Chapter 15
I had never considered myself a particularly selfless person.
By most standards I had a pampered childhood, despite the absence of my father, the eventual detachment of my mother, and separation from my sisters.
The Guild Academy, where I had spent over a decade, was my greatest and longest trial.
Yet it had taught me self-sufficiency and transformed me into an admirable mage, as well as equipping me with an endless repertoire of useful skills—skills I had relied upon since my escape.
I was used to thinking, primarily, of myself. I had to. For in a world where I was both hated and feared, where my parents could not protect me and the Guild sought to rule me, I was the only one who would—aside from Pretoria and Madge, in their sporadic and flawed ways.
So it was that as I sat in a back pew in the Almany Cathedral with my head tilted back, holding my hat in place with one hand and staring at the endless opulence of the gilded ceiling, the feeling I endured was both unfamiliar and unwelcome.
Obligation.
Grand General Baffin was funding research into the supposed creation of Entwined. I thought the notion absurd, the highest form of wishful thinking on behalf of humanity and Harrow’s Entwined-hating leader. But Dr. Maddeson had been passionate, and that passion left a hollow of doubt in my chest.
Add to that Harden’s assertions that Baffin was funding the Zealots and propelling Harrow towards civil war, and a grim picture was being painted before me.
Finding the artifact was about far more than saving myself, claiming my reward and escaping Harrow. It was about ensuring that my enemies did not come into possession of potentially dangerous information.
Such responsibility made me squirm. I wanted nothing to do with it. I wanted a ship, and the horizon. I also wanted Lewis, when I was not kissing Harden, but all that was ridiculous and unnecessary.
I closed my eyes and let out a long breath.
Mr. Stoke had contacted Dr. Maddeson about the language on the box, but whether he had understood the professor’s course of research was unclear.
The detective had always been neutral in the conflict between humans and Entwined, which was part of what had drawn me to him.
I could not imagine him supporting research that could cause more conflict, or being foolish enough to share Dr. Maddeson’s idealism.
For what might have been the first time, I allowed myself to truly, deeply, miss Lewis.
The fortnight of ocean between us suddenly felt untenable, absurd, when I needed him here and now.
We were friends and allies. I should be able to turn to him and—after I had spent the last two years saving to buy us a new life—he should act.
I needed his help. Someone’s help. Or rather, I wanted someone to take this responsibility from me.
With that little flight of self-understanding, my resolve hardened. No. I had to make my own choice, choose my own path. And that choice? It had already been made, long before these complications arose.
Find the artifact and Mr. Stoke. Claim Stillwell’s reward. Meet up with Lewis. Carve a new life.
In all likelihood, Maddeson’s research would come to naught, anyway. I decided that. I decreed it.
It was not my responsibility.
I rose. I straightened my skirts and sash and adjusted my hat. I tucked away the last of my guilt and swept out of the cathedral without a backward glance.
* * *
Newly restored and courageous as I was, the discovery that policemen awaited me at my apartments was a rather heavy blow.
No sooner had I unlocked the front door of the building than my landlady’s prim tones summoned me through the door of her private sitting room at the foot of the stairs.
Suppressing a weary retort, I pulled off my gloves. “Yes, Mrs. Temberley?”
I froze in place as two men stood, one in the customary uniform and helmet of a patrolman and the other in a bowler hat and suit.
“Detective Sergeant Supford,” the man in the bowler hat informed me.
“And this is Constable Blakely. We are here to ask you a few questions, Miss Fleet, about the location of your employer, Mr. Uriah Stoke. Please, have a seat. Mrs. Temberley has been kind enough to permit us the use of the room. Privately.”
Mrs. Temberley, who had been watching my startled expression with the demeanor of a satisfied cat from beneath her frilled cap, caught herself.
“Oh, yes. Yes, I see. Do call if you need anything,” she said with faux civility, and left.
Slowly, I sat on the edge of a stiff-backed chair while the constable took up position next to the door and the detective sat across from me on the sofa.
“Miss Fleet,” the detective began. “When was the last time you spoke with your employer? You should know, he is an old associate of mine. We were stationed together at Heddon Street, before his retirement.”
“I see.” The constable’s glare was a physical force on the side of my face, and I felt gooseflesh prickle across my skin. “I saw him two… three days ago?”
“Mrs. Temberley has informed us you were out quite late the night before that. Where were you?”
“Mrs. Temberley does so struggle to mind her own business. It is an affliction, as I understand it.”
There was a twitch around Detective Supford’s eyes, but it was gone before I could decide if it was amusement or irritation. “Please answer the question.”
“Late nights are a requirement of my position, sir. Mr. Stoke required me at a private meeting. I take notes and such.”
The man watched my face, alert for any lie. “Who was the meeting with, and what did it concern?”
“I apologize,” I said, rather than replying. “But what is this about? Is everything well with Mr. Stoke?”
Detective Supford’s expression betrayed nothing. “Do you know where your employer is?”
“On holiday,” I said, grateful for an easy deflection. “He did not intend to return for a week or so. He instructed me to take the time off and he would reach out when he came back.”
At the door, the constable made a disbelieving sound and glowered harder.
“Where?” Supford asked.
“He did not share that with me.”
Detective Supford sat forward, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands together. “Did you make the travel arrangements, as his secretary?”
I shook my head. “He only informed me the day before. It struck me as a personal matter—no, I have no details.”
“Were you aware that your employer’s office has been ransacked?”
I had the presence of mind to feign startlement. “No! I—Oh no. Why? Who would do such a thing?”
“Those are questions we hoped you could answer.” Supford’s demeanor shifted then, from general inquiry to a grim conviction. “As you were seen entering and exiting the office several times in the last two days.”
I resisted the urge to scrub my face in despair. I shifted the movement into a casual adjustment of my hat, discreetly loosening the hatpin. The weight of Mr. Stoke’s pearl-handled revolver was heavy in my pocket.
It did not occur to me to wonder, just then, if they had observed Mr. Wake at Mr. Stoke’s office as well.
“There is also the matter of this.” Supford pulled a familiar envelope from a pocket inside his coat and set it down on the coffee table between us.
Lewis’s and my savings, carefully stowed over the past two years, puffed the envelope wide. A small fortune, and nearly every penny we had.
“You searched my rooms!” I accused. “You had no right!”
“We had every right.” A second reach into his pocket, and the man produced a typewritten warrant, then a picture. My picture of my sisters and I, a prized possession which I had stashed with my money. “Miss Ottilie Rushforth, Rogue Eventide Adept.”
I was rendered speechless.
That moment was my undoing. Detective Supford sat back, his air one of satisfaction and conviction. At the door, the constable widened his stance and twitched his baton.
“Why would you say that?” I managed.
“This”—he pointed to Madge, in the picture—“is Margaret Rushforth, recently arrived in Harrow. It is the constabulary’s business to know every Guild representative currently in this city—for their protection, you understand.”
I managed not to snort, but only just.
“The Rushforths, as you well know, are infamous,” the detective went on. “Your ambassador mother. Her string of powerful husbands. Your sister Pretoria and her tragic death. And this”—he indicated me in the photograph—“is you. I could not be certain until I saw you myself, but now I have no doubt.”
“That is hardly me,” I said. “She is years younger than I, far thinner and her hair is too dark. Our jaw lines are different. And if I were found dead in a swimming costume that gaudy, I would come back to life just to burn it.”
Supford was not amused. “The photo graph is obviously dated. The fact that you have aged is not a defense.”
“I am not Ottilia Rushforth.”
The detective raised his voice, his patience beginning to fray.
“No, you are Ottilie Rushforth, and if you have any dignity, you will cease to play the fool. You are a Rogue Entwined, unchecked, uncontrolled. You are in possession of a great deal of money, in cash, while your employer’s safe is empty, his offices rife with the signs of violence, and he has vanished. ”
Rage threatened to blind me, and my senses narrowed. The increasing thud of my heart. Closed room. The constable’s baton.
Unchecked. Uncontrolled. He did not know the meaning of those words.
“The money is my wages—I neither trust nor require banks,” I began, speaking with deathly calm.
“I purchased the picture at the novelty market in Honeywell because I thought it entertaining and reminded me of my own sisters, who I have not seen in some time, which depresses me. Yes, I did know Mr. Stoke’s offices had been searched, but I am being blackmailed by a rather thuggish employee of Lord Stillwell, who contracted Mr. Stoke to track down a certain artifact, which went missing along with Mr. Stoke.
Did you not see him at the office, too? This thug threatened to kill me if I contacted the police, so for the last two days I have been searching for him and the artifact quite desperately, in fear for my life.
I am simply a secretary, sir, a secretary who does not trust banks because I will not allow my hard-earned wages to pad the pockets of indolent well-to-dos.
I am a victim of horrible circumstance, and I am certainly no Entwined. ”
Silence followed my rant. The constable muttered something under his breath and the detective raised a quelling hand.
Briefly, I thought I may have won my case.
My mind raced ahead, planning my next steps.
I would pack a hasty bag, find Hieronymus—damn, I had forgotten to buy a travelling basket, I would need to do that, too.
We would flee and hide before the frustratingly astute Supford found enough evidence to arrest me.
That ship, however, had apparently left harbor some time ago.
“Miss Ottilie Rushforth.” Detective Supford rose to his feet. “We will continue this discussion at the precinct. You are under arrest for suspected involvement in the disappearance of Uriah Stoke. You are charged with larceny and living as an Unregistered Entwined. I am placing you under arrest.”