Joanna Bourne: My Lord and Spymaster

Twist sprinted down the room. Adrian wandered over to stand next to Lazarus. “He’s slow. You can’t get good help.”

“Some of you turn out better than others.” Lazarus eyed him. “Some even go honest, like Jess.”

“Using the broadest possible definition of honest, yes. Is Twist the best you could do?”

“He’s new to it. It’ll be another couple months before he stops thinking he’s smart.” Lazarus contemplated the doorway. “You been careless with my Jess, Hawker. I expected better of you.”

“I made a mistake.”

“Too bad for Jess.”

“Sebastian will get her back. If she’s alive under the sun, he’ll get her back.”

“I hope you’re right. But part of her never healed up from being scared so bad, that last time, when she got hurt. She’s fragile inside, in the heart of her. Like eggshells. If we’re too long about it, I don’t know what we’ll get back.”

Doyle was talking to a pale-haired woman with a baby in her lap. She sat cross-legged on a small rug, wrapped in the long sable coat. Her hair was a snow-colored curtain, loose around her, spilling over her shoulders and down her back.

“That’s the girl you sent to Eunice, isn’t it?” Adrian said.

“Fluffy. She showed up at the door last night, saying she was my responsibility, if you please, and I wouldn’t get rid of her that easy. I don’t know what to do with her,” he scowled at her a minute, “. . . or that damned smelly bundle she’s so fond of. She’s named it after me.” He pushed to his feet. “I’d better stir her up to get us some tea. It’s going to be a long day. And you can tell me why you brought that bloody ferret with you.”

DARK was solid as the wood around her. She could reach out and touch every edge of the locker they’d put her in. It smelled of old contraband . . . tobacco, brandy, tea. Water slapped just on the other side of the planks, cold and angry-sounding. When she put her hand down to hold Mama’s locket, she remembered it was gone. She’d thrown it away. The last thing gone.

She curled up in the Dark. She could see Sebastian in her mind as clear as if he was next to her. See him the way he looked this morning, in bed, with the sun on him in long streaks.

Sebastian would think she’d left with Pitney. He’d think she went to Pitney right from his bed without saying good-bye, not intending to come back. He might even think she’d been part of Cinq all along.

He wouldn’t come looking for her. No one would come.

Dark wins, in the end. The last candle goes out and Dark wins.

A rat scuttled in the passage next to her. Rats. She made herself into a tight ball and put her hands over her face. Somebody nearby began moaning a single note.

No. Not nearby. She was the one doing it.

“WILL you stop that! Bloody blazes.” Sebastian plucked the bedamned ferret off the table. “Get your nose out of that.”

The old woman who kept Lazarus’s records hissed like a stray cat and scraped her bangles and gold chains back into a pile. The ferret had collected himself a ribbon and was too busy holding onto its booty to bite him. He tugged the ribbon away from the pointy white teeth.

The thin blue ribbon had a gold coin hanging on it.

Not a coin. He was holding a plain gold locket, buffed smooth against flesh, worn to a soft glow. He opened it with his thumbnail. A design was etched inside, delicate and perfect. A flower.

“This belongs to Jess,” he said.

Lazarus took it from him. “You’re right. Jess wears this. Who brought it in?”

JESS lay on her side in the cell. If she was quiet, maybe the rats wouldn’t come. But they smelled you. Even if you held your breath, they smelled you and found you.

I can’t get out.

Bad dreams. She was caught in bad dreams. She was back to being a kid, that last time on the roofs, when she fell. Rotten timbers gave way. The air shaft in the old warehouse collapsed around her, and nobody came. Nobody knew where she was. Nobody could hear.

I can’t get out. Bricks and wood and plaster came tumbling down on top of her, pinning her down. Burying her alive.

She got so thirsty. When she couldn’t scream anymore, she made a sound like air squeezing out of a bag. Then the rats came.

“You can’t have me.” She told the rats that. She kept telling the Dark that, hour after hour. Telling the Dark, “Leave me alone.” The rats didn’t listen. Her hands got slick with blood, fighting them off.

The Thames River was at her back, on the other side of the boards. Dark as blood, that river. Old dreams crawled out of it and sucked at her. The worst dreams. She knew how they ended and she couldn’t get out of them.

The smell of shattered wood and plaster and mold filled her lungs. She was so thirsty, and she couldn’t get out.

The Dark won. She gave up and didn’t remember doing it.

She wasn’t fighting anymore when Lazarus crawled in and woke her up and dragged her out. He hurt her. Pain washed, red and black, again and again, when he uncovered her. The Dark tried to get him, too. Timbers caved in. Lazarus kept the falling bricks off her with his own body. He jostled and pulled and carried her through the Dark, pain after pain.

“Hold on, Jessie. One more stretch and we’re out.”

Then they were in the padding crib. In the dream she heard herself say, “I’m cold.”

“You’ll be warm in a little while.” Lazarus held her wrapped in a blanket against his chest. He was bothering her with a cup. “Drink this.”

It was an order. She tried to make her mouth obey. “Don’ want it. Wanna go to sleep.”

“You can’t go to sleep till you drink it, Jess.” So she tried. She couldn’t make her lips work.

“Here’s the man who’s going to fix your arm. You finish drinking this, and you’ll go to sleep.” Dark laid layer after layer around her. Buried her. “When you wake up, it’ll be over.”

Cold fingers closed on her arm. Exploring fingers, like evil icicles.

“It ’urts. It ’urts bad.”

Men whispered. More hands came to hold her still. Agony hit like black lightning. She screamed and fell into the Dark.

In the hollow aftermath, Lazarus said, “Go ahead and cry, Jess. That’s right. Nobody here to see you but me and Black John. Just your friends. Nobody else.”

Lots of nightmares hid inside her, waiting to come out. They were with her in the whispering Dark.

There’s always something to do.

Shaking, she pushed herself up to her feet, hunched over. Not much room in here. The wood was damp and chill, slimy to touch.

It wasn’t just nightmares in her. There were good days to remember. Think about . . . the Greek islands. Flowers. Air clear as glass. And she’d seen the northern lights over the snow fields in Russia. Think about that. She’d named a Whitby ship Northern Light. Pretty little sloop.

The hull was at her back, only the cold water of the Thames beyond it. What about this overhead? She braced herself on damp wood and pounded with the heel of her hand, trying to jar something loose. Solid as the earth, this wood. They just had to build this damn locker like it was going to hold wild bears.

Remember good days. Think about Sebastian leaning over her in the garden, dark as the devil, laughing at her. “It’s square. Look,” and he showed her the stem of the horehound. She could smell the clean, green smell of it like it was in here with her.

She kicked at the doorframe, where it swung closed. Weakest point.

She could see the purple of those flowers Sebastian held. Delicate as butterflies, they lay safe inside his hand, in a circle of muscles like steel.

Sebastian was going to find her. Any minute now, he’d come. Or next week or in six months. That was one of those things you could count on. The sun would rise. Sebastian would come for her.