Chapter 30
The police station was not as dreadful as I’d feared.
It was an old brick building from the mid-nineteenth century, the lobby almost airy with lead-paned windows that went all the way up to the ceiling and wood floors polished to a shine.
Things took a turn from there, however. Laurent led me past the counter and along a dingy hallway to a row of cells, only one of which was occupied by a snoring man who, judging by his black eye and the reek of alcohol, was being held for public rowdiness.
Laurent put me into the cell at the other end, which had a narrow bed and a tiny sink.
Perhaps he was planning to say something to me, but I had no interest in hearing it; I turned away and proceeded to remove my coat and warm my hands at the sink. When I looked back, he was gone.
I surveyed the depressing confines of the cell.
Though claustrophobic, it was tidy and smelled strongly of some sort of cleaner.
After the panic and fury of the last hour, I felt comfortably empty, like a beach stripped of driftwood by a retreating tide.
The fact of my arrest seemed of lesser import than my relief at being out of the cold.
I lay down upon the bed and drew the blanket over me. Slowly, the last of the shivering subsided. Then, against all odds, I fell asleep, and slept better than I had in days.
The following morning, I was presented with a breakfast of a bagel and coffee by a discomfitingly jovial woman, not unlike my usual fare, except that the bagel was stale and the coffee lukewarm, though the officer was thoughtful enough to offer cream and sugar.
I almost wished for rudeness; it would have been less jarring than this casual acceptance of my captivity.
I wanted to be gawped at, at least, to have the guards stare at me with confusion, never having seen such an unlikely criminal before, but perhaps that isn’t an uncommon conceit among those who find themselves in a prison cell.
In my day-old clothing, and with my checklist and chores beckoning to me, unreachable, I was feeling less philosophical about my situation than I had the previous night.
I wanted élise, and the familiar smells and sounds of the shelter in Rue des Hirondelles, and Banshee’s warm weight in my arms. If Laurent had shown himself, I might have been moved to plead for my release.
Fortunately, he didn’t, so I was able to keep my dignity intact.
At midmorning, I was escorted to a waiting room by the same jovial woman, who informed me that I was to be released on bail paid by “such a sweet young lady” with “lovely manners,” at which I managed to stifle my snort.
My legs had gone wobbly with relief, and I collapsed upon the bench she indicated.
Then, at last, I was shepherded to the lobby, where élise was waiting.
I fell into her arms, sobbing, and she patted me and made soothing noises. She also—too circumspectly to be noticed by the watching officer—muttered instructions in my ear. “Don’t say a word. Only act confused and frightened, but not angry. If they ask you anything, just start crying again.”
This last was easily accomplished, for I couldn’t stop tearing up while the clerk passed the paperwork to élise, who gave another one of her virtuoso performances.
She was so visibly nervous and unfamiliar with the utilitarian environment of the police station that one might suspect she’d been innocent of their very existence.
When the clerk pointed out an error in one of the forms, she gave him a look that suggested she feared he might attack her.
He answered her questions condescendingly, his interest in us visibly dimming.
Then, at last, we were stepping out into the blinding sunlight of a winter day.
“How did you afford it?” I demanded, for I had seen the money élise had counted out for the clerk.
“How do you think? The Witch King has more money than he knows what to do with, the heel. Besides, the bail wasn’t that high—they could only charge you for that illegal Artefact in your pocket. Clearly they don’t have enough evidence for anything else.”
“Yet,” I said, and told élise what Laurent had said. She nodded grimly.
“Yes, Gabriel thinks the legislation will pass today too,” she said.
“He’s trying his best to raise a fuss about it.
There’s been plenty of criticism, after all—it’s an infringement of rights, if the police can raid any business they choose without notice or evidence.
But I don’t think it will be enough, and I can only hope Havelock has some plan in his back pocket.
We’ll need to discuss it with him.” She did not appear pleased by the prospect.
“How long were you at the station?” I said.
“I arrived first thing. Gabriel got a tip from a friend in the force. They made me wait over two hours, claiming they didn’t have the staff to deal with me.”
“Two hours?” I repeated. And it had taken nearly an hour to fill out the paperwork. And the cats had been on their own since last night! “Then who’s looking after the shelter? One of the volunteers? Mina?”
élise turned to examine a passing horse and cart as if she’d never seen one before. “Mina’s far too busy supervising the other shelter; you know that.”
“Not Yannick!” I exclaimed. “He doesn’t know the first thing about cats.”
“No, Havelock sent Yannick off to spy on Valérie’s apprentices.” She squeezed my hand. “Look at you—you’re shivering! Let’s stop at the bakery for chocolate brioche, hm? Then we’ll go right home and you can have a nap. I’m sure you didn’t sleep well.”
A shiver of dread ran through me. “élise, the shelter—”
“And remind me to tell Havelock to cast a proper hex on Laurent,” she said. “If we’re to be arrested anyway, why not first give that man what he deserves? What do you think? Boils in inconvenient places would be a good start.”
“élise,” I said, grasping her arm and pulling her to a stop. “Who is taking care of the cats?”