Supford closed the window, and dimmed the lights, leaving us in an approximation of twilight.
I mustered my strength and brushed one finger across the body’s one intact, swollen eye.
I saw Supford and the constable. I saw a medical examiner with a narrow face and sad eyes. An alleyway, and a cudgel.
Crack. Crack. Crack.
I jerked my hand away and described, as quickly and passionlessly as I could, what I had seen.
“Could you see more at twilight?” Supford inquired.
“Perhaps, but unlikely. The body is recent enough that I have already seen its entire history,” I deflected, increasingly desperate to leave the room.
“Are you willing to try again, regardless?”
I could not bring myself to speak, so I gave a listless nod instead.
“Very well.” Supford accepted this. He glanced at his watch, and seemed frustrated by what he saw there. “Early tomorrow morning, then. I’ve an appointment tonight.”
I nodded again.
“Miss Rushforth,” Supford began, and for the first time in two years, I turned to my true name. “I beg several more questions of you before I leave. Can you tell me what you thinkof this? I must reveal the body again, I apologize. Prepare yourself.”
I retreated a step and the detective pulled back a section of the cloth to reveal Mr. Stoke’s unmoving chest. There, just beneath his heart, was a bruise so dark it looked like a piece of night carved from the sky. A bruise in the shape of a handprint, fingers slightly crooked to leave tight, scar-like lines of nails.
“This, as near as we can determine, is what killed him,” the detective said. “The damage to his head was done postmortem, as you confirmed, and all his other injuries are unlikely to have caused his death. As to this… bruise, we assume it is sorcerous. The work of a Silver, perhaps, though I have never seen, nor heard, of their Leeching being used to the point of death.”
“Neither have I,” I admitted. My mind leapt to Harden, but despite his criminal affiliations, I could not imagine him doing something like this. That did not mean he was above suspicion, though, or that he might share some insight into the higher abilities of his kin.
With a jolt, I remembered my intended outing with the Silver that very night, and felt a dash of disappointment. At least languishing in prison was a valid reason for standing him up.
There were more questions from there, about the artifact, its recovery, Mr. Stoke and myself. We took our leave of the body and briefly retired to the detective’s office, where I answered his queries as best I could without admitting to any crimes, namely smuggling the artifact into Harrow, and tried to quell the storm of questions in the back of my own mind.
At length, Supford said, “I believe we are finished, Miss Rushforth. However, I should warn you. I have notified the Guild of your arrest. I had no choice. Not only is it procedure, but it was only a matter of time until they learned the truth. Your landlady did not strike me as the kind to keep quiet, nor shy away from listening at a keyhole.”
“No,” I agreed. I should have felt more fear, I supposed, more desperation, but I had begun to numb. “Is the Guild sending someone to retrieve me?”
“They may try. But I will not relinquish you easily. If you are a suspect in a murder, you are mine and will not leavethis station.” Supford, to my surprise, spoke the words with surprising gentleness.
I met his eyes, wary of a trap. I knew, in theory, that not every power in this city despised my kind as much as Baffin, and Supford had been an acquaintance of the moderate Mr. Stoke. But what were the chances that he was truly sympathetic to my plight?
There was sincerity in his eyes, however, just awkward enough to lend it legitimacy.
I gave a small, grateful nod.
Mr. Wake, at least, could not reach me in a cell.
***
I paced my cell as darkness fell, sending twilight creeping through my window to awaken my threads. I unbuttoned my collar and trailed my fingers over my skin, feeling the threads like gilding.
My hand stilled as footsteps approached and a key turned in the lock.
A woman entered my cell, her masses of blonde curls pinned up around a square face. She wore no hat and her fine, waist-length jacket partially concealed the intricately embroidered bodice of what could only be an opera gown. Her throat was bare, as was a fair portion of her chest.
“Ottilie,” she said.
“Madge,” I replied. I caught sight of a man behind her in the hallway; the same one who had been on her arm by the river. His salt-and-pepper hair was perfectly parted and his eyes, though aloof, were not as cold as Madge’s. “Is this your husband? I assumed he would be younger, given the sum of your progeny. Perhaps what he lacks in vigor he makes up for in industry?”
