Unraveled (Turner #3)(94)

Smite could hear the sound of breathing now that Dalrymple mentioned it. He’d been trying not to think of sounds; when he did, he noticed that added to the murmured noise of water rising was the soft patter of falling raindrops. He felt faintly uneasy.

“You there. Are you awake?” Dalrymple spoke loudly.

There was a long pause. The breathing hitched.

“Turner, who is he? Why isn’t he answering us?”

Smite tamped down his uneasiness. “We come across a strange person on a ship I’ve never set foot upon. It’s too dark to see a hand’s breadth beyond my face. You must really believe in my omniscience to direct such a question to me.”

Dalrymple let out an exasperated sigh. “Did you ever consider saying ‘I don’t know’ in response, or would that have been too polite?”

“It would have been untruthful,” Smite said. “I do know who this is. This is George Patten.”

A gasp escaped the man, and Smite knew that he’d guessed aright.

IT TOOK MIRANDA FAR too long to travel across town to Smite’s home, and more valuable minutes trying to pick the lock to his house. After a few haphazard tries, Jeremy pushed Miranda aside and managed it with a little too much finesse.

Ghost greeted them at the door. If he had been a proper sort of watchdog, he would have barked his head off and bitten them. Instead, he was delighted to see Miranda, whom he knew quite well—and equally happy to see Jeremy, whom he had never met. Miranda found his lead and took him outside. Together, they walked quickly to the alley where she had last seen Smite waiting with Dalrymple. Ghost snuffled around happily. Getting the scent, Miranda supposed, although the behavior seemed indistinguishable from anything else she had ever seen him do before.

“Find him,” Miranda commanded Ghost. “Find your master.”

It seemed like a good idea. He’d done it before, hadn’t he?

“Are you serious?” Jeremy demanded.

“Completely.”

As if to utterly undermine her claim to authority, Ghost raised his leg against a building. If this had been a story, Miranda thought, Ghost would have sensed their worry. His doggy ears would have perked up. And his paws would have eaten the pavement as he unerringly tracked down Smite.

But it wasn’t a story, and Ghost wasn’t that dog. Instead, the animal led them on a roundabout path from the alley, stopping to sniff here and there—and once to snag some unknown treat, which he crunched noisily between his jaws. He brought them down alleys, behind buildings, and went twice around one great square, before trotting off down a street.

“Are you sure he knows what he’s doing?” Jeremy asked.

She frowned. “He’s done it before.” He seemed to be doing it, however, on his own schedule. “Ghost, do you know what you’re doing?”

The dog’s ears flicked back. It might have been a yes. It might have been a no. She sighed. It was probably the doggy equivalent of “I don’t speak English.”

“Lord.” Jeremy gave a disapproving shake of his head. “Relying on a dog.”

Still, they moved slowly toward the Floating Harbour, and then over the Prince Street Bridge. Ghost snuffled his way around one of the dry docks, happily—obliviously—bounding along while Miranda’s worry ate at her insides. She could sense the minutes slipping past. Every quarter-hour was a risk. Every time she heard clock-bells strike in the distance, the possibility that she might not see Smite alive again grew. How long would it take Parford to raise a militia?

For Ghost, it was nothing but a game. Surely he would sense if his master was hurt. Surely, through some sort of canine magic…

But no. This was Ghost. He didn’t have canine magic. Right now, he was more interested in leaving his mark on a lamppost along the water’s edge.

“Go,” Miranda said, a lot more forcefully this time.

Ghost ignored her. He sniffed once, and then turned in a lazy circle to face the other direction.

The dog was looking straight at the docks, so fixedly that Miranda was certain she would see a squirrel scampering along the stone walls that bordered the harbor. But no. There was only a ship that seemed all too familiar. The Great Britain loomed before them.

It was at that moment that it began to rain. It had been cold before, but the rain brought with it a chill from on high. Every drop felt like ice against her skin.

Ghost whined and lowered himself to the ground, where he gave a lazy yawn.

Miranda exhaled. Angry, frustrated tears threatened to well out. The wind whipped around her, driving cold droplets of rain into her face. She balled her fists. It couldn’t end like this.

Jeremy tapped her shoulder.

“What?” The word snapped out more harshly than she intended.

He set his finger to his lips lightly and then pointed. High on the deck of the Great Britain, a dark figure paced to the edge and looked over.

“A night watchman,” she said.

He shook his head. “Not with that lantern.”

“What lantern?”

“Precisely. That hood hides it, except when you see it directly on. Watch, and you’ll see the flash when he turns. A night watchman wants to be seen. He doesn’t.”

“But why would there be someone on the…ooh.” The answer was too obvious. If she needed to keep someone in private, where would she go? People in the slums were too close-packed; the Patron could never keep the location secret. Too many people would have known they were about. But where could one hide a prisoner?