Darren Craske - The equivoque principle

'Something has been bothering me…a nagging thought really, but it makes me think that perhaps I misinterpreted my previous messages. Taking into consideration how unreliable these visions have been, I am starting to think that this ghost has not risen from your past…but my own.'

'Madame, that's ridiculous!' said Quaint. 'Not only are you far less likely than I to have enemies, but here in England? Certainly not. If we were sitting outside a coffee house in La Rochelle, surrounded by a gaggle of women, angered at you for your beauty, then yes…I may be prepared to concede that thought. But it is simply not so, Madame.'

'You seem very certain of my abilities, Cornelius,' Destine said calmly. 'Far more so than I, it seems. As you requested, I have been attempting to gain some connection with Prometheus's emotions since we returned from Crawditch. It has been difficult, with some success. Short bursts, nothing solid. I wanted to try and make a little more sense of them before I told you.'

'And have you?'

'Barely,' admitted Destine. 'They are like a foreign language. The feelings are certainly confusing, unlike anything I have previously experienced. I feel so wrong-footed, no matter where I step. I just do not know what to believe.'

Quaint nodded in understanding. 'Well, that is understandable, Madame. None of us expected to be drawn into this web as we have been. We are all at the mercy of circumstance. I am surprised at Prometheus for one thing…why in God's name did he escape? What was he thinking? Or did someone provoke him-is that who melted the cell's bars? Another party?' Quaint rested his hand upon hers. 'Who knows what happened-and that's why I'm so reliant on what you can receive from Prometheus. I know it is hard for you, Destine, I really do-but if only you could make contact with him…perhaps you could get some clue as to his state of mind.'

'Cornelius, I told you that I have been trying to sense Prometheus constantly, but it is difficult,' Destine said. 'It is like looking at molten lava, and someone telling me to put my hand into it. They tell me that it will not burn, and yet I do not believe them. I am scared, my sweet…I feel as if my messages are willingly betraying me. I do not know if I can trust them.'

'Madame…we have no other choice.'

Destine's lips floundered silently. 'I…I will try, Cornelius…but do not blame me if all I see is nonsense. I know you care for Prometheus a great deal.'

'You don't need a crystal ball to tell you that.'

'And you are not alone. We are all feeling as though we are at the mercy of something beyond our power to affect, and we have no choice but to give in.'

'It is unlike you to be so pessimistic, Madame.'

Destine fixed him with a stern glare. 'Do not confuse pessimism for an advance warning, Cornelius. Now…I will try and connect to Prometheus.' She took a deep breath, slowly exhaling through pursed lips. Destine's eyelids flickered like the beat of a hummingbird's wings, and she raised her fingertips to her temples. 'He knows I am searching for him, Cornelius,' she said. 'He's opening up to me, allowing my mind to sense him this time. I sense a great turmoil within his mind, a feeling of isolation, but above all…hatred. He hates this Hawkspear most desperately. Give me a moment to make more sense of this, my sweet.'

Quaint held his breath silently as he stared into Destine's eyes. It had been a long time since she had showed her true age to him. Her taut skin draped across her cheekbones like wet silk, and she looked pale and worn, but yet still held a timeless beauty like a porcelain sculpture. Ray Barracks was right. She needed a rest.

Destine was his spiritual centre of gravity, and for nearly fifty years he had never been without her. Since he was seven years old, she had been in his life-initially as his governess, and then later as an essential confidante and advisor. When Quaint inherited Dr Marvello's Circus she became his business partner, assisting him with the financial aspect of the circus, and she was his most valued and trusted friend. Now, looking as frail as she was, and in this climate of murder and subterfuge, Quaint just wanted to snatch her up and lock her away in a cage, to keep her safe from harm.

'Cornelius,' the Frenchwoman whispered, snatching Quaint from his thoughts. 'His fear is so raw; it is easy to pinpoint his position, or a rough approximation of it. He is very frightened…and very cold, but he is uninjured. He is being pursued…near the waterfront, and I smell…I smell fish?'

Quaint look baffled. 'Madame, that tells me nothing. The wharf runs along the Thames for miles, and all of it stinks of fish-he could be anywhere.'

'No…it is more than that. I am being shown the image of a large building situated on the wharf. A warehouse, perhaps? The smell of fish…and ice.'

'Water, fish and ice?' repeated a thoroughly vexed Quaint.

'That is what I sense…I can almost taste the stench, it is so abundant.'

'Wait on!' Quaint suddenly snapped his fingers. 'Ice and fish…on the docks? Of course. It can only mean Blythesgate!' he said gleefully.

'Blythesgate? What is a "Blythesgate"'?' enquired Destine.

'It's a fish market,' proclaimed Quaint. 'A couple of miles along the docks from Crawditch-it makes perfect sense! He's got to be hiding in there. Madame, you're a genius.' Quaint glanced at the station clock. 'We shall have to make a move quickly; that place will be abuzz with fisher folk at this time of day.' He strode back down the platform towards his assembled crew. 'Butter?' he called, signalling the Inuit over to his side. 'Hail us a Hansom. We're off, my friend…to Blythesgate fish market.'

'You're best getting a boat, Mr Q, if it's Blythesgate you're after,' offered Barracks the engineer, overhearing Quaint's words. 'Boat'll get you there ten times faster than any cab.'

Butter looked up at Quaint. 'We are to get boat, boss?'

'Yes, we are to get boat,' Quaint snapped back enthusiastically.

The Inuit scratched at his dark mop. 'Wherever we find ourselves boat, boss?'

'Oh, don't you worry about that, my little friend,' said Quaint, 'I know a chap not far from here who works with a bloke whose sister married a fellow I used to play polo with who won't mind if we borrow one.'

Butter's mouth fell open. 'We are to steal one, aren't we?'

'Absolutely,' replied Cornelius Quaint.

A FEW MINUTES LATER, Quaint and Butter exited the station, and headed towards the Thames embankment, where a number of small dockyards littered the river's edge. The late November wind was trailing a fine spray of cold, salty water in their direction, and Quaint shuddered, tucking his scarf inside his coat.

'My word, that's a chill wind. I'll bet this weather reminds you of home, doesn't it?' Quaint asked, turning up his collar.

Butter smiled. 'Not much. There is too much rain here, boss. We have little rain in Greenland. It freeze to snow long before,' he answered, his memory forcing him to reflect upon his homeland. 'And of the chill, boss, I am long since capable of noticing such things.'

Quaint stroked his chin. 'Ah, yes. Your imperviousness to cold would be a very useful gift for me right about now, my friend. England is nothing if not damp. Damp enough to get right under your skin, as it always has been. Here we are. Look!' he said, pointing at a flaky painted sign above a rickety fence. 'Barter's Boatyard. This will do very nicely.'

Butter followed a few paces behind as Quaint strode into the boatyard. They weaved through the carcasses of several old and damaged boats propped up on stilts, and headed determinedly towards the wharf. A rundown shack, with a peeling turquoise-painted door hanging limply from rusty hinges, stood between the wharf and Quaint, and from inside the shack, the golden glow of a gas lamp shone weakly. It was mid-afternoon, but the clouds had congregated across the sky, shrouding much of the daylight. Quaint held his finger to his mouth, signalling quiet, as they crept underneath the shack's window, the gravel underfoot scratching at their soles as they went. Once they were past the outbuilding, Quaint relaxed and looked at a wide selection of rowing boats moored up alongside the wharf.