Chapter 24 #3
“Pity. I don’t suppose you’d care to share?”
I gasp at the proposition. It’s highly impertinent and the height of rudeness to solicit someone else’s company before he’s even finished with his current partner. I feel a surge of sympathy for the poor man having his arse pounded.
“Well, I never,” I hiss indignantly.
“Ah, perhaps some other time, Admiral. You enjoy your evening.”
“See you at Bodmin’s a week from Tuesday.”
“Of course.” Cornelius gives him a tight smile and steers me down the corridor to where Sam and Ichabod are waiting.
“How rude.” I scowl. “The nerve.”
“Keep your voice down,” Cornelius hisses in my ear.
“What’s Bodmin’s?” I ask.
“A gentleman’s club,” he answers as Ichabod moves to meet us.
“Cornelius, we can’t go out that way. There’s a constable patrolling right at the end of the street.” His gaze drops to my and Sam’s bare feet. “We’ll have to take the other exit. I’ve sent the carriage around to the back.”
Cornelius nods. “We better hurry before Mr Ames gets propositioned again.”
“I’m sorry, what?” Sam’s eyes narrow.
“Don’t worry, he’s perfectly safe. No one will try to engage him in anything he doesn’t want, but that won’t stop them from sniffing around him. You too. Fresh blood.”
“Charming,” I mutter sourly.
“Come quickly.” Ichabod bustles past us and leads the way.
“A phrase I’m guessing is uttered here a lot,” Sam mutters under his breath, and grabs my arm, keeping me close to him.
With Ichabod at the front and Cornelius behind, presumably to stop us from getting into trouble, we’re led to a door that descends into a small square room with bare brick walls.
“Uh, this is a cellar?” I ask, confused.
“Is it?” Ichabod’s lips curve into a small smile, and he pushes against one of the walls.
A seam appears in the brickwork, and a section swings inward to reveal a hidden entrance that Ichabod steps into.
Before I have time to question the whole enterprise, Cornelius pushes us forward.
We follow Ichabod and find ourselves standing in what looks like a smuggler’s tunnel.
To the side is a shelf holding several oil lamps, one of which Ichabod lights.
The brick door closes behind us with an ominous hiss and clunk.
As we begin to walk, I note that the tunnel is built of brick, with a curved roof that blends seamlessly into the walls.
Unfortunately, the detail was not carried to the ground, which is bare soil.
I grimace at the feel of it squishing between my toes.
In a surprisingly short time, we emerge at the other end, exiting through a heavy wooden door, which leads out into a narrow stone alleyway that ends with a tall iron gate.
As we reach the gate, I see a carriage waiting in the smog and low lamplight.
My feet are freezing against the cobbles, and my body is already shaking from the cold.
I realise why when we step through the gate and onto the street.
A dusting of snow and a biting wind make me think we’ve landed in the middle of winter.
I can’t help but hope some form of footwear may be in that carriage.
Ichabod moves to the front of the carriage to speak with the driver, and I look up at the buildings from where we’ve just come. There’s something familiar about the area. Turning my head, I suck in a sharp breath.
“What is it?” Sam asks. He stands as close to me as possible without touching in case anyone sees.
“That building over there.” I nod in its direction. “Do you recognise it?”
Sam’s brows rise and he shifts his gaze to the one building we just discreetly left.
“Son of a bitch,” he mutters.
“It’s the street my shop and flat are on.
That building over there survived”—I nod slightly to our left—“but this row of houses must have been demolished and rebuilt at some point. My shop is on the exact footprint of the one where we ended up. Which means the music box threw us through time, but not across distance. We ended up exactly where we started, just over a century into the past.”
Sam frowns. “Do you think that was on purpose?”
“I don’t know.” My brain’s a bit scrambled and my thoughts are getting fuzzy. “I’m so tired.”
“You should be resting,” Sam says quietly, and his fingers twitch like he wants to reach out for me. “After all, you did get stabbed twenty-four hours ago.”
“That feels like a lifetime,” I mutter.
He huffs. “I suppose technically it was.”
“Didn’t we tell you not to dally?” Cornelius opens the door and hurries us inside the carriage, glancing warily up and down the street. A moment later, Ichabod climbs in and closes the door, then raps sharply on the roof.
The carriage jerks and I wince at the jostling motion of the hard wheels over the cobbles.
I know we’re supposed to be careful, but I can’t help pressing myself against Sam’s side and drawing comfort from his presence while I freeze my arse off travelling through the dangerous streets of Victorian London.
God, I hope someone gives me some fucking shoes soon.
Seriously. What the hell are we doing here?