Her wrists were tied with gray cord that bit into her skin. Her ankles were free, as were her words, but the latter seemed of no interest to the man. He scarcely glanced at her, lips moving silently as he counted marks on his list.
Eleanor let her head loll back against the chair, her eyelids droop as she cataloged. Registry stamps, blue wax, a crown, and an office mark that tried too hard to look official. Language: Immediate dispatch. By order of Undersecretary Halford.
Even the floorboards were off—one near her left foot had been replaced, the pine a bright intruder in an otherwise ancient room.
The man coughed. Eleanor kept her face slack.
A waft of lamp oil drifted over, carrying the tang of fresh ink and the decay of the river. She opened her eyes by a fraction and caught, in the glass front of a cabinet, the man’s eyes flicking up to her, then returning with relief to his ledger.
She recalled something her father once said about predators, ‘A rabbit will watch the hawk and the hound, but never the gardener.’ In this analogy, the man was the gardener—overlooked and, often, the most dangerous. Warden and witness.
Eleanor flexed her fingers, just enough to test the cord.
There was give.
Not much, but enough that, with the right leverage, she could slip a wrist, or at least shift her hands into something useful.
The man wrote in bursts. His pen stuttered, then stilled as he turned a page, stamped it, and set it aside. When he reached the bottom of the pile, he stood, stretched, and moved to the hearth, where a kettle burbled. He poured himself tea with the precision of a man who believed order kept the world from collapsing.
Eleanor watched his hands.
They were nicked.
He returned and, for the first time, addressed her directly. “There is nothing to worry about, miss,” he said, eyes fixed on his mug. “You will see the Undersecretary soon enough. Then you will be free to go.”
Eleanor let her lips tremble, just enough to convey the right mixture of fear and exhaustion. “How long will that be?” she asked, voice hoarse.
He checked the clock. “Soon as he’s cleared the first post.” He seemed to think this a comfort.
She nodded and let her eyes drift shut again.
Beneath her facade, her heart raced.
The cord around her wrists was twisted and looped in a way meant to maximize humiliation. She remembered reading that magistrates liked marks—visible proof that a person had been, for a time, property of the Crown.
Looped.
Eleanor flexed again, slower this time, shifting her fingers so the edge of her thumbnail pressed against the twist. It gave, but not enough to break.
The clerk sighed and looked up.
“Would you like water?” he asked.
She nodded.
He crossed the room, set a tin cup on the table near her elbow, then retreated, his gaze staying on her.
She waited until he was seated, then leaned forward awkwardly and sipped from the cup, spilling a little down her chin.
He did not smile, but she sensed his satisfaction. He went back to his work.
Eleanor let the water soak into her mouth, then discreetly let a small measure dribble back into the cup.
She would need the moisture to help slip the cord when the moment came.
When she heard the outer door open and footsteps in the corridor, she took a steadying breath and let her face settle into perfect defeat.
The footsteps paused outside the door. A key turned, and the latch clicked. The man stood and smoothed his waistcoat before he glanced at her, then at the cord, as if to reassure himself that everything was as it should be.
