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37. A Match in A Porcelain Hand – Olive
Glass Houses
For seventy-two hours, I have measured time by wheels. The bolted carriage never truly stopped. It slowed. It turned. It rocked through mud and rain and roads so uneven my bones ached from holding myself upright. But it did not stop.
Not long enough to matter. Not long enough to run. The windows were covered and the door was locked from the outside. Two men sat across from me for most of the journey, silent as gravestones and half as charming, one carried a pistol and the other carried rope.
Neither carried imagination. They gave me a water bucket and no bloody answers. No food or rather, they offered food, a small parcel of meat wrapped in cloth, but I did not touch it. Men like the Collector don’t give gifts without hooks buried inside them. So I drank enough not to collapse, used the bucket when my body’s humiliation became unavoidable, and sat with my back straight while the carriage dragged me farther from Lockham. Farther from La Sirene. Farther from Morrigan and Thanatos. Farther from Edward. Alcott. Lazarus. My men. The thought is dangerous, so I let it cut and then bury it.
I cannot afford tenderness. Tenderness is how women begin praying instead of planning and on the third night. The carriage stops, not the soft halt of changing horses, a final stop. I hear water first.
The slow slap of it against wood, the groan of ropes, murmurs of men giving orders in low voices. Then the door opens, and cold night air rushes in carrying salt, fog, and river rot.
One of the guards reaches for me and I bare my teeth. He smiles as a second man appears with a pistol already aimed somewhere behind my shoulder.
“Step down,” he says.
I consider throwing myself at him anyway, but I step. The dock sways beneath my feet, slick with mist and lantern light. A ship waits beyond the pier, dark against the moonless water, its masts stabbing into the fog like gallows.
No.
My stomach turns hollow. Not a house, nor an office and definitely not a room in Lockham where someone might still find a trail. A ship means distance, it means water between me and the men who will be tearing England apart to find me. A ship means if hope follows, it will have to swim.
One of the guards pushes me forward as I stumble, catch myself, and turn enough to glare at him.
He only smiles, “Careful, miss. Wouldn’t want you falling before the master has his dinner.”
Master.
The word makes my skin crawl. They usher me up the gangplank with hands too close and pistols closer. The deck is quiet except for the creak of wood, the snap of sailcloth, and the soft commands of sailors who do not look at me. Cowards, all of them, or paid men, often the same thing. I am taken below into a cabin far too elegant for a kidnapping.
Of course.
The room glows with candlelight. A polished table has been set with white linen, silver cutlery, crystal glasses, and dishes arranged with obscene care. Roasted meat, buttered vegetables, fresh bread. Sugared pears, wine dark enough to resemble blood and my stomach clenches with hunger. My mouth waters despite every sensible thought in my head. Still, I sit only when shoved into the chair. I do not reach for the food. The guard at my back chuckles. “Not hungry?”
I lift my gaze to his. “I prefer not to dine with corpses.”
His smile fades.
Good.
He leaves with the others, though I hear the lock turn behind them. Alone, I stare at the table as the ship shifts beneath me. A gentle rock, then another. We are moving and the realization settles slowly. The boat has set sail, England is already loosening its hold on me. For the first time since the fog, fear presses sharp and cold beneath my ribs. I will never see them again and the thought arrives uninvited. I reject it immediately, but it returns.
If the Collector is clever enough, cruel enough, quiet enough, they will lose the trail.
No.
I curl my hands in my lap beneath the table where no one can see them shake.
No.
They will come, they have to come. The ship rocks again as water whispers against the hull. I look at the knife beside the plate, it is sharp enough, perhaps. I do not touch it, he would expect that and The Collector likes games.
So I wait. I wait through hunger, through nausea, through the soft sway of the cabin. Through the dimming of one candle and the guttering of another. I wait long enough that anger becomes the only thing keeping me upright. He may blame me for the party. Good, let him, he can focus every ounce of his rot upon me and not the men.
Let him come into this room and spit his fury across the table, let him strike me, he may threaten me. Kill me, if he has grown bored of theater. At least then I will know the shape of the next moment. The lock turns and my spine straightens, the door opens as The Collector enters as though he has merely been delayed for dinner. He wears a dark suit, perfectly fitted, with a black cravat pinned by a small emerald. Gloves cover his hands. His hair is neatly combed, though one side of his face remains half-hidden by shadow, then he closes the door behind him.
“Widow,” he says. The accent is eerily cheerful.
