No Time Like the Present

by Ellison Blackburn

  I sense my frequent rescuer nearby and force my eyes open. He’s curled over me as though I’m an invalid, saying mildly, “How do you feel about a cup of tea, St. Clair?”

  “Tha-that would be great, Martin,” I eke out.

  “I’ll see you soon, River,” Archer says.

  “Mm-hmm.”

  Somewhere between several hours or several days later, I carefully pad my way down the stairs, still feeling a little off. I steady myself at the base of the stairs before crossing the hall to duck my head into the dining room, expecting to find my brothers having dinner. It is almost seven o’clock. But they aren’t there. Making the circle around the foyer, I look into the drawing room, the salon, and then the study, where I discover Quinn bent over papers scattered across the massive bleached-oak desk. He is so thoroughly engrossed in the architectural drawings, ad clippings, and photographs (which are probably already branded into his inner eyelids) that he doesn’t see me. The panels of the massive pocket doors have been pushed open, and Archer is sitting in his now usual chair in the library with his back to Quinn.

  I walk over to the table. “Ah, River,” Quinn says.

  “How are you feeling?” Archer asks, twisting in his seat.

  “Fine. You let me sleep.”

  “Yes. You don’t remember? I checked you when you came home. Your system experienced a shock, but you were otherwise all right. Whoever hit you did so on the same side of the head as your previous injury. You were probably groggy and exhausted.”

  “You didn’t give me laudanum, did you?”

  “No, a compound of salicin, pycnogenol, curcumin, and bromelain. I’ll mix up another dose before you go to bed.”

  “Quinn and I have been talking, River.”

  “You do that, do you—when I’m not around?” I question listlessly, walking stiffly over to the library sofa. “That’s good.”

  “You’ve been assaulted several times.”

  “Mm-hm, I have,” I say, easing myself down on the sofa across from Archer. I rub the back of my neck and pretzel my legs under me with a groan; I might slither down the cushion if I don’t plant myself in the spot. Quinn comes to sit beside me.

  “It’s time you abandoned this charade.”

  I cock a brow at our eldest brother. “What are you talking about? I can’t just—”

  “We could say you went back to New York,” Quinn suggests. “But—”

  “No.”

  “And you are our cousin from wherever. You—”

  “Um, no.”

  “How many times have you been attacked now?” Archer asks bluntly.

  “A few.” There isn’t any point in denying it; they know well enough.

  “You said so yourself that men know less how to behave around other men here than they do women. They feel no compulsion to restrain themselves.”

  “You know you said that. I simply agreed. So?”

  “There is no other reasonable solution, River,” Quinn says. “Archer told me what happened. I didn’t know this was the second time your friend found you incapacitated behind his tavern. We cannot let you continue to make yourself an easy target.”

  “Quinn, really, my life is not in imminent danger just because someone knocked me upside the head. He didn’t do it because he objected to my questionable masculinity. He did it because I’m a threat. This is different. Can’t you see that? No one here has ever seen me as a threat before. Look, I still have a tiny headache, and I’d like for my head not to explode.”

  “Valid point, but what about the other times?”

  “Yes, a few little hoodlums decided I was too girly and got a little rough.”

  “See?”

  “Oh, please. I was pretty much myself then, scavenging in alleyways and living in a burned down hovel, which made me both competition and easy prey. Then a man tried to assault me because he liked the idea of having an effeminate boy. Some men feel the same way about girls that look like young boys, which in case you haven’t noticed is very nearly the cross I bear. My point is, I’m not obviously as menacing as either of you, and I’m seen as weak no matter what gender I choose, affected or not. So, I’d rather one than the other. What about this have I failed to express before?” I make to squeeze my temples and graze a tender spot. Instead, I press the heels of my palms into my eyeball sockets for a second. When I open my eyes, the dust motes are aglow.

  “Selene gets along fine. More than fine, in fact,” Archer says.

  “Oh, and you’re saying she naturally looks like a boy too, are you?” I ask with a skeptical grin, looking down at my relatively flat chest. “That she’d be mistaken as one if she, what? Cropped her hair? Donned a pair of trousers? Seriously, Archer, all the facial hair, padding and cinching, nipping and tucking—”

  “I get it. Never mind. Maybe Selene isn’t a good example.”

  “Example? What does that mean?” I question, feeling overly sensitive and exasperated but lacking the energy to argue. “Forget it. Bottom line is this has less to do with the idiocy of a few bullies than it does that I refuse to be a woman in this world. I won’t habitually restrict the oxygen to my brain. I won’t simper and keep my mouth shut. I won’t go around just bobbing my supposedly airy head. And I won’t talk about this, anymore or again. … Now, I’m hungry and cranky. Let’s feed me.”

  Archer rises from his chair and extends a hand out to me. “Thought we’d try. I don’t know what I’d do without you at the office, anyway.”

  Feeling quite recouped and with a lantern in hand, I suggest we sit out in the garden with the night critters or in the conservatory shielded from them. Quinn decides he would prefer to while away the remaining hours of the day reading about the life and times of Alexander Volta, the physicist, and Michael Faraday’s papers on electricity conversion.

  “I’ll leave the powders by your bedside, River.”

  “Thanks, Quinn.”

  Lowering myself onto a cushion in the circular alcove, I say, “I didn’t get to ask Edwina how she knew about Birdie Day’s death before we learned of it. I wonder if she saw it, you know, saw it.”

  “No, it was nothing like that. She and Owen have taken up residence next door to the Days, is all. She mentioned that childbirth is a dangerous business, which it is, of course. But it was clear by then that she hadn’t had any mystical insight into Birdie Day’s actual cause of death.”

  “What did she say when you told her—when you corrected her misassumption?”

  “I didn’t. Seems to me a private matter.”

  “Oh, right.” Although my bum and the backs of my calves are still sore, I retract my legs and wrap my arms around them. It is chilly by the window, and as they are wont to do much more lately, my thoughts drift to Vale. I debate asking my brother several needy questions. Has Vale mentioned me in the past few days? Is there a new special someone in his life? Has he said anything to indicate he wants more from me than forgiveness? And by that forgiveness what is he hoping for?—I presume some sort of closure.

  I rest my cheek on my knee and glance at my brother. He opens his mouth to say something, then closes it. It could be my angle, but his face is looking very non-Archer-like. His expression is soft, thoughtful, and almost pitying. Suddenly, I don’t want to know, so I blurt out, “Any other developments? Has Tanner spoken to Hester Robinson and Olive Marsh?”

  Archer is quiet for a minute. “Selene and I, we … just the one time.” I wait for more. “I figure if I let you in, then that’s cracking the door open, hmm?”

  “That’ll work eventually,” I say, grinning crookedly. “Why, though? Why did you complicate things with her?”

  “Because she’s Selene. Beautiful. Smart. Independent.”

  “Mm-hmm, but she’s been besotted with you forever, Archer, since she was nineteen if not earlier. And I get the impression the night we arrived here was that one time. Am I wrong?”

  “No.”

  “Let me ask another way; what took so long? Or if you just couldn’t go th
ere then why finally? I can’t believe she just wore you down, not you.”

  He takes a deep breath and exhales, nearsightedly focusing on a spot on the windowpane. “I noticed her when she was sixteen, the day she came to live with us. I started telling myself every day, ‘She’s going to be another sister,’ until I just about convinced myself she was. Then when she and Allen moved out, I reminded myself of a few more facts: that it was all in the past, that she was an agent now, that I had to keep her safe as well as keep a safe distance from her.”

  “Ah. You mean your alter ego Arrow reminded you.”

  “Mm.”

  “What now?”

  “I don’t know. My breakup with Kathryn is a day old, River.”

  “True.”

  “Is this how it was with Reid? I know you were close, but were you and he like this?”

  “In a way,” I say ponderously, biting the corner of my lip. “But unlike you and me, Reid and I had nothing to overcome. When Willow and Marlowe brought me home, our bond was just there. Babies come with no baggage, at least as far as they know then. And once we were grown … it was like, well, like we really were twins. Most of the time, I didn’t even have to ask what he was thinking and vice versa. He knew me. The rest of the time, we either came right out and told each other whatever it was, if it was important, or the other person would work a problem to the surface that hadn’t quite reached there yet. We were each other’s therapists from a really early age.”

  “And he knew all about you and Vale then, I suppose?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you and Vale … did you care, love him?”

  “Yes.”

  “And do you still?”

  This was not a question I was ready to answer. “Maybe we can resume this conversation some other time?” My chin on my knees, I study my brother. “I’m happy to listen, Archer, but anything else is too much for me right now.”

  “Fair enough. I can tell you what Tanner has uncovered tomorrow if you’d rather leave it until then.”

  “You know what I just noticed?”

  “What’s that?” One brow lifts.

  “You don’t tsk hardly anymore.”

  “I don’t what?”

  “Tsk. It’s your tell. You do it when you’re especially anxious. Or you used to more often. And still, not often enough that anyone else would notice. It was mine and Reid’s little secret.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he says doubtfully, one brow raised.

  “Really. It’s a thing with you. You suck air between your side teeth, like this. Tsk. It might be just the once or a few minutes until the next one, depending on how stressed you are. Now you comb your fingers through your hair, rub the underside of your jaw like you’re checking the progress of your whiskers for your next shave, or your jaw tightens and a muscle works just here.” I draw an invisible line at the side of my mouth. “Oh, and sometimes you rub your chin. You never used to touch your face.”

  “Hell. And I thought I was good at blocking you.”

  “You’re better than most.”

  “Why are you telling me now?”

  “I’m hoping you’ll stop trying so hard to shut me out,” I reveal.

  He nods, his lips pursed with a slight grimace. “Well, I’ve noticed a thing or two about you myself. Your useful-words vocabulary has expanded. I’ve heard Good Lord, God, Christ, damn, hell, feck, heck, and fudge most recently. Whatever happened to Gaia? Where’d she run off to?”

  “Precisely how many men have you heard pleading to a goddess?”

  “Good point.”

  After a comfortable silence, I say, “I’ve slept the entire day, and I’m not at all sleepy. Do you think the mystery of Avis Day will ever be solved?”

  “We’re nearly there. Tanner did speak with Marsh’s widow and her friend.” He lifts a foot and props the ankle on the opposite knee, nudging it closer to him. His agility for someone so large never fails to surprise me. But he keeps in shape. Unlike most people, Archer and Reid exercised every evening before going to bed. Archer still does.

  Reid had tried to convince me to join them on their nightly five-mile runs, explaining: “It promotes restful sleep, aids digestion, and relieves the day’s tension, River. And you don’t have to wake up at a hellishly early hour just get in the exercise.” But I never did—not that I didn’t want to. I might have mentioned before that the St. Clair boys are over six-foot tall, hulking action figures. And they didn’t jog, they raced. At 5’4”, I wouldn’t have been able to keep up no matter how hard and fast I ran.

  “The Robinson woman let slip that Reggie Marsh’s demise confused the situation. Of course, Tanner was at a loss to understand what Mr. Marsh had to do with what situation. But he’s clever.”

  “He is, and despite you picking on him, he keeps trying.”

  “That’s why he keeps trying, River. Theo and Tanner are alike in many ways, but they are also very different. Theo thrives on praise, Tanner on criticism.”

  “I can see that. Anyway, go on.”

  “So, when probed about ‘the situation’ in question, Hester Robinson supplied the connection, ‘Why, little Miss Hannah has gone missing, sergeant.’ He took that opportunity to ask if a private investigator had been hired by the Lynchs to look into the matter. He said she looked momentarily flustered before she seemed to collect herself as if remembering what to say. She even remarked, ‘Right, so …’ beforehand.”

  “As though she’d rehearsed the answer.”

  “Precisely. And when Olive Marsh was presented with the same question, she reacted in almost the same way. Robinson said, ‘The master and missus are hopeful that that won’t be necessary.’ And Marsh said, ‘The master and missus are sure that won’t be necessary.’”

  “But what does Reggie Marsh have to do with this?”

  “I suspect he was the mastermind. That is still to be confirmed. And how Hannah Lynch ended up with Jed Day is another missing piece. I’m waiting to hear what Theo has discovered. The only link between the two households is still Olive Marsh.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  I SHOULD BE happy that people are not dying left and right. But I know death is more so seasonal around here. The telltale rains have started, leading to fewer accidents because men know better than to work out of doors during downpours and even in light sprinkles. Roofs are slicker, the grounds soggier, traversing the roads more precarious. Even carriages and cyclists collide more often in this kind of weather, and people know this. This kind of awareness comes with living in a volatile climate.

  Of course, there have been the usual indoor accidents, but many of them don’t require a coroner to pen out the certificate of death.

  It is sad to be the one person in the office who waits for—anticipates even—some catastrophe to take place. I don’t, and I do. I mean, it’s not as if I take part in the doing. Sometimes, I think I might as well. The looks a few of the officers give me are not too far off from those they might give a murderer. For the most part, I don’t let it faze me as I rather like the wide berth I’m granted.

  And thus, my boredom has had me hovering around the front desk all morning. I pick at my fingernails in an unnoticeable seat at the back of the waiting area and come forward to ask if a form is for me when I see an officer approach the desk and hand it to Constable Farrell.

  Over the past week, Abe has managed to curb his enthusiasm to a somewhat more tolerable degree. He still shouts though it’s entirely unnecessary given the acoustics of the Station, but he now limits his tirades to rostering time when he is delegating the day’s assignments to his fellow officers. I usually make myself scarce for the fifteen or so minutes this takes, but I still get caught in the crossfire now and then.

  Slouching in my chair, I consider a dull spot on my otherwise shiny boots. The heels of my other boots will need to be replaced, I think. They’d been worn down when Bert Harris dragged me down the alley. Sitting up, I hunch over my hand, having discovered a
hangnail.

  “Dr. St. Clair?”

  “Hmm?” I hum casually before registering the voice.

  “I visited again with Jed Day.” He pivots to glance toward my brother’s office. “I was about to relay that encounter to the inspector.” Archer signals back with a nod. “Would you care to join us?”

  “Sure.” I follow Vale and cursorily admire the way his dark auburn hair curls slightly at the back of his collar. I let my eyes roam around the area before cocking a glance at Archer’s office and Vale’s upper body. His graceful stride, his straight back, and square shoulders bring to mind his naked form. I wonder if he looks better or worse sans the twenty pounds. His face looks better, I’d say, but he has a mustache and beard now, so it’s hard to tell. I definitely like the beard on this version of him.

  Archer has pulled forward the large chalkboard that he and his sergeants use to plot out a case. I recognize Theo’s neat perpendicular handwriting and one or two instances of Tanner’s slanted scrawl.

  There are three columns and lines drawn between the names in each column. The first column, with the heading “Outside Players” contains, “Olive Marsh,” “Hester Robinson,” “Constantine Varga,” and “Reggie Marsh.” Under the second column, titled “Day,” are the names “Birdie,” “Jedidiah,” and “Avis.” The third column is then labeled “Lynch” with “Mitchell,” “Rebecca,” and “Hannah” listed underneath.

  Vale and I sit side by side, thankfully far enough apart that we’re not having to look at one another or share the same small four-foot diameter sphere of air. I see him cast me an aware sidelong glance though, his brow unfurrowed and his mouth unsmiling.

  “Several months ago, just over seven to be more precise, I was at Lily Grace’s counseling one of the ladies. The woman, girl really, had become pregnant. Her name was Hannah Fremont when I met her.”

  Both mine and my brother’s eyebrows arch up at the name.

  “Yes, and …” he says, holding up a finger. “At my next visit, I would discover that the young woman had left the establishment. Mrs. Grace”—the brothel’s proprietress, who is supposedly a widow—“informed me that Miss Fremont had gone to stay with a relative for the duration. And that Dr. Varga paid her a visit as well, facilitating the move. Apparently, she, Miss Fremont, was estranged from her family. Wait, Archer. Before you say anything, let me finish. I saw Hannah Fremont yesterday. At the Days. She goes by Celeste Morris now, and she’s Avis’s wet nurse.”