by Zoë Archer
“Can’t do anything on your own,” Simon said, disgusted. Harrold only whimpered.
He got back to work. He heard more voices outside. Miners had come from the village to protect what was theirs. Another grin for himself. This was what Nemesis meant. Not simply coming in to play rescuer, but to help the oppressed find the means in themselves to push back, to give them the tools they’d never had to fight. Alyce’s voice rose above the others as she served as general, issuing orders.
Christ, but he’d miss her. Pain in the midst of everything.
He’d lick his wounds and suffer later. Now was for fixing the pump and seeing to the next step, whatever that might be.
Only a few adjustments left, and the pump would be working again. Already, water was beginning to flow out of the mine, giving the men inside a fighting chance to get out in time. Ironic that this was how he’d begun his mission here at Wheal Prosperity, by fixing this very same piece of equipment. The stakes had been high then, but nothing compared to now.
He froze when he heard a carriage approaching, and then a woman’s scream and men’s alarmed cursing.
Something or someone even more frightening than Tippet was out there, which meant Alyce was in even greater danger.
He moved without thinking, stalking away from the pump and out of the engine room. Harrold had sunk down into a crouch, continuing to whimper.
Alyce stood just outside the door, holding her bucking iron like a club. Tippet and his two men—one who clutched his arm to his chest—faced her. The workers and Bice had gathered in a panicky cluster. Everyone stared at Stokeham.
The former owner held a twelve-gauge double-barreled shotgun. He swung it violently back and forth between Alyce and the workers, his own expression wild. All of Simon’s muscles tightened. Few things were as dangerous as an untrained idiot with a firearm.
“Put that goddamn gun down,” Simon growled. “You’ll blow your own ruddy brains out.”
Stokeham spun toward Simon, who crouched in defense. But the former owner didn’t pull the trigger—yet.
“You’ve taken everything,” Stokeham shrilled. “Bloody tricked us! That’s not fair!”
“Fine one to speak of fair,” Alyce answered.
“You!” the former owner bleated. “Pretending you’re a fine lady, but you’re nothing but a low-bred wh—”
Stokeham didn’t get the chance to finish his sentence. Distracted by Alyce, he didn’t see Simon charge him. In an instant, Simon had grabbed the barrel of the shotgun and pointed it up into the air. Stokeham spent his life behind a desk or at a dinner table. He didn’t have Simon’s strength. Simon slammed his fist into Stokeham’s face. There was a crunch, a spray of blood from Stokeham’s nose, and then the man lay sprawled in the mud, unconscious.
Tippet bellowed in fury. He and Freeman charged at the crowd, and even Oliver swung at the workers with his good arm. The wounded constable lunged for Bice, spitting words about traitors.
The air tore apart with a boom. Oliver shrank back as Simon fired over his head. The constable turned terrified eyes toward Simon, clearly understanding that Simon had missed on purpose. A warning shot.
Babbling prayers, Oliver ran. He slipped and stumbled in the mud, but didn’t stop running as he crested one hill, then disappeared.
But even that wasn’t enough to stop Tippet from swinging his truncheon at the rest of the crowd, holding them back.
Freeman clipped Alyce on the shoulder with his club. Rage filmed Simon’s eyes as she yelped, staggered, and fell—though she didn’t lose her grip on her bucking iron. She struggled to get to her feet. Freeman loomed over her, raising his truncheon for a stronger strike.
Another boom ripped through the air. Freeman screamed and collapsed. He clenched at his calf, where a large hole spewed blood into the dirt.
Simon was at Alyce’s side in an instant, helping her to her feet. She stared at the ugly wound in Freeman’s leg, and paled. But she didn’t swoon or become ill. Only looked at the injured constable with an expression of satisfaction.
“Good shot,” she said breathlessly to Simon.
“Easier than holding back a thousand Zulus.” His words might be flip, but his heart shuddered. Jesus. Had he ever known this kind of fear?
“Tippet,” she said, nodding toward the chief constable, who continued to check the crowd. They’d feint at him, but his club held them back. And when he’d try to attack, they receded.
Simon ran over to Stokeham’s prone form. The man didn’t make a sound as Simon patted him down, searching for more shotgun shells. Simon rolled his eyes. The sodding fool hadn’t brought more ammunition, rendering the shotgun useless.
He spun back to Tippet. The chief constable saw Freeman on the ground, and knew that Oliver was long gone. Tippet’s face twisted into a sneer. He stalked toward Simon, holding his truncheon out to keep Simon at a distance.
“A safe place,” Tippet spat. “An orderly place. Everything under my control. Then you.” He and Simon circled each other, Simon holding the shotgun like a club.
“Didn’t have to be their bullyboy, Tippet. That was your choice.”
“And this was my town. You ruined it. Ruined everything.”
“He fixed everything,” Alyce retorted.
Simon wanted to point out that she’d been just as instrumental in wrangling power back into the hands of the workers as he had—but this wasn’t the time.
“Shut it, bitch,” Tippet snarled. “Should’ve run you out of town, had ’em take you away to one of those places for sluts and troublemakers.”
“But you didn’t,” she answered. “And here I am with my bucking iron, with Simon ready to beat your head in.”
“And you’re all alone,” added Simon.
“This place belonged to me. It was mine.” Bellowing, Tippet charged. Fury glazed his eyes and forced his face into a grimace. Simon welcomed the fight. Since his first day at Wheal Prosperity, he’d been waiting for this moment. Payback for all the harm and bullying Tippet had inflicted.
As soon as the chief constable was within striking distance, he swung his truncheon. Holding the shotgun with two hands, Simon used it to block the blow. He rammed the butt of the weapon into Tippet’s stomach. The chief constable doubled over, heaving, but wasn’t stopped. Tippet rose up and slapped the truncheon across Simon’s back.
Alyce cried out.
Blistering, choking pain and rage spread through Simon. The strike staggered him. He stumbled forward, fighting to regain his balance.
Recovering his footing, Simon turned—just as Tippet thrust the end of his truncheon toward Simon’s chest. Angling his body to avoid the hit, Simon again used the shotgun to deflect the blow, forcing the truncheon down. Simon snapped the side of the shotgun up, right into the underside of Tippet’s chin. Before the chief constable could even fall, Simon smashed the shotgun’s wooden butt into the side of Tippet’s head, the sound cracking soggily.
Tippet fell like a rotten apple. He didn’t move. Not even when Simon nudged him with the toe of his boot.
The miners edged closer. Still cautious, even with the chief constable sprawled in the mud.
“Is he dead?” Bice asked.
“Alive,” Simon answered, “but he and the rest of them are going to need doctoring.”
“In gaol,” Alyce said. There were muttered agreements from the crowd.
Simon turned to Bice. “Ride to the nearest town with a good doctor, and send him here. Then get the law.”
The young constable nodded, but added, “Aren’t I the law now?”
“You’ll be a fine chief constable, but this is outside of your expertise.”
“Yes, sir.” He ran to his horse and climbed up into the saddle. He wheeled around to get assistance.
Simon’s voice stopped him. “Constable Bice.”
The young man looked at him expectantly.
“Well done,” said Simon.
The new chief constable turned red, then rode off.
> “The rest of you,” Simon directed toward the assembled crowd, “see to our own wounded. Collect the men inside and out here and bind them with rope or whatever you can find. Bandage Freeman’s wound, too.”
“He should bleed to death in the mud,” someone in the crowd muttered.
“Maybe that’s what he deserves,” Alyce said calmly, “but we’ll let him face a judge. Just like the others.” She called to a man emerging from the entrance to the mine. “Are they well?”
“Aye,” came the answer. “Heard from Henry. They’re all fine below. They’ll all be up in ten minutes.”
She pressed a hand to her chest, slumping with relief. Simon ached to put his arm around her, feel her strength and give her comfort, but the pump wasn’t fully fixed. He gave her hand a squeeze, then, still carrying the shotgun, strode back into the engine house. Alyce was right behind him.
She herded a trembling, sniveling Harrold outside, and had other miners take the injured managers out, as well.
It didn’t take much more to finalize the repairs. In a few moments, the pump was clearing water at maximum capacity. He waited for a sense of triumph, of victory, but heaviness still clutched at him. And the reason why stood beside him, watching quietly.
“You’ll have to do another survey of the mine later to see what damage was done by the flooding,” he said, straightening and wiping his hands on a cloth.
“It might cost us a little,” she answered, setting aside her bucking iron, “but it doesn’t matter. We’re all safe. A few were wounded, but we did it.” She turned to him, her face streaked with dirt, hair frizzed as it came out of its bun, eyes shining. Beautiful as morning. The pain across his back and resonating through his muscles and bones was nothing compared to the other pain wrapped tightly around him, piercing his heart, his very marrow.
She wrapped her arms around him, and they pulled each other close. “It’s done,” she whispered against his neck. “It’s over.”
They both knew she spoke of more than the mine, but neither would admit it. Instead, with cheering erupting outside, Simon and Alyce remained in the engine house, wrapped tightly together, as if this one embrace could carry them through the rest of their days.
CHAPTER 18.
By the time Alyce, Simon, and the others had returned to the village, Tufton and Ware had vanished.
“What if they come back?” Alyce asked Simon.
“They won’t.”
He sounded so confident, she couldn’t argue. Though this was her home, the business of vengeance was his—he knew the world better than she. She’d have to trust him, and she did. In everything.
Together, they organized the chaos in the village. A handful of people had been scraped and bruised when Stokeham had driven madly from the managers’ house to the mine, knocking them aside. She gathered women who knew the ways of caring for injuries—including Sarah—and made the bachelors’ lodging a treatment center.
Simon seemed to be everywhere at once. Making certain that Tippet and all their other enemies were secured in the village gaol. Speaking with Henry and the other new owners at length about the organization of the mine. Checking on everyone and making sure they were safe and prepared for the new transition.
Alyce kept catching glimpses of him as he strode through the village, but they had no time alone, no moments to themselves. Every second saw him pulling further and further away. A blessing, in truth. If she’d felt time slipping away before, now it raced toward the horizon, toward the moment when Simon would leave and she’d face a life that was the same, but entirely new.
Bice came with the law—a justice and more constables, and a dark van with bars on the back window. He brought a doctor, as well. After a cursory inspection to make sure the prisoners would survive, Tippet, Gorely, Murton, Freeman, and Harrold were loaded into the van. No one cheered as the wagon rolled out of town. A curious silence fell over the gathered crowd. They’d all learned—there were no simple celebrations. Obstacles had been removed, but there were more to come. Running a mine wasn’t an easy job. The challenges Alyce and everyone at Wheal Prosperity faced loomed ahead.
“Can we do it?” she asked Henry, catching him briefly on his own.
“It’s what we wanted,” he answered.
“The battle’s not over.”
He wrapped an arm around her shoulder and gave her a squeeze. “My sister can be a tremendous pain in my arse, but she’s a wise one, too. She taught me that all good things are worth fighting for. For as long as it takes.”
Warmth spread through her, but peace and accomplishment eluded her. She felt them more like back notes in a melancholy song, something bright and high, while the melody remained dark and low.
The sun began to set, and she found herself wandering aimlessly through the streets, strangely at a loss. There was much to do, yet she couldn’t settle anywhere, couldn’t get her thoughts to grab hold.
This is what you wanted. All this time.
She perched on the low wall surrounding the churchyard, wrapped in her shawl, watching the village below. As the sun dipped lower, spreading shadow, lights flickered on, one by one, as distant as stars. Behind her, everything was silent. The dead had no way of knowing the world had changed.
Movement beside her nearly made her topple backward. A pair of strong hands caught her, righted her. She knew their feel even in the darkness. And it didn’t surprise her that Simon could get so close without her hearing or seeing him.
Together, they sat upon the wall and looked down at the village. He rolled a cigarette, lit it, and took a few drags, blowing smoke in long exhales. She held out her hand. Even in the darkness, she could feel his surprise, but he handed her the cigarette.
She drew on it, then spluttered and coughed. So much for being elegant and sophisticated. He patted her on the back, gently taking the cigarette from her.
“Not a habit you should cultivate,” he said. “Doesn’t seem healthy.”
“Why do you do it?”
“I keep meaning to quit, but I’ve lacked proper motivation.”
“Maybe if a woman asked you to stop…”
He flicked away some ash. “Maybe then.”
But that woman wouldn’t be her, and they both knew it. For a while, they sat in silence, and she felt full to bursting, almost numb with too much sensation.
“Is it always like this?” she asked quietly. “After you’ve finished a mission?”
He seemed to understand exactly what she meant. “No,” was his simple response. “It’s usually more … satisfying.”
“I thought it’d be that way. But all I feel is…” She tugged her shawl closer. Words wouldn’t come. None fit. As if language itself hadn’t developed to the point to capture this distant gratification mixed with strange, cold emptiness.
The world was much more complicated than she’d ever known. She was much more complicated than she’d known. It had always been in her, only it had lain quiet, sleeping. He’d roused that part of herself, and now it ached with longing.
He stared at the glowing tip of his cigarette before tossing it down onto the ground and crushing it beneath his heel. He stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Me, too.”
Her throat was raw, as if she’d been screaming. She wouldn’t look at him. Couldn’t. “I don’t want you to go,” she rasped.
A low groan sounded in his chest. “I don’t want to go.”
Still, they wouldn’t look at each other, staring at the village as if it were the most fascinating thing on earth, as if she hadn’t seen this view a hundred times in her life and could describe it perfectly with her eyes closed. Anything rather than look at him, the shape of his face that seemed to be the shape of her own heart.
“But I have to,” he finally said.
“I know.” Another long silence. Then, “When?”
“Tonight. Harriet told me we’ve got cases piling up. Marco’s tied up in something. Desmond and Riza are just coming back, but they won’t be enough.”
“It doesn’t stop.”
He shook his head. “Not for a minute.”
“Ugly old world.” She sighed.
“Except when it’s beautiful.” He did look at her then, and she could feel the heat of his gaze on her. She soaked it in, the way one might catch the last rays of the sun before the winter solstice. “Come with me.”
The words she’d longed to hear punctured her now, each one a pickaxe.
“You know I can’t,” she answered. “Especially now.”
He pushed away from the wall and stood in front of her, lean and solid, determination and purpose radiating from him. He took hold of her hands. “We can visit. There are trains, and the post, telegrams.”
“Sarah, and the baby…”
“It’s a village full of women who like nothing better than to help each other. She won’t be alone.”
But her gaze slid away from his. “Simon.”
Again, silence. He dropped her hands. “You’re afraid.”
Instinctive anger coursed through her. “I’m not.”
“Yet you’re making excuses.”
She shot to her feet, inches separating them. “Don’t. Trewyn is my home. It’s where I’m meant to be. Who I am. I’m a bal-maiden, a Cornish village girl. Take those away from me, and I’m nothing.”
“You’re Alyce. It doesn’t matter where you are or what you do. Nothing changes.”
The need to believe him was a fury within her. But, damn him, fear was there, too. Icy and belittling.
“Goddamn it, Alyce,” he said, cupping her face. His hands were warm and coarse against her skin, and she soaked in the feel of him. “I love you.”
She shriveled inside and she burst with life and wonderment. “I love you, too.”
They kissed, searching and hungry, and she devoured his taste, his fire. She could stand like this all night. All week. For the rest of her life. But those were fantasies. And this was the real world, where fantasies couldn’t live. They needed sunshine and limitless possibility to thrive.
He broke the kiss first. “Addison-Shawe.” When she frowned in confusion, he explained, “My last name. I’m Simon Augustus Kirkwood Addison-Shawe.”
