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Did Tess foresee herself freeing the prisoners? Or did she see something dreadful happen to them, and this is her pigheaded way of trying to stop it because I told her we should fight our destinies, that it was better to try and fail than do nothing?
We’re silent as we hurry through the well-to-do residential neighborhood. A few more phaetons pass us, carrying men and girls going for an afternoon drive, with a mother or sister or maid in the back seat serving as chaperone. Like Paul, they’ve got the leather hoods drawn up to protect their delicate passengers from the wind. We turn onto North Church Street, heading away from the great spire of Richmond Cathedral.
A block later, Maura clutches at my arm. “Cate, look!” she whispers.
On our right there’s a blackened, burnt-out shell of a building. The brick facade still stands, but the roof and trim are darkened with soot, and the windows are all missing. It obviously used to be a shop of some kind, but now I can see clear through the big picture window to the building behind it. I wonder what it was until I see the sign dangling from a post out front.
“It was a bookstore,” I say grimly. I can’t help remembering the shuttered door of Belastras’ bookshop on the day I left Chatham, the sign that read PERMANENTLY CLOSED.
Better that, at Marianne’s choice, than this.
I doubt this fire was an accident.
Maura stalks ahead of me, her boots clopping angrily against the sidewalk like a horse’s hooves. We pass through a small corner of the market district: a flower shop selling bouquets of roses, a haberdashery, an apothecary, and a cobbler’s with a window full of fine leather boots. When a lady in a white fur hood comes out of the teashop, the bracing scent of bergamot washes over me. The last shop in the row is a toy store, and the windows are a child’s dream come true, full of tin soldiers, rag dolls, spinning tops, puzzles, skipping ropes, and a great gorgeous dollhouse.
“Oh,” Maura breathes, pausing for a second before the plate glass. Then she looks over her shoulder at me and blushes, plainly embarrassed to be caught mooning over such childish things. I feel a tug of affection toward her. She’s still my little sister, trying so desperately to seem grown-up.
“Do you really like Paul?” I ask quietly. “Or were you just trying to get information from him?”
We turn onto a street full of red brick duplexes. The sidewalks here aren’t as well-kept, but there are children laughing and playing with marbles.
“It had nothing to do with that,” Maura insists. “He asked me to go for a ride in his new carriage, and I thought it would be fun, so I said yes. ”
“That was all?” I press.
Maura smirks. “Well, I thought it might annoy you. That was an added bonus. Look, you can do whatever you want about”—she lowers her voice—“Harwood. I’ve got more important things to worry me. ”
“All right,” I say doubtfully.
“It’s true. ” She turns her face into her cloak for warmth; her words are muffled when they reach me. “Just—stay out of my way, and I’ll stay out of yours. ”
The street is sloping down toward the river now, and ahead of us I can see the mast of a tall ship. The buildings around us have grown more derelict. Ramshackle tenements crowd close together on overgrown lots. Rags are stuffed into cracked windowpanes to keep the cold out, but it doesn’t stop the babble of voices from reaching the street. Wagons rumble past, laden with goods from the warehouses. A group of boys is playing stickball in a muddy park filled with debris. A man sits jabbering to himself on a park bench, surrounded by pigeons. I’ve delivered food to a tenement near the warehouse in question, so I’m passing familiar with this part of the city, but without Robert and the carriage, I don’t feel safe here.
The sky is the heavy white of imminent snow, and the wind roars in my ears. As we get closer to the wharves without any sight of Tess, my worry grows. So many awful things could befall her in this neighborhood, not all of them to do with magic.
There’s one long brick warehouse with half a dozen guards posted outside, and no one going in or out. “That must be it,” I say, jerking my head in its direction. I pull Maura into the shadowy, garbage-filled alley between two buildings. “Should we disguise ourselves?”
“That’s a good idea,” Maura agrees. In the blink of an eye, she’s transformed into a girl with dark curls and pouty lips and a patched red cloak.
I hesitate, breathing in the briny stink of rotting fish. “I haven’t been able to hold those illusions. ”
“I’ll do it for you,” she offers, and I arch my eyebrows. “Oh, for Persephone’s sake, I’m not going to let you get arrested. Certainly not before we can help Tess. She’s my sister, too. ”
I examine a loose wisp of my hair and find it a dark brown that matches hers. My cloak is rough gray wool, and I’m wearing scuffed, muddy work boots. “Thank you,” I say, leading the way toward the building.
It feels good to be working with Maura again, instead of against her.
One of the guards steps forward to bar my way. He’s not much older than we are, with a fuzzy brown mustache lying like a caterpillar on his upper lip. “What’s your business here?”
“We came to see our father. He’s one of the prisoners?” I lower my eyes, trying to sound as meek as possible.
“Sorry, miss. Visiting isn’t for another hour. ”
“Can’t we wait inside, out of the cold?” Maura glances up from beneath dark lashes, shivering as she pulls her threadbare cloak tighter.
The guard softens, his eyes lingering on her face. She couldn’t help making herself pretty. “All right. Just go straight inside. There are a few others waiting over by the fire. But don’t approach the prisoner until you have leave, understand? Don’t try to give him food or blankets until the guards say so. It will only get him in trouble. ”
“Thank you, sir,” we chorus.
Just inside the cavernous space, half a dozen women warm their hands around a fire in a barrel. Most of them carry baskets of food for the prisoners, and I realize too late that we should have brought some provisions for our make-believe father. I blink against the smoke that stings my eyes. It takes me a minute to recognize Tess on the far side of the huddle, her blond hair tucked inside an unfamiliar blue hood. I make a beeline for her, and she looks bewildered by the two strange women advancing on her, glowering, until I hiss that it’s us. “What are you doing here?”
“Visiting Father, same as you two. I brought him this,” she says loudly, holding out a moth-eaten red blanket.
“It was mad of you to rush out alone like that. This is no place for a little girl,” Maura exclaims, towing her aside.
Three more guards cluster in a corner, smoking their pipes. A few of the women around the fire—mothers of the prisoners? wives?—eye us with curiosity, but most are chatting in low voices, stamping their feet to keep warm. If Yang is coming, he isn’t here yet; no men are waiting besides the guards.
To our right is a row of holding pens, each closed off by a heavy sliding metal gate, padlocked shut. I can’t see the prisoners, but I can hear the low murmur of voices—and I can smell them. The odors of unwashed bodies and human waste waft toward us, nauseating even from several yards away. I wonder how the prisoners can stand it. How long do the Brothers intend to keep them here? It’s already been two days. With this cold, people must be getting sick. And what about those whose families aren’t bringing food? Are they being left to starve?