Grand General Baffin was funding research into the supposed creation of Entwined. I thought the notion absurd, the highest form of wishful thinking on behalf of humanityand Harrow’s Entwined-hating leader. But Dr. Maddeson had been passionate, and that passion left a hollow of doubt in my chest.
Add to that Harden’s assertions that Baffin was funding the Zealots and propelling Harrow towards civil war, and a grim picture was being painted before me.
Finding the artifact was about far more than saving myself, claiming my reward and escaping Harrow. It was about ensuring that my enemies did not come into possession of potentially dangerous information.
Such responsibility made me squirm. I wanted nothing to do with it. I wanted a ship, and the horizon. I also wanted Lewis, when I was not kissing Harden, but all that was ridiculous and unnecessary.
I closed my eyes and let out a long breath. Mr. Stoke had contacted Dr. Maddeson about the language on the box, but whether he had understood the professor’s course of research was unclear. The detective had always been neutral in the conflict between humans and Entwined, which was part of what had drawn me to him. I could not imagine him supporting research that could cause more conflict, or being foolish enough to share Dr. Maddeson’s idealism.
For what might have been the first time, I allowed myself to truly, deeply, miss Lewis. The fortnight of ocean between us suddenly felt untenable, absurd, when I needed him here and now. We were friends and allies. I should be able to turn to him and—after I had spent the last two years saving to buy us a new life—he should act.
I needed his help.Someone’shelp. Or rather, I wanted someone to take this responsibility from me.
With that little flight of self-understanding, my resolve hardened. No. I had to make my own choice, choose my own path. And that choice? It had already been made, long before these complications arose.
Find the artifact and Mr. Stoke. Claim Stillwell’s reward. Meet up with Lewis. Carve a new life.
In all likelihood, Maddeson’s research would come to naught, anyway. I decided that. I decreed it.
It was not my responsibility.
I rose. I straightened my skirts and sash and adjusted my hat. I tucked away the last of my guilt and swept out of the cathedral without a backward glance.
***
Newly restored and courageous as I was, the discovery that policemen awaited me at my apartments was a rather heavy blow.
No sooner had I unlocked the front door of the building than my landlady’s prim tones summoned me through the door of her private sitting room at the foot of the stairs.
Suppressing a weary retort, I pulled off my gloves. “Yes, Mrs. Temberley?”
I froze in place as two men stood, one in the customary uniform and helmet of a patrolman and the other in a bowler hat and suit.
“Detective Sergeant Supford,” the man in the bowler hat informed me. “And this is Constable Blakely. We are here to ask you a few questions, Miss Fleet, about the location of your employer, Mr. Uriah Stoke. Please, have a seat. Mrs. Temberley has been kind enough to permit us the use of the room. Privately.”
Mrs. Temberley, who had been watching my startled expression with the demeanor of a satisfied cat from beneath her frilled cap, caught herself.
“Oh, yes. Yes, I see. Do call if you need anything,” she said with faux civility, and left.
Slowly, I sat on the edge of a stiff-backed chair while the constable took up position next to the door and the detective sat across from me on the sofa.
“Miss Fleet,” the detective began. “When was the last time you spoke with your employer? You should know, he is an old associate of mine. We were stationed together at Heddon Street, before his retirement.”
“I see.” The constable’s glare was a physical force on the side of my face, and I felt gooseflesh prickle across my skin.“I saw him two… three days ago?”
“Mrs. Temberley has informed us you were out quite late the night before that. Where were you?”
“Mrs. Temberley does so struggle to mind her own business. It is an affliction, as I understand it.”
There was a twitch around Detective Supford’s eyes, but it was gone before I could decide if it was amusement or irritation. “Please answer the question.”
“Late nights are a requirement of my position, sir. Mr. Stoke required me at a private meeting. I take notes and such.”
The man watched my face, alert for any lie. “Who was the meeting with, and what did it concern?”
“I apologize,” I said, rather than replying. “But what is this about? Is everything well with Mr. Stoke?”
Detective Supford’s expression betrayed nothing. “Do you know where your employer is?”
