Quinton’s jaw flexed. He didn’t agree, but he nodded once, sharply.
It was the closest thing to rebellion Barrington would tolerate and the closest thing to obedience Quinton would allow himself.
Quinton’s fists slowly unclenched. “Then let me do it properly.”
Barrington stood. Walked to a drawer and pulled out the copied manifest Mary-Ann had seen, and held it out. “Then start here.”
Quinton took it and studied the familiar notations. If this was the trail Mary-Ann had followed, he needed to know exactly where it led and who had walked it before her. He folded the page and tucked it into his coat. He didn’t speak the vow aloud. He didn’t have to.
He thought briefly of the wind on the cliffs, the feel of her hand in his, and the way her breath had caught just before she kissed him. That moment lived beneath everything now quiet but constant, like the tide.
A soft knock echoed faintly down the corridor. Then Kenworth’s voice: “And do try not to dismantle the government without your waistcoat, my lord.”
Barrington returned to his desk without a word. The room became silent once again, but it wasn’t peaceful. Quinton paused just outside the door, his hand brushing the inner pocket where the manifest now rested. He should’ve felt more prepared. Instead, he felt the pressure of everything he hadn’t said to her, and everything she had already risked without knowing what lay ahead.
Down the corridor, the scent of bergamot and old paper hung in the air. The house had always been quiet, but this silence carried something heavier. Expectation. Fear. Hope. He thought of Mary-Ann, hunched over a ledger by candlelight, refusing to overlook a single figure. She didn’t even know she was brave. She simply was.
He’d lost her once and nearly lost himself in the process. He would not lose her again, not to the Order, not to secrecy, and not to silence.
If she was already in the current, then he’d be the one to face the undertow.
Chapter Twenty
Tuesday morning, witha lingering chill in the air and secrets whispered by the old walls, the day began in quiet determination.The Redwakehad come into port before dawn, its arrival quiet, its crew even quieter. But Mary-Ann had noticed. She’d seen the name before, inked beside a symbol no one wanted to explain. And still, no one had. Not Barrington. Not Quinton. She had watched them both and read between the lines, what they didn’t say. If answers didn’t come to her, she would go looking for them herself.
The ship sat low in the water, its hull stained from long use and sea spray, the lettering on its stern faded but still legible. Mary-Ann stood a short distance away, her bonnet tilted just enough to shade her eyes without appearing secretive. She had chosen this ship for one reason only. No one aboard would know her face.
She kept her expression mild, almost aimless, as she strolled closer. The bustle of the docks helped cloak her movement, men calling out cargo counts, gulls shrieking overhead, and the constant creak of wood and rope. She wore a simple walking dress, the kind any woman might wear while delivering a message or collecting a package. A stray strand of hair tickled her cheek, but she didn’t brush it away. Any unnecessary movement might draw notice. Her gloves were unadorned. Her curiosity, however, was sharp.
She circled toward a stack of crates near the gangplank, pausing as though checking a tag. A few paces away, a dockworker barked at another man to shift the balance of the load. None of them looked twice at her. That was the advantage, wasn’t it? No one questioned a woman with a soft voice and well-stitched gloves.
A manifest was pinned near the cargo ramp, fluttering slightly in the breeze. She stepped forward, adjusted her gloves, and leaned in.
One of the lines caught her eye: a crate bound for Durham, recorded at a weight she knew was false. She’d seen its duplicate listed elsewhere, and that one had been almost half the size. Her pulse quickened. She followed the entries down the page, eyes narrowing. There. Another. This one is bound for a smaller town upriver. It, too, was overweight.
She stepped back, glancing toward the crates. If she could find the one labeled for Durham—
“Careful there, miss.”
The voice was close and unfamiliar. She turned as a hand reached toward her shoulder, not roughly, but firm. One of the dockhands, his sleeves rolled high and his face ruddy from the sun.
“This ship isn’t for the curious. Best be on your way.”
Mary-Ann lifted her chin. I was told that a parcel arrived on this vessel. I only meant to—”
“You don’t want to be on this one,” he said, his voice lowering. “Some cargo fights back.”
It was the kind of thing a man only said when truth was more dangerous than silence.
Her heart gave a single, hard thud.
The man’s gaze flicked toward another sailor, and Mary-Ann felt the shift. She had lingered too long.
She stepped back at once, murmured a polite thank-you, and turned down the dock with steady steps. Her spine prickled as she walked as if the air behind her had thickened. Not hurried. Not yet.
Only once she reached the corner past the warehouse did she let out her breath. Her palms were damp inside her gloves. But she had something now. Confirmation.The Redwakewas part of it. Whateveritwas.
*
