Unraveled (Turner #3)(98)

She nodded.

“Then I doubt you’ll live to see the Quarter Sessions. In all probability, you’ll die alone in a cold cell. That is the price you must pay. Your organization will survive in some form; you cannot.”

“Can there not be the smallest bit of mercy for her, then?” Jeremy asked.

“No dear,” his mother answered. “There is no room for mercy. That is what it means to take charge. You can show no weakness, no compassion. I know what it means to fill your shoes, Lord Justice. If you have any sense at all, you’ll bind my wrists and march me to the station at this moment.”

“March you?” Jeremy said, anguished. “You can scarcely walk!”

Mrs. Blasseur was taken by another fit of coughing. When she finished, she looked up with a resigned smile. “Don’t you see? He can’t show any mercy for me, or nobody will believe me defeated. He needs to drive me before him in the snow to prove I’m no longer a threat. That his…his regime will replace mine.”

Jeremy shook his head.

“He’s right.” There was a bitterness to her voice. “Only one of us will survive this night. And if I try to make it me…”

Jeremy choked. “There has to be a better answer.”

“There cannot be. There is no escape for me. If this is the way I get what I’ve built to survive in some manner… I haven’t long to live, in any event. Promise me that you won’t make a fuss. Whatever he has to do—promise you won’t interfere. Don’t help me if I fall. Don’t—”

He felt a curious kinship with the woman. She didn’t deal justice—not truly. But like him, she’d tinkered with the machineries of death. She saw the people she helped as human and real. Maybe, without the benefit of the law behind her, she had gone just a little mad.

“Mrs. Blasseur,” Smite said. “I had not thought to drive you to the station like cattle.”

She stopped and frowned at him. “No? Well, I suppose it might turn ugly if I couldn’t make it.”

Smite didn’t push aside that moment of sympathy now. He embraced it, let himself feel the sorrow that Jeremy did. And then—because it had to be done, because there truly was no other choice…he let that moment of wistful regret dissipate and he met Mrs. Blasseur’s eyes. “Under the circumstances,” he said, “I had rather thought I would carry you.”

“Carry me?”

“It turns out,” he said, “that my duty dictates only what I must do. There is no mercy in the what. But there is room for it in the how.”

THEY MADE A SOLEMN, silent procession as they made their way to the city center in a column. The men Mrs. Blasseur had brought with her had vanished into the night. Ghost trailed the remaining folk almost somberly. Mrs. Blasseur weighed almost nothing in Smite’s arms. She didn’t tremble. She didn’t fight. She scarcely even breathed.

Halfway through the walk, the snow turned back to slush, and from there to a hard, cold rain that drummed against him relentlessly. The streets were deserted.

But when they arrived at the station, it was lit brightly. Smite pushed open the door to see a throng of blue-uniformed police officers standing near the front. A corporal was giving out orders; to his side stood Ash, watching the proceedings with a grim determination.

“We have reason to believe,” the corporal was saying, “there is a large group of armed men there. Do not hesitate to use force if it should prove warranted. Assume that nobody means you well—not women, not even children.”

Smite gently let Mrs. Blasseur down on her feet. Ash hadn’t seen them enter yet; he was watching the corporal with a hard, fierce look in his eyes.

“This is an insult to the city of Bristol that must be answered with force,” the corporal said.

“On the contrary,” Smite called out. “Force will not be necessary.”

As he spoke, Ash turned to him. A spectrum of emotions played across his brother’s face—fear changed to surprise, followed by a heart-stopping emotion that Smite could put no words to.

It took a few minutes to calm the crowd and to allay their worries. It took another few moments for Mrs. Blasseur to vanish into the holding cells. Ash slowly drifted across the room to him.

“Smite.” Ash reached out and clasped his hand. His brother’s fingers were warm against Smite’s chilled flesh.

“Yes?”

“I had this notion for years that I would need to be the Duke of Parford to make things right for you. I thought—” he choked, then stopped. “Damn you, Smite. I must have aged ten years tonight.”

He grabbed Smite’s shoulder with his free arm and then pulled him into a fierce hug. Smite only stiffened for a second before he hugged him back.

“You know, Ash,” he said, before he could lose his nerve, “I love you.”

Ash pulled back and looked at him quizzically.

“And you will need to be the duke for me,” he said. “I made some rather egregious promises tonight. We’re going to need more constables—and you’re just the man to fund their salaries. Not to mention that we’ll need more magistrates; I’m weary of being the only one here who listens.” Smite gave his brother a tired smile. “Parliament will have to handle that. I’m hoping you’ll help me out.”