“You are not abandoning them.” Lewis’s response was frustrated and emphatic. “They are probably safer than we are. You are staying alive.”
I looked between the pair of them, both watching me, though their expressions varied. Harden’s gaze shifted from incredulous to contemplative, eyeing me up and down as if he intended to physically prevent me from leaving, but couldn’t figure out how to do it while holding Lewis up. Lewis looked increasingly exhausted, a shadow in his eyes that looked almost… resigned? I couldn’t parse that look, not right then, so I focused on Harden instead.
As my eyes met his, he seemed to yield slightly, not sensing my concession, but understanding that my mind was made up.
“I’m sorry,” I said, realizing what I had to do even as I spoke. No part of me wanted to go, but there was no real choice. “I’ll meet you at The Three Trees.”
Miss! Miss!”
An empty street stretched before me, echoing with hissed shouts. A line of soldiers crouched in an alleyway, half focused on me, half on the street behind me. One leaned out, as if preparing to sprint in my direction. They all looked harried and exhausted, and several civilians huddled in the space beyond them.
Gunshots erupted behind me. I sprinted for the cover of an abandoned streetcar and landed inside just as bullets tore up the street. I crawled the length of the vehicle and peered out the far end.
The soldiers were fully engaged in a firefight by then. I had no choice but to cover my head and hold fast.
When the shooting died down, chased by running footsteps, I peered back into the street. Empty. The soldiers were gone, as were those they had been protecting. Armed civilians advanced up the street towards the streetcar, rifles and cudgels in hand.
I held my breath. If they were Separatists, I could cite Harden’s name—as Mayfair, of course. I’d learned my lesson before.
But there was a chance the attackers were Zealots. Baffin might be quietly supporting the group, but here in the chaos of the streets, the lines were far more blurred.
I steadied myself. Slipping back into the rows of seats, I crawled beneath them, flattening myself against the wall, and went still.
Someone boarded the streetcar. I heard others moving past, muttering and reloading rifles and kicking debris out of the way.
Boots approached me. My neck screamed at the awkward angle but I held perfectly still.
One step. Another. The boots came even with the row I hid beneath.
Jasper, the distrusting Separatist from The Three Trees, peered over at me. Our eyes met, clear as day, and he did not seem in the least surprised. Perhaps he did not recognize me. Perhaps he did. Regardless, all he did was sniff, brush at his nose, and continue on his way.
Relief made my stomach weak. As soon as the sounds of their passage faded I scurried from the streetcar to a side street and took off at a mad sprint.
I had been an idiot to leave Lewis and Harden. This was madness, absolute madness.
Somewhere off in the city, a woman screamed. There was such terror in that scream, such horror and helplessness, I could bear it no longer.
No more skulking. No more hiding. I ran to the closest shelter I knew—home. And if Baffin’s people came there looking for me? So be it. It was evident that reaching Pretoria would not be possible until the Separatists went to ground and the city calmed.
The front door was tightly locked, but I forced my aching, spent muscles up the wisteria one more time. The balcony door was unlocked. My room was still in disarray. But it wasmyroom—my possessions, those I had not carried off with Pretoria or had been confiscated by the police, were here.
This small bit of fortune nearly brought me to my knees. I stood in the clutter with tears in my eyes, surveying the familiar desk, chest of drawers, bed, and cracks in the plaster. It was cold, but the sun through the glass of the balcony door warmed my back.
Hieronymus was not there, of course. But I had not expected him to be.
I quietly found clothes. They were ill-fitting and worn, but better than the horrific gown and Thera’s stolen coat. I risked opening the tap in my little water closet and scrubbed myself as best I could with fresh, clean water. I found canned food in the kitchen, though the gas had been cut off. I tended my wounds and bound them—myriad bruises and scrapes, many of which I had not been aware of until that moment. I found no signs of what Thera had done to me, but that was no real consolation. I threw the buttoned gown and her coat and hat into a corner.
Then I went back to the balcony doors. The sun was close to setting over the rooftops and there with a view only of the courtyard, I could believe that the city was not at war. I could tell myself that the last week had not occurred, that Lewis was still abroad, Mr. Stoke was alive, that there were no priceless artifacts set in the jumble on my desk. I could almost believe that I had not been violated and meddled with to unknown effect. Then I saw drifts of smoke rising up into the blue sky, and noted how many of the neighbors’ shutters were firmly fastened.
The light waned. Twilight slowly crept up the walls of the courtyard, chasing the last rays of the sun.
I raised a hand to my throat, dreading what I might feel. Or what I might not.
Wouldmy threads twine tonight?
I retreated to the edge of the bed and waited. I waited for the sun to pass over the rooftops. I unbuttoned my collar again as shadows crept across the floor and the last of the sunlight winked out. I turned my throat, bruised and battered, towards the mirror, and waited.
I closed my eyes. At first, it seemed my threads would not come. Tears welled in my eyes.
