Chapter Forty-Seven Nina
The square was rabid with activity. It was easy enough to look purposeful. Busy. There were enough shadows between buildings in which to lurk.
John remained somewhere at the rear of the library by the servants’ entrance, while Patrick and I kept our eyes on the library itself as each half hour gave way to the next.
Theo appeared on the steps on time, not a second too late, pretending he was buying a pear, a newsprint, or else simply stretching his legs in the sunlight before returning inside. No one paid him any mind.
Patrick and I kept a careful distance from each other, but I felt his eyes on me as I wandered in aimless circles.
Twice, I was approached by Artisan men, asking if I needed accompaniment somewhere, since a lady rarely traveled by herself.
Each time I shook my head politely and pointed in any direction.
“My father will only be a moment.” For a woman without a ring, the mention of a father was the best way to dissuade an Artisan man. They nodded and carried on.
Theo came to the steps again, right when he should. He perused a nearby cart at the bottom of the steps with his hands in his pockets, then reentered among a large group of Artisans.
I sighed. Noon had passed. Four hours lapsed, then five, and still no Polly. My back ached from sitting proper on a wrought-iron café chair, listening to the Crafter buskers. Patrick moved from one shadow to the next, the light of his smoke flaring in the dark.
I narrowed my eyes in his direction, and he lifted an eyebrow in return.
Lord, it was difficult not to look at him.
Impossible, even. Just now, several young Artisan women in a group were looking over their shoulders, whispering with their foreheads lowered toward one another, giggling.
How scandalous it would be for one of them to break the pack and approach that daunting Craftsman who lurked in the alley.
How shocking. Should they do it? I dare you, one of them would urge. I dare you to ask him for a cigarette.
The girls in the Artisan School had been the same, turning their noses up when it suited them but flushing at the idea of some sordid encounter with a miner, a welder, a miller.
All that brawn was difficult to ignore. Too alluring by far.
More than enough good Artisan girls had fallen victim to it.
The perceived wickedness of it, was, at times, too tempting. There were devils all over the brink.
I scoffed. Maybe I ought to scandalize them myself.
Walk right up to Patrick and pull his mouth down to mine.
Push my body against his. Take the smile off their faces, off Patrick’s.
Maybe he’d forget for a second that he wasn’t supposed to want me.
Maybe he’d finally forget about those fucking lines.
I felt if he didn’t soon, I might go mad.
The hour was closing. Two more minutes until Theo would appear. I reasserted my attention to those stone steps, the revolving doors. Maybe this time, Polly would appear at Theo’s side, The Stewards’ Testament tucked safely away.
The hands of the clock tower ticked.
One minute remaining.
A coach and its horses clopped into the square, halted before the library steps, and blocked my view.
I stood, annoyed, trying to see over it to the entrance. Theo would arrive any moment.
But a man alighted the coach, tall enough to garner attention. He was followed by four others, all of them uniformed in Artisan blue.
The tall man climbed the steps, long ministerial robes sweeping the stone behind him, and I lurched forward one step, then two. Patrick left his shadows to stare, eyes bulging at the man and his contingent.
Lord Terrence Shop went through the revolving doors and disappeared within.
The clock chimed.
Something cracked in my core.
Theo. Polly.
The Stewards’ Testament.
Had they called the lord themselves? No, I couldn’t believe that. Refused to. Just because I’d told Theo to leave didn’t mean he would turn on me so quickly.
And Polly. I’d believed her when she said she was sorry.
But I’d believed her in Kenton Hill, too.
Another minute lapsed, and somewhere within that library, The Stewards’ Testament and its translation were trading hands. Idia’s Seam handed over to the Head of House himself. There’d be no resisting. His contingent were likely fire Charmers. Armed soldiers. And how many bullets were in Theo’s gun?
I locked eyes with Patrick—he across the square, and me much closer to those steps. Too close for him to catch me. No hope of him making it past the doorman, not in his garb.
No, he seemed to beseech me, seeing the lean my body was already taking. Don’t do it.
But I was a runaway train.
I went inside.