The Countess Conspiracy (Brothers Sinister #3)(93)

That was when she started to hear the noise. At the inner gate, it sounded like a buzz; by the time they’d walked through the thirty yards of green weeds that stood between the two walls, it had grown to a roar.

“What is that sound?” Violet asked.

“That,” said the warden bitterly, fitting his keys in the door that led to the outside, “is your entourage.”

“Entourage?” Violet frowned. “I don’t have an…”

The wooden door swung open onto a narrow dirt road cutting through the moor. That path was utterly filled. Carts and carriages were pulled up haphazardly along the side. There, in front of the prison, were more people than Violet had ever seen in her life. She didn’t recognize anyone at all.

For a moment, she felt panic overtake her at the sight of that sea of unfamiliar faces.

But then her eye fell on her mother. She was holding hands with Amanda, of all people, and Violet couldn’t imagine what that meant. Next to her stood Alice and Professor Bollingall, and beside them, Free and Oliver and Jane. Free held one end of a banner that proclaimed, “Release the Countess!”

As she stepped out onto the road, a great shout arose—a sound not of hatred or anger, but of jubilation. It was so loud, so primal, that Violet could actually feel it reverberating through her ribcage. She stopped and stared at the gathered throng.

She’d expected that those who disliked her work would seek her out as they’d sought out Sebastian. Likely they would, later.

But here, on the windswept plains outside the prison, with nothing around for miles except the barracks of the prison guards, the people who had come were those who wished her well.

There were tens of millions of people in all of England. Of those, a good fraction might have heard Violet’s story. She’d known they would. She hadn’t expected that thousands of people would care what happened other than to imagine her a curiosity. But here they were—thousands, shouting all at once.

“Good heavens,” Violet breathed. “I have an entourage.”

ONE PERSON WAS NOT PRESENT. His absence became glaring around the time when Violet’s mother pushed back her adoring throng—God, an adoring throng; how had she acquired one of those?—saying that the Countess was in need of rest. If Sebastian had been present, he would have found his way to her side.

“Thank you,” Violet said in baffled confusion. “Thank you all. You have no idea how much this means to me.”

Nobody could hear her over the roar of the crowd. Just as well. They couldn’t have any idea what it meant to her; she had no idea what it meant herself. She understood vaguely that these people, whoever they were, must have played some role in her early release. More than that she could not comprehend.

“Thank you,” she said. “I’m eternally grateful.”

Her mother took Violet by the elbow and gently—forcefully—guided her to a carriage marked with her crest.

“Thank you,” Violet said, just as a few others pushed on board with her. Her mother, Amanda, Oliver, Jane, and, a few seconds behind them, Free.

Free pulled the door shut and beamed at Violet.

“My lady!” she said happily. “We did it! We did it!”

“Yes,” Violet said. She knew she wasn’t normally a stupid woman; why was her brain not working? “We did it.” She rubbed her head. “What did we do?”

She hadn’t really wanted to hear, but Free wanted to tell her. Violet could scarce take it all in, what had happened in her absence. The newspaper accounts. The public outcry.

“Imprisoning you,” Free said, “was the stupidest thing they could have done. The Duchess of Clermont said so—she laughed, actually. She sends her apologies for her absence, by the way, but she knew there’d be a bit of a wild crowd.”

“Of course,” Violet said stupidly.

“You’ve become quite the heroine,” Free said. “You should have seen the headlines: ‘Countess of Cambury announces extraordinary new discovery; is sentenced to one month of hard labor.’”

“There was no labor,” Violet remarked. “The warden was quite kind, except for refusing to allow me my knitting.” She shrugged. “The needles, you know.”

Free blinked. “Well.” She soldiered on. “Alice Bollingall wrote an account for the Times of London where she described her partnership with her husband, how they’d shared their work. She detailed precisely who had done what for the discovery you made—your part, her part, Sebastian’s part.”

Violet licked her lips. “And what did—”

Before she could ask what Sebastian had to say about that, Free went on. “There were caricatures of you in chains shouting ‘Eureka!’ while men to your side called for gags.”

“There were no chains,” Violet said. “It was actually restful. Rather like being on holiday.” A foul-smelling holiday where she talked to nobody at all and had no choice about how she spent her days.

“Hmm.” Free said. “Perhaps you needn’t mention that in public? But I didn’t tell you all of it yet. Robert angled an audience with the queen three days ago. He and Sebastian were the ones who went to her. She heard all the particulars and ordered you pardoned.”

“Oh.” That was all Violet could manage. Sebastian had been involved. But what did he think? How badly had she hurt him? Would he ever trust her again? What would he say when he saw her next? “Speaking of whom…”