across a frantic Mr.Braithwaite from Alewick, who said a girl in courier’s raiment matching your description had taken off into the snow, that she might be demon-possessed. I rode through the night, searching every roadway until I found you the following morning. Yes, a tracking scribing would have certainly saved me many torturous hours, but I didn’t use one because I swore to you I wouldn’t.”
Maeve stared at him, speechless.
“Now get some sleep. We’ll catch up in the morning.”