Unraveled (Turner #3)(80)

Smite found himself smiling through a shudder. “It gave me the cold sweats, just being there for a few hours yesterday.”

Another pause. “Why did you go? When you said you went to Mark, I knew it had to be dire. Neither of us would go into that house otherwise.”

Smite shrugged. “It was for Miranda,” he finally said.

“Miranda.” There was a subtle change in Ash’s voice. “And what can you tell me about Miranda?”

Her train was pulling away, right at this moment. He thought of her looking up at him and saying that she loved him. He thought of her leaving. Her hairpin bit into the flesh of his palm.

He thought of her finding someone else, and he let out a little breath of air. Finally, he managed a small half-smile and he looked his brother in the eye. “I saved her, too.”

THE ROAD MIRANDA TOOK to the railway station was all too familiar. And yet to Miranda’s eye, it seemed entirely different. After the long weeks of her absence, Temple Street had altered. Now, it seemed forlorn and dirty. She’d never noticed the refuse that spilled onto the streets when she lived here. She must have blocked from memory the blackening muck that was never swept from the cobblestones. The smells of manufacturing were thick about her: the scent of vinegar from the foundry warred with tar from the shipyards. The splitting shriek of a steam engine cut through the clatter of horses’ hooves.

Strange, that this neighborhood had changed so much in just a few weeks. The cart she was in rumbled past taverns she had visited, fishmongers she had argued with, shops she had patronized…

Better to concentrate on all that she passed, than to think about— “Stop!” she said.

The cart came to a halt. Dryfuss peered at her. “I’m not supposed to stop,” he said. “My orders are—”

“New orders,” Miranda said briskly. “I’ll only be a few minutes.”

“But, Miss…” This protest came from the maid Smite had insisted should accompany her for good measure. It had seemed so excessive; Miranda had never needed a chaperone in Temple Parish. “We were told to take you straight there.”

“I need to say farewell to someone.” She hopped down out of the cart. She was too visible on the street now. Even though she’d donned a traveling habit, a dull brown high-necked gown designed to hide the dirt of a journey, passersby glanced at her. The gown was tailored to her form, leaving no room for the bending and moving that a working woman required. The bustle and petticoats were too wide. And even though the material was plain brown, it was well-made and lustrous. People watched her idly. Speculatively.

And then someone knocked into her from the side. Gray fabric flew everywhere. Miranda turned, catching herself before she fell. Dryfuss stepped forward.

“Oh, dearie me,” said a familiar voice.

“Mrs. Blasseur!” Miranda said. “I’m so sorry. I was just standing here, looking around—I didn’t even see you coming.”

Mrs. Blasseur began to pick up the laundry that had spilled from her basket. The tips of her fingers were blue, her movements slow. Miranda knelt beside her as best as she could in her stiff corset, and helped her collect towels.

When they’d finished, Mrs. Blasseur looked up. “Well, look at you.” She paused, took a step back. “You look well. Very well. I haven’t seen you in an age.” She wrinkled her brow. “When you said your father had left you a bit of money, I hadn’t realized it was quite so much.”

Miranda simply shook her head and picked up the basket. “You’ve never been stupid, Mrs. Blasseur,” she said. “You know quite well how I came by this.”

The woman gave her a small, pained smile. “Indeed.” She coughed heavily into a handkerchief and looked away.

“I’ve come…I need to talk to Jeremy, actually. Is he in?”

Mrs. Blasseur gestured in front of her. Miranda opened the door, and then held the basket for the other woman.

Once inside, she turned to her. “Do you need—”

Mrs. Blasseur rescued her load of laundry. “Shoo,” she commanded with a shake of her head. “Go talk to Jeremy.”

Miranda smiled. The store was like Temple Street itself: the same as always, and yet substantially dingier. The bolts of fabric looked cheap to her eyes, the ribbons pale and faded. She was almost afraid as she made her way to the back of the shop. Afraid that she herself would have altered so much that…

But no. Jeremy sat in his usual spot on a stool, mending a seam on a pair of trousers with infinite patience. He didn’t look sullen or scuffed to her eye. He still looked utterly dear.

“Jeremy,” she breathed.

“Miranda!” He stood up, smiling. “Oh, you look fabulous. What are you doing here?”

She crossed over to him and put her arms around him. He stiffened slightly, but hugged her back. “I’ve come to say farewell,” she whispered. “I’ll be leaving soon—leaving Bristol. Possibly forever.”

He nodded sagely. “Going with your protector?”

“No.” She took a deep breath, and dropped her voice. “It’s not safe for me here. I have to leave. The Patron threatened Robbie—set him up for a hanging offense. I don’t want to be next.”

Jeremy turned utterly white. “Robbie? The Patron threatened Robbie? Who—no—why—” He took a breath. “How do you know?”