Unraveled (Turner #3)(16)

“The Patron didn’t want the list,” the voice said.

Miranda stared at the curtain, her fists balling. “Pardon?”

“It would have been convenient if you had been able to wield some influence over Lord Justice as well, but the Patron has no real interest in him, either.”

Miranda stared at the rosewood screen. “Then…then why have me take so large a risk? I might have been caught. Arrested.” She tried to keep all hint of anger from her voice. She didn’t succeed.

“The Patron wanted information,” the voice said. “And now he has received it. You will be informed when you are required again.”

“What? What did he want to know? I haven’t told you anything!”

She waited, but only silence met her. She sat on the stool and peered as best as she could through the grate, but she could see nothing. She waited until she was ready to poke the broom through the holes in the screen, just so she could have some kind of response. Any kind of response.

But there was nothing. The audience was over.

What had the Patron learned? She pondered the question as she left the church and crept back down the alley. He’d learned that she could outrun Lord Justice—or at least, out-dodge him, with a little luck. But what use was that?

He’d learned that Lord Justice would give chase. She glanced to either side when she reached the main thoroughfare, waited until a brewer’s dray passed by, and then zagged across the street to the alley on the other side. This one was scarcely wide enough for her, little more than a gap between buildings, but at the moment, she didn’t want to talk to people. She didn’t have much friendliness in her.

None of the things she came up with seemed the sort of information that would justify the smug tone the voice had used.

Perhaps it was simply that. If you were a shadowy, anonymous figure, it made sense to pretend everything had gone according to some diabolical plan. Never mind if it hadn’t. Maybe it was all just for show. Miranda understood show.

Thomas Street was clotted with slow-moving carts. It took her a few minutes to jog down to her alley.

She might have negotiated Temple Parish by scent alone. The wealthy might choose their abodes by view—did one want a panorama that included the cathedral, or a look at Brandon Hill?

The poor chose by smell. At Miranda’s home, the scent of the coal burned by the glassblowers predominated during the day. At night, the breeze off the Floating Harbour brought in the smell from the starch works a few buildings over—a scent that put her in mind of clean laundry and boiling wheat. Far better than what she’d have endured with the stockyard as neighbor.

She shut her eyes and inhaled. And just as she did so, it came to her—the information the Patron had received.

“He wanted to know if I was willing to put myself in real danger after all this time being careful.” She spoke aloud. “And I let him know I was. I’m such a fool.”

Before she could do anything more, though, an arm snaked around her from behind—a strong, solid arm. She opened her eyes and tried to turn, tried to fight, but whoever had her took hold of her wrist and held it in such a way that she could scarcely wriggle without pain shooting down her arm. She hadn’t a chance to feel fear—not until she looked down and saw that the arm holding her was clothed in unwrinkled superfine wool.

Of course. Lord Justice knew where she lived.

“I’m such a fool,” she repeated.

“Would you know,” a familiar voice said in her ear, “I quite agree.”

WITH HIS ARM AROUND Miss Darling and his hand on her wrist, Smite could tell how thin she was. He could feel her pulse hammering against his grip.

“I’m going to turn you to face me,” he said, “as this is no way to conduct a conversation, but I’m not about to let go. I’ve chased you three miles already, and I’m not interested in starting over.”

“I didn’t offer false testimony today.” She struggled against him, but he held fast. “Ask anyone you like. Check the records if you wish. The clerk can tell you.”

He already knew that. He’d been there, after all. He took his arm from around her, but did not let go of her wrist.

She turned to face him. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Then why did you run?”

“You said you’d have me arrested if you saw me again.”

His eyes narrowed. “I never said any such thing.”

“You did.”

He stared at her, searched his memory. And then—“I said, ‘If ever I see you before me again, dressed as someone else and spouting falsehoods, I will have you arrested on the spot.’ I can’t have you arrested merely because I catch sight of you in a public building.”

She yanked her hand from his grasp. “Begging your pardon, Your Worship, but you could have me arrested for breathing. Who would gainsay you?”

“If you wouldn’t act guilty, I wouldn’t—”

“Act guilty?” she cried. “I’m poor. My mother was an actress; my father the manager of a traveling troupe of players. I sew some for a living, and when I’ve got the wherewithal, I make wigs. I don’t have to do anything to be guilty. I’m guilty the instant a constable lays eyes on me and decides I appear out of place.” Her hands balled into fists at her side. “It doesn’t matter what I’ve done or what I say. Who would listen to me?”