Chapter Twenty-Two
Wednesday morning, with the sea unusually still and every silence laden with unspoken truths, the day began. The mist had not yet burned off the river, and Sommer-by-the-Sea lay quiet beneath its veil, unaware, perhaps, that decisions made far from its cobbled streets were shaping its fate.
The room was quiet, save for the hiss of wax dripping onto stone. No names were spoken. None were needed.
A single candle burned in the center of the long table, its flame reflected in the eyes of four shadowed figures. The scent of damp earth and cold iron clung to the chamber. They had met here before beneath the city, beneath suspicion. Always in darkness.
One leaned forward, gloved fingers steepled. “Glasgow is secure. The warehouse is operational again, and the inquiry has been reassigned to one of our members.”
“And France?”
“The customs delay was arranged through the harbormaster’s clerk in Calais. We were able to gain two weeks, and everything we needed was moved.”
“Spain required more finesse,” another said, his voice low. “A fire took the rest. There’ll be no audit. The building was declared unsalvageable.”
There was a pause as if a collective breath was drawn.
“London is proving less cooperative. Parliament is divided. But progress has been made. Two more have pledged support.”
“And the trading houses?”
A third speaker, older, with a raspy tone, gave a thin smile. “Four are compromised. One is owned outright. Seaton’s influence is waning, and his debts are growing. Wilkinson is being groomed and shows promise.”
“And yet,” said the one seated at the head, “Barrington’s Brigade continues to interfere.”
A hush followed the name.
“They’ve embedded well,” another said. “But the operation involving the Redwake was not exposed. Our man reported no disruptions. Only a local woman sniffing about.”
“She was identified?”
“No. He said she claimed to be fetching a package for her mistress. It was dismissed.”
“And his loyalty?”
“Proven. He knows the lines not to cross.”
“Should we confirm her name?”
“Not yet,” the leader said. If she’s what she claims to be, there’s no need to pique her interest. If not, she’ll come closer.”
“Curiosity,” murmured the first speaker, “is like rot. Left unchecked, it spreads.”
“And our long-term goals?”
The leader’s voice was low but commanding. “Order. Stability. But only through the hands we choose. These governments were not built for permanence. They were built for profit. We will give them both at a cost they do not yet recognize.”
“And when they do?”
“It will be too late.”
The others murmured in agreement.
“Sommer-by-the-Sea is small, but it has roots in shipping and the routes we need. The influence we can mold. The Seaton girl is a distraction, not a threat. And Seaton has nearly outlived his usefulness.”
“Wilkinson will be in place by the end of the season.”
A silence followed, thin, watchful, and calculated.
“I still question the wisdom of it,” came a new voice, sharp and clipped. “Wilkinson is too self-assured. He makes errors and covers them with arrogance.”
“He’s useful,” another replied. “He thinks he’s climbing the ranks. Let him. So long as he never learns who’s holding the ladder.”
The leader shifted slightly. “We’ve kept tighter men for less. If he fails to deliver the town’s ports, we’ll remove him.”
“And Barrington?” someone else asked. “He’s cost us two courier lines and a contact in the Ministry. His Brigade is becoming more than inconvenient.”
“Barrington won’t stop,” the elder rasped. “He’s a relic of another age, honor, duty, all that rot.”
“Should we pull out of Sommer-by-the-Sea?”
“No,” the leader said. “It’s already in motion. The girl, the debts, the docks. We’re closer here than most realize. Let them underestimate us.”
The candle hissed louder. Then, the light was snuffed, and the room returned to silence.
Across town, in a house full of windows and morning light, Mary-Ann sat with a teacup cooling in her hand, unaware of the meeting held in shadows or the ways in which her name had nearly been spoken.
Her chair had been angled just enough to catch the morning light, but it did little to lift the unease curling low in her stomach.
The scent of toast and orange marmalade lingered in the air, untouched.
A maid moved quietly in the background, straightening the silver at the sideboard.
Across the table, a place had been set for her father, though he hadn’t yet appeared.
The tick of the longcase clock in the hallway marked each moment with practiced civility, but the silence between ticks stretched oddly this morning. She used to relish mornings like this, quiet and predictable, but now the quiet felt deceptive.
Lydia sat opposite her, sipping tea with calculated leisure. “Will your father be joining us?”
“Not this morning.” Mary-Ann didn’t elaborate.
“A shame. I was hoping he might be convinced to walk with us today. The weather is fine, and a little sea air does wonders for the nerves.”
Mary-Ann smiled, not kindly. “You may walk without me if you need some air.”
Lydia blinked, caught off guard. “Oh. I’d only meant, well, it might be more cheerful if we—”
“Thank you, but no,” Mary-Ann said.
Across the room, the latest issue of the Sommer Sentinel lay folded open, its headline just visible from where she sat.
“The Dragon’s Wake,” read the headline. “Young Buccaneers Tell Their Story of Being Rescued from Sommer’s Hidden Caves.”
She rose and crossed to it.
The article took a lighthearted tone, built around the boys’ own version of events.
They claimed to be young buccaneers on a treasure hunt, armed with a wooden sword and a sack of raisins.
But their story, however innocent, unfolded alongside details that left Mary-Ann uneasy.
They had wandered deep into the caves during low tide and were rescued just as the water began to rise.
One of the rescuers was quoted as saying the cave had been unusually cleared out as though someone had been through just ahead of them.
It was the final paragraph that caught her attention.
“Rescuers reported broken boards and debris strewn inside the cave, likely remnants of fishing or smuggling operations long abandoned. One plank bore the faded letters ‘DWA.’ Evidence, perhaps, that a dragon’s hoard now scattered by the sea.”
Mary-Ann’s brow furrowed. DWA. She read it again. Slowly. Redwake.
She pressed a hand to the table’s edge. The boys had gone looking for dragons, but what had they nearly found instead?
The article called it whimsy. She saw something else.
If a child could stumble into danger that easily, what else had passed unnoticed?
Had she been wrong to let it go, to think she had more time?
She wondered how long the cave had been used and how many others had wandered too close. She folded the Sentinel and put it on the sideboard.
Mr. Hollis quietly entered the room, carrying a folded note on a tray. “A message from Mrs. Bainbridge.”
From behind her, Lydia’s voice rang out. “Planning a seaside outing, miss?”
“Miss Finch,” Mr. Hollis corrected gently, “the young lady is addressed as Miss Seaton.”
Lydia flushed, then dipped into a curtsy that was a beat too late.
“Thank you, Mr. Hollis.” Mary-Ann took the note from the tray and read it.
She looked up at the maid. “I was just reading, Miss Finch.” Mary-Ann carefully folded the note and tucked it into her pocket.
“I imagine it must be dull, all this quiet,” Lydia said sweetly. “I could arrange a call for you. I understand that Lady Alverton is in town.”
“Lady Alverton is seventy-nine and has not left her drawing room in a decade.”
Lydia blinked. “Oh. I must have been mistaken. One of the housemaids mentioned her,” Lydia added quickly. “She said Lady Alverton was a friend of the family.”
Mary-Ann’s gaze didn’t waver. “She was. Once.”
The silence that followed wasn’t sharp, but it was deliberate.
Mary-Ann’s smile was cool. “Do you like to read, Miss Finch? Or do you prefer embroidery?”
“Oh, I don’t do much of either,” Lydia replied lightly. “I find the days more enjoyable when they’re spent in cheerful company.”
“And what about cards?”
Lydia’s smile tightened. “Only if the company is of a genteel sort.”
Mary-Ann tilted her head. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
She excused herself. As she passed one of the footmen, she caught a faint roll of his eyes as Lydia walked behind her.
Interesting. Not everyone, it seemed, was pleased with Miss Finch’s presence. And that, too, was useful.
But it left Mary-Ann uneasy. Lydia had threaded herself through the household quickly.
She knew the rhythms of the staff and inserted herself into their errands, their tea breaks, and their comings and goings.
And yet, the signs of strain were beginning to show.
She noticed the pinched expressions, the glances that lingered too long.
The smallest cracks in a surface too carefully smoothed. She would have to keep watch. Quietly.
She didn’t go far. At the base of the stairs, Mary-Ann paused beside the tall front window. Sunlight spilled across the polished floor, gilding the quiet edges of the morning. She touched the windowsill, absently tracing the grain of the wood.
The boys had gone searching for dragons, but someone had been there first. Someone connected to the Redwake. And Quinton…
He had warned her to be careful. Not out of habit, not protectively, but because he knew something he hadn’t yet said. She pressed her hand to the cool glass. Not yet, he’d told her.
He hadn’t told her everything. That much was clear. But he hadn’t lied either. Not with his eyes. Not with his silence.
He’d tried to protect her. She didn’t doubt that. But what he hadn’t said might matter more than what he had.
And the trouble was… she believed him.
But belief was not the same as surrender. She didn’t need reassurance. She needed proof.
She could feel the shape of something forming, subtle as a bruise beneath the surface. It was in the letters, the ships, the stories no one finished. A shadow pulling at every thread.
She would find the next piece. Quietly. Just long enough to get close.