“She is, and likely has his spirit, so watch her.”
“Murdering bastard,” Eliza hissed, fear warring with rage inside her.
But this man had played a part in ruining her life. She’d never show him fear.
His expression shifted into angry at her words. “You watch your mouth.”
“I’m not frightened of you,” she lied. In fact, she was terrified.
“Easy, Len. Let’s just get her in the cart,” the other man said.
“I’m not going with you.”
“Well then, which one of these people do you want dead?” he whispered, leaning close to speak in her ear.
Her gaze darted across the street and she saw people above the fog. A man in a tall hat walking arm in arm with an elderly woman, perhaps his mother. A young girl skipping, her braids flying, her tiny hand wrapped around her mother’s gloved fingers. A pair of workers hauling crates. A hunched gentleman feeding crumbs to pigeons.
Her breath caught. She could not choose. She could not be the cause of any of their deaths. Eliza’s voice came out hoarse. “What do you want me to do?”
“Walk,” he said. “Straight ahead. You’ll see a narrow lane to the left. Take it.”
She started forward. He kept a bruising hold on her wrist, the bigger man following close behind like a dark shadow. Her mind spun as she searched around her, desperate for any gap she could run through, any chance to escape. But she saw nothing.
If she screamed, she’d be dead before the sound reached anyone, and she wasn’t ready to die.
Eliza was finally building a life. Yes, it had been turbulent, but she had a job she enjoyed with people she respected. She was beginning to feel a sense of belonging with the Nightingales. Even Mungo, with his broad shoulders and thick Scottish burr, had become someone she secretly looked for in a room. Someone she grumbled at only to hide the strange flutter he caused in her chest. Someone she?—
Stop.Surviving came first, and she was good at that.
Her boots splashed through a shallow puddle as she entered the narrow lane. A hand shoved her forward.
“Hurry up.”
She stumbled but kept walking, blinking away the tears. Crying helped no one. She had to stay strong.
At the far end of the lane waited a cart. A plain, unmarked thing with a canvas draped over the back. A man dressed like the others stood beside it.
The moment she reached it, hands seized her arms.
“No—”
She didn’t get another word out.
They lifted her and tossed her into the rear like she was a sack of flour. Her shoulder slammed into the wooden planks. Pain shot up her arm. Before she could scramble upright, someone forced her onto her front, a knee digging into her spine. Her hands were then bound behind her before she was rolled onto her back. A filthy rag was shoved between her teeth. She gagged, choking, head jerking back and forth.
“Be quiet, stay still, and you’ll survive. But if you give us trouble, it will go worse for you, Eliza Downing,” the older man said.
Worse? How could it go worse?
Her lungs seized. The cold air felt too thick to breathe. Panic clawed up her throat as she tried to inhale through her nose.
“You won’t feel a thing soon,” another voice said, and then she heard their laughter. The cart was covered, and she was alone in the dark. It then rocked as they settled on the driver’s seat.
How was she going to escape? Why was this happening to her?
Who would come and find her when she didn’t return? Would the Nightingales think she’d simply left? No, herthings were still in her room. They’d see them and notify the authorities. Someone had to come looking for her, surely?
She squeezed her eyes shut.
