“I’m fine,” Sibyl all but growled. “Now tell us.”
They were pinned in on two sides with no possible exit.
A tense few seconds passed. Mira didn’t know what to do. Her eye caught some of the dirt on the hem of Sibyl’s skirt. Except it wasn’t dirt. It was blood. Mira swallowed, finding it difficult to breathe.
Monty broke first. “I’ll tell you! I’ll tell you. Just put the weapons away.”
Sibyl shook her head. “Tell us first.”
“I’m sorry, really I am,” he said, and Mira wasn’t certain who he meant to apologize to. “This is Byron Constantine. That detective. He’s promised not to arrest anyone, he just needs to know about Mr. Treadway.”
Sibyl faltered, lowering the knife by a fraction as her brow furrowed in confusion. “You mean, the gent who got you arrested for stealing paintings?”
“The very one,” Byron said, standing a bit straighter and speaking in his normal, albeit tired, voice.
Sibyl raised the knife again. “You aren’t from Circe?”
“Not at all. In fact, I do believe we share the same sentiment about them.”
Sibyl gestured to Mira. “And who’s she meant to be?”
“I’m his secretary,” Mira said, stepping to Byron’s side. “We really are only here to find out why Circe ordered all those burglaries and who Mr. Treadway was.”
The knife made a sharp “schink” as Sibyl sheathed it on her belt. “I don’t need to answer nothing.” She moved past them, back over to the vendors who also put their weapons away and began packing up.
“Take it out to the carriage,” Sibyl told the other women.“We’re done for the night.”
“But won’t he—”
“I don’t care. We’re done.”
“We’re working to stop Circe,” Mira said. “You could help us.”
Sibyl scoffed, crouching to latch one of the cases. “And I could kill the three of you and be done with all the questions.”
Monty shook his head. “It’s not worth it, Mr. Constantine. Let’s leave.”
Byron looked between him and Sibyl. “Perhaps we should go,” he told Mira, taking her arm and leading her away. As they reached the archway, a cry sounded from the basket in the alcove and Sibyl rushed towards it. Mira turned, letting go of Byron’s arm.
“A baby,” Mira whispered. Sibyl held a bundle in her arms, gently bouncing it and shushing.
“Get them out of here,” she said. “I don’t care how.”
The other two women stepped towards them, weapons once again at the ready.
“You can kill us,” Mira said, “But murder is messy. Someone will come looking for us, and they’ll find you.”
“We’ll be gone by then,” the woman with the knife said.
“Maybe. But is this really the life you want?” She called out to Sibyl. “Is it the life you want for your child? To always be on the run? To always live in fear?” Mira stepped forward. “We can’t promise you anything, but if you help us, at least you’ll be fighting back. You would have a chance at freedom.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” the woman with the gun said. “Now leave!”
Byron gently pulled Mira through the archway. There was no sign of Monty.
“Wait!” Sibyl called from behind them. She stepped up to the archway, still bouncing her baby. “I’ll tell you what I know.”
February 14, 1889: Early Morning
