February 4, 1889 Morning #2
Looking back, it was impossible to know if his leniency in raising them was due to ignorance, his own grief, or a desire for them to have some happiness after such a great sadness, but regardless of the reason it had left them with a deficiency of manners.
Loretta, on the other hand, was already working out her children’s education. Georges would get an apprenticeship, and she would arrange for a tutor for Jean-Marie and a governess for Clarisse. She was making plans for dance lessons and negotiating with tailors and dressmakers for new wardrobes.
For years the Lavignes hadn’t had the option to follow the social standard because of the debts left by Mssr. Lavigne.
But now there was an opportunity to improve their circumstances and Loretta was primed to take it.
Conforming to social expectations seemed to come naturally to her, though perhaps that was because in doing so she ensured a better future for her children.
As for Mira, she still struggled to remember everything that was expected of her.
Walker did too. Would it have been different if their parents hadn’t died?
Their father came from a well-established family.
Had their mother cared about propriety and status?
Or would she have had the same attitude that Mira did about hairstyles and hats?
Would Mira be less anxious for this party with the Renaldis?
“Mira?”
She looked up at the sound. Her uncle was looking at her expectantly.
“Sorry, what was that?”
“I asked if you’d talked with Mr. Constantine about this evening.”
“Oh. Yes. He should be here in time to walk with us.”
“Good. Good.”
***
Mira spent the rest of the morning unpacking and helping her aunt with the odd task.
Sometime in the afternoon she hid away in the library, settling onto a rug near the hearth with a stack of letters.
Most of them were addressed to Palace Court.
As an independent detective, Byron had correspondence from all sorts of people.
Since he’d been gone for almost three months, the letters about cases and leads piled up.
She had taken about half of the stack of envelopes to sort through, but there hadn’t been time to chip away at them yet with all the unpacking and excitement. They’d only been back in London for a day. Letter opener in hand, she set to work on thinning the pile.
First, she discarded the obvious advertisements and ordered the remaining correspondence by postmark deciding it would be best to work from the earliest and move forward.
Some of the leads she came across had definite timeframes that were already long past. Those, she set aside.
The aim was to find any communications that merited immediate response.
The rest could wait until they had time to write an apology for being out of the country.
It didn’t take long before she came upon some information that made her pause.
It was from the police in Reading. The two thieves Byron had helped to capture back in November, Charles Montague and Aaron Dennis, had escaped.
They had worked under Selene and possibly under Circe before that.
They’d broken out on December twentieth, just before their court martial trial was to be held.
Mira had visited them in early December at the prison in Reading to ask about Selene’s potential whereabouts in Paris.
She bit her lip as she read over the note again.
Montague, or Monty as he was called, had been incredibly cooperative.
Dennis was the bigger worry. Something about the man hadn’t set well with Mira at the time, especially after learning that Dennis had pulled a knife on Byron.
He was violent and had a vengeful streak.
She set the letter to the side, as something to be dealt with sooner rather than later. She glanced at the clock. It was almost time to get ready for the party, but she found it difficult to stop. A little lower in the stack, she came across a missive that made her stomach turn.
Detective Constantine,
If you are reading this, I am dead.
Her eyes flicked to the bottom of the page and she found the name Selene Vermielle in cursive script. She brought a hand to her mouth, memories of the thief’s death in the catacombs flooding back. The blood, the dust, the bones. She forced the images away and kept reading.
Durant has just visited me, and I fear that he will not keep his promises.
Even if he does, it is only a matter of time before Circe decides I am a loose thread that needs cutting.
You must know that everything I have done has been in self-preservation.
But my loyalty to Circe has long faded. If they kill me I do not want the knowledge I carry to follow me to the grave.
The handwriting was shaky, as if written in a hurry. Mira couldn’t imagine what Selene had felt as she wrote it. She herself felt sick just reading it.
That is my purpose for writing this letter.
I wish to tell you everything I know of the organization.
Unfortunately, the bulk of my understanding is limited to the Crescent.
I also wish I knew the identity of the Serpent, but I was never privy to that information.
I don’t know how much you know about the Crescent, so I shall tell you everything I know.
Selene had told them about the hierarchy of Circe in the Gallerie de Mestra back in December.
The organization was split into three guilds: the Crescent was over the thieves, the Cypress over the murderers, and the Crossroads was over the smugglers.
Each was headed by an individual who operated under a code name.
The Serpent, the Hound, and the Charger, respectively.
And of course, Mira knew now that the Charger was her own godfather.
First, you should know that there are two types of thieves: those who work independently and those who work with a gang.
Both are subject to the whims of the Crescent.
Most of the time gangs and independent thieves can steal as they like without some grand master plan from the Serpent.
Sometimes, they may even believe that they are free of the organization.
But when Circe has need of them, they are obligated to answer.
If a thief refuses to help, there are dire consequences. The Serpent has leverage on each of the gangs and has operatives that will find compromising information on any independent thieves that are too successful.
Second, you should know how the Crescent uses thefts for their gain.
Circe rarely needs something stolen just for the sake of money.
More often they will use burglaries as a means to cover up or distract from other crimes.
You know this as distraction was their object during the Pennington mystery that brought our fates together.
Mira nodded along as she read. Selene had burglarized Pennington’s flat so he would reveal the location of a secret cache to the Shadow. Then Selene had committed several other burglaries in the area to keep the police searching for her instead.
The Serpent sometimes recruits from outside the usual circle if they believe it will help the cause.
For instance, the Crescent often hires unskilled thugs with the intention of them being arrested.
Designated scapegoats that keep the police diverted while more dangerous operations are put in place.
Circe also calls upon thieves of the Crescent when a specific item needs to be stolen or if an independent thief or gang has a particular skill that would be useful in a larger scheme.
You can assume that most gangs and thieves in England have worked with Circe at one point or another. The network is vast, but I do have a list of some key players. At least the ones I have worked with or have heard rumors about.
The Forty Elephants
The Lambeth Lads
Henry Mayhew
Joseph Carney
Norine Askew
Jonathan Wallace
Terrence Wheeler
Francis McKenzie
Minnie Porter
Felix Boltzmann
Dante Paolini
Augustin Lafaille
Mira skimmed over the list. She didn’t recognize any of them, but maybe Byron would.
I will give this letter to a trusted clerk, who is not involved in Circe, to send in case of my death.
If all goes well, you will never read this.
But if you do, consider it my apology for what I must do later this evening.
I don’t wish you or Miss Blayse ill, I hope you realize that.
I have no choice. If I refuse, Durant will kill me.
If I do as he says, I might have my freedom.
As scant of a chance as it is, I must take it.
Please forgive me.
Selene Vermielle
She tucked the letter back into the envelope.
Selene was wrong. There was always a choice.
And Selene had chosen to help them, even knowing that the mark of death hung over her.
Now, because of her foresight, they had a lead on the Crescent!
They might be able to cripple Circe even further. Her death needn’t be in vain.
She stood, rushing out the door, passing Walker on the stairs.
“Where are you headed?” he asked.
“Palace Court!” she called over her shoulder.
“But what about—”
She left before he finished his sentence, grabbing her coat and dashing out into the London chill. There wasn’t time to stop and chat. They had some leads! Some real leads.
She called for a cab and paid in advance, settling into the seat. Halfway there she realized her mistake. The party! Would she have enough time to make it to Palace Court and back and still have time to dress? Calculations flooded her mind.
It was ten minutes to Palace Court by hansom, twenty minutes gone with there and back.
And it would take fifteen to walk to the Renaldi’s, so they would need to leave by quarter to seven at the latest to still be on time.
That would leave just about fifty minutes for her to get ready.
Would that be enough time? Especially with how particular the Renaldis were about decorum?
Goodness, Walker was still earning their esteem. What if she didn’t make it in time? Would they judge him based on her actions?
What if Byron had already left for Swan Walk? Or even worse, what if he had forgotten about the engagement and wasn’t ready himself?
The cab slowed in front of Palace Court and her nerves calmed by the slightest degree.
The lights were on. That meant he was home.
And she’d made good time. Perhaps she would be fit to be seen for the party.
She certainly wasn’t ready as she was. Her walking dress was wrinkled from unpacking all day and she hadn’t done anything with her hair.
Her curls were bobbing about all over the place. But it didn’t matter. They had a lead!
She opened the door, calling for him as she came into the sitting room. “Byron? One of your letters—”
Her words caught in her throat as she took in the scene.
Byron stood by the mantle, fully dressed in evening wear, eyes wide as he glanced between her and the other occupants of the room.
His brother, Castel Sherard, sat in the armchair next to the hearth with a sly smirk on his face and two women sat on the sofa that faced the window.
She was in full view of them all as they stared at her.
The younger of the two women had red hair with streaks of grey in it, pulled into an updo with frizzy curls cascading down. She glared at Mira, her nose wrinkling, as if she was affronted that Mira had interrupted.
The older sat closest to Castel. She was trim and petite.
Her silver hair peeked out from under her lace cap and her blue eyes betrayed no emotion beneath rimmed spectacles.
She simply looked Mira up and down and turned to Byron, saying, “Castel mentioned a girl. I didn’t realize she was so . . . familiar with you.”
Mira’s face burned, her mind going blank.
Byron cleared his throat. “Yes, Mamma. This . . . this is Samira Blayse. Miss Blayse, this is my mother, Mary Haughton Clarke Sherard, and my sister, Mary.”
His mother hummed. “And what is the situation that seemed more important than dressing oneself for the day? Or knocking, for that matter?”
Another rush of warmth came over her. This was not how she intended to meet Byron’s mother.
Not that she had particularly thought about the prospect.
Yes, she’d thought in general about what a relationship with a fictional mother-in-law might be like, but it hadn’t occurred to her that it would be Byron’s mother.
In fact, before this moment, she had quite forgotten that he even had one.
If she were to decide on the worst first impression, this was certainly it.
“I-I . . .” She drew her gaze to Byron. She had intended to tell him all about Selene, but it wouldn’t do in present company. She held out the letter and Byron took it. “I brought you one of your letters.”
“It couldn’t wait?” Castel asked, leaning forward.
She glanced at the clock, trying to think up a good lie. “Well, there was also the matter of our engagement this evening at the Renaldi’s.” She looked back at Byron. “I knew you intended to arrive at quarter after and when you weren’t there . . .”
“You thought I had forgotten.” Byron nodded. “I was . . . well.” He glanced at his family. “I intend to come as soon as possible.”
“Yes. I came to make sure . . . well, I thought it would be best.” Mira took a breath. “I’ll see you at the Renaldi’s, then.”
She gave a quick curtsy and rushed to the door, escaping judgement, scrutiny, and Palace Court all at once, grateful, at least, that the letter was no longer burning a hole in her pocket.