Mary-Ann scanned the headers. Dates. Ship names. Ports. Her gaze caught a name.
The Redwake.
Barrington noticed. “That one came up twice. Do you recognize it?”
She set the folio down with care. “It’s a ship that appears in my father’s logs. More than once. And…” she hesitated, then steadied her voice. “I’ve seen it mentioned elsewhere.”
Barrington gave a thoughtful nod, then added, almost absently, “Colonel Rathbone flagged it last quarter. I thought it was odd that Redwake had no escort listed. He’s meticulous, that one, old school Ordnance, but reliable.”
Mary-Ann absorbed the name without pause. It meant nothing to her yet.
“I can do better,” she said quietly. “I’ve already started.”
Barrington gave a satisfied nod and stepped away to retrieve a report from the adjoining room.
The moment he left, the door clicked again.
The sound stirred something in her chest, anticipation, maybe, or a memory still warm from yesterday.
Quinton stood just inside as if he had paused mid-step. His gaze found her instantly. His coat was dusty from the road, his posture a touch weary, but there was nothing uncertain in the way he looked at her. There was no smile, no clever line. Just that steady, anchoring presence she remembered.
“Miss Seaton,” he said, quiet and sure.
“Captain.”
He crossed the room with measured steps, stopping a pace away. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.”
“I wasn’t either,” she said honestly.
A moment stretched between them filled not with awkwardness but with something unnamed. The air felt sharper for it.
“I wanted to thank you,” he said. “For listening. And for not looking away.”
“I’ve done enough of that lately.”
He gave a faint nod. “Barrington thought it best you heard things plainly.”
“He was right.”
She studied him, watching the subtle changes since she’d last seen him. The way he stood, hands loose at his sides instead of crossed. The way his gaze didn’t drift, didn’t retreat. He wasn’t guarding himself, not from her. That quiet she sensed wasn’t hesitation. It was the stillness of someone who had been through fire and come out tempered. It was watchfulness.
“You already suspected something, didn’t you?” he asked.
Mary-Ann hesitated, then answered with the truth. “I had reason to wonder.”
“Are you going to tell me what that reason is?”
She met his gaze evenly. “Not yet.”
A flicker of something passed over his face. It wasn’t offense but understanding. “Then I won’t ask. When you are ready to tell me, I’ll listen.”
She looked down at the folio. “But I can help. I know the rhythms of those ships. And I know when something has been moved just enough to make it look like nothing at all.
“I believe you,” he said simply.
He glanced toward the door where Barrington had gone, then back at her. “You’re the only one I trust to give us the correct answers.” His voice was low but certain, and there was no flattery in it, just fact. It steadied her more than she expected.
Rising with quiet purpose, Mary-Ann smoothed her skirts and moved toward the window.
