“The Lambeth Parish mortuary.”
I rose before I could think better of it. “Then we must go there.”
“It is nearly one.”
“Then we must go now.”
He hesitated for a heartbeat. “Rosalynd,” he said carefully, “you need not see her.”
My spine stiffened. I did not look away. “Yes, I do.”
His jaw tightened. I knew that expression. I had seen it before, in another mortuary, when he had tried—with all the authority of his title and all the force of his will—to keep me from looking death in the face.
It had not worked then. It would not work now.
“A body pulled from the river will be…” He seemed to search for the word that might turn me aside. “…grievous.”
“I have no intention of being protected from the truth,” I said. “Not when another girl has been left to rot in the water.”
For a moment he studied me, as though weighing whether to fight harder. Then something shifted in his eyes—resignation, perhaps, or the hard acceptance that I would not be moved.
He gave a single nod. “I’ll have the carriage brought round.”
While he spoke to Milford, I gathered my cloak with fingers that trembled only slightly. The clasp at my throat refused to cooperate. Steele stepped closer and fastened it with practiced ease, his hands steady, his touch brief—and intimate.
“If she is one of Sister Margaret’s girls—” My voice caught.
“We will know soon,” he said.
It was some time before Milford returned. “The carriage awaits by the back door, Your Grace. Lady Rosalynd.”
We slipped into the cold night, where the shadows of the mews wrapped around us. The air smelled of damp brick and horses and something faintly metallic—London’s restless midnight scent. Steele helped me into the carriage. The door shut, and the lamplight vanished, leaving us with the hush of velvet darkness and the steady weight of what awaited.
We rode without lamps. Without words.
Only the rumble of wheels along the streets marked our passage. I watched the city slide by: shuttered shops, theoccasional drunk stumbling home, the glow of distant gas lamps wavering in the wind.
“Do you think this body will show the same marks?” I asked finally.
Steele’s answer came low and steady. “We will need to wait and see.”
“If she does,” I said, “the Yard cannot dismiss this.”
“I’ll make sure they don’t,” he replied. “Not this time.”
We reached the rougher streets along the south bank, where warehouses leaned close, and the river’s cold breath curled around the corners. The air smelled of wet timber and coal smoke, and the mud of the foreshore clung to everything.
The Lambeth Parish mortuary stood behind the coroner’s offices—dark timber, narrow windows, a lantern burning like a single eye in the gloom.
Steele stepped down first and offered his hand. I accepted it, letting him steady me as I descended. The wheels creaked softly as the carriage rocked, then settled.
“I’ll remain with the carriage,” the driver murmured, touching his hat.
Steele did not answer. He was already leading me toward the door.
Inside, the smell met us at once—carbolic and cold stone, and something sorrowful beneath both. A constable straightened when he saw Steele, recognition flaring in his eyes. Then his gaze flicked to me, and his face changed entirely.
“Your Grace—sir—” he began, visibly flustered. “You brought?—”
