Rook(24)

“You are in no position to refuse me.”

“What do you know about stitches?”

“Enough.”

“And what do you mean by enough?”

“I mean that my maman always let me help with the mending. You should drink what’s in that glass, my love.”

“You are not giving me stitches.” Sophia had forgotten all about coy and moved straight on to temper.

René took the needle from the candle fire and considered her. “Should I bring your father, then? Call the nearest doctor? That Sophia Bellamy runs about the countryside in breeches falling on knives in the dark will make for excellent conversation, especially at dinner tonight. Tell me I am wrong.”

There was that other voice again. Who was this man? René began threading the needle with a thin silk.

“I am an only child,” he said, holding the needle close to the light. “Perhaps you did not know that, Mademoiselle. But I have many uncles. Six of them, and they are always in need of repairing, I assure you. The cut is not deep, and the muscle will not need my attention. You will have only the smallest scar to mar all that beautiful skin.”

She opened her mouth, and found nothing to say. She’d forgotten how much of her skin was on display at the moment. René was smiling at her again, something slightly devilish. No, this René Hasard wouldn’t be stealing a woman’s purse, Sophia decided; it was the daughters that needed locking up. His smile widened, and now she was going to flush, and that made her angry.

She picked up the glass and drained it. It wasn’t much, but the whiskey went gliding down her throat like soft, hot coals. She set down the glass, won a mighty struggle not to cough, and, still on her side, raised her arms carefully to get a good grip on the iron bed frame.

René folded her shirt up one more time, to keep it clear of the wound. The rough palm of one hand was pressed against her ribs, fingers bringing the edges of the cut together, and somehow she could feel the heat of this burning in her face.

“So you carry needle and thread about in your pockets, do you?” Sophia asked.

“My tailor insists. You can be still, yes?”

She nodded, head swimming even more after Mr. Lostchild’s poisonous concoction.

“Relax,” he said. “It will hurt some less if you do.” He paused, waiting to feel the tension leave her body. She wasn’t sure that was going to work, since he was the one creating it by having his hands on her skin. “Tell me about this room,” he said. “Do you know what it was used for?”

“No, not what it was used for Before,” she replied. “But the Bellamys used it for contraband, a long time ago. Tom calls it his sanctuary.”

“Because of Kings Cross and St. Pancras, the words on the wall?”

“Yes.” She sucked in a breath at the first jab and pull of the needle.

“Who was St. Pancras?”

“No idea … Mostly Tom calls it … that because he … likes to spend time … here.”

“And the shelves?”

“He digs …” She breathed. René was going very fast. He had already tied off two stitches and was starting another.

“And what does he find?”

“He has buckets … of bits and pieces. Plastic, but sometimes cast metal and … carved stone …” The pain was doubling with each fresh prick and pull. “He thinks we must be on top of a town … or a city. You can’t dig a well … or plow a field without hitting … something. Especially at the beach.”

“And the tunnels that are blocked?”

“They go out to the sea, drop right away in … the middle … of the cliff face. You have … to climb down. The cliffs … must not have been … there … Before.”

“Did Tom block them up?”

“Yes, there was too … much wind to use the room. But he was careful. The stones can come … back out … without hurting anything.” Unlike René, who was killing her.

“And your brother keeps his finds? He does not give them over for study? Or sell them?”

Sophia took a moment to grip the bed frame. “Tom thinks it’s a … crime to … melt such things. He’ll donate … give them to the Commonwealth, all at once …”

“And they will either put them in a box or lose them.”

“That’s why he … wants to study them first. He writes down what he … learns.”

“And what of all those powders on the far wall? In the kegs. What are they for?”


She held the cold iron harder. Those kegs contained Bellamy fire, her father’s discovery once upon a time, most recently used to panic the mob in the Sunken City. It was Tom who had learned to give them sparks and colors, to make the explosions small in order to frighten, not kill. But Sophia was beyond thinking of a lie to tell about Bellamy fire. For the moment, she was beyond speaking.

“There!” René said, running a sleeve across his brow. “Twenty-two. That is not so bad. I am a marvel, am I not? My uncle émile says I am the fastest in the city.”

Sophia didn’t answer. She was sure her face must be white.

He dabbed at the newly bleeding wound with the bandage she’d been wearing, and then leapt up, wiping his hands on the front of his shirt. Her eyes followed as he retrieved Mr. Lostchild’s bottle, then widened as he got right on the bed and straddled her, one knee to her back and one to her stomach, pinning her legs down with his weight. Sophia realized what he was about, allowed herself a sigh, and got a tighter hold on the bed frame.