by Selina Kray
And found Miss Kala beaming at her with something like glee from her post at the bottom of the cot.
“How’d you do it?” she marveled. “Hot to the touch, pale as a ghost. Made yourself sick!”
Callie shrugged. “I was bored.”
“Ain’t exactly nightingales, are they? Still and all, some of those prophet bits make you think.”
“And while you were thinking, did you happen to spot my mother?”
“Problem, innit.” Miss Kala nodded. “Ain’t seen hide nor hair of Mrs. P since we got here. Not even when they were linin’ up. I wonder where they stashed her.”
A sudden chill prickled Callie’s nerves. “If she’s even here.”
Miss Kala did her best impression of an owl. “Not here?”
“I didn’t think of it before. You left her with the Daughters. But what proof do you have she went with them?”
“It has to be! I was only gone for...” She began to stammer, steeled herself. “For a minute. Just for a minute. Not like before.”
It was as if time itself stopped. Sound muted into the vacuum of space. Light blurred and movement halted. There was only Callie and Miss Kala, frozen, staring, wide-eyed with realization.
“‘Like before’?” Callie enunciated, fisting her hands into the sheets. Wishing there were surgical instruments within reach.
Miss Kala’s entire demeanor changed. She straightened her posture, glared with keen ferocity. Here, finally, was the girl raised on the docks of East London. Street-savvy, vicious, spoiling for a fight. Callie ravenous for the first swipe of her claws.
“Aye, like before. You try being stuck in that attic for a month, see how it suits you. How you figured Lil would get any better, cooped up there like a pigeon lost a wing, I can’t reckon. And me barely an afternoon a week off to wash my petticoats and grab a breath of air. So aye, I left her. With this lot, who—and you might think on this awhile—paid her more mind than you ever have.”
Callie’s outrage choked the words in her throat.
“She’s a good egg, Lil. A little spotty, but that’s no surprise. She’s suffered, your mum, more than most. If I’d been chained to your dad, I might flitter off to fairy land myself. I give her all I’ve got. But I need something of me own. Surely you—with your growls and your airs and your investigating—can understand that?”
“What I understand,” Callie seethed, “is my mother has been missing for over a week, and we’re only just now leaning you haven’t the faintest notion of where she’s gone.”
“I know I bunged it. But I’m here, and I’m trying to make it right.” Her voice broke. Callie wanted to slap her. “Ever think the reason you’re so scared is you don’t know her to say where she’s gone?”
“You lost her,” Callie growled under her breath. “She trusted you, and you lost her.”
“May have done, yeah.” She raised her chin defiantly. “But we’re here now, and I’ll be damned if I go without checking every nook and cranny. By the by, heard some girls sayin’ there’s a cellar. Like they don’t ever want to be sent down there.”
Before Callie could reply, the door lock rattled. Miss Kala grabbed her hand, began to stroke it. Vibrating with the need to punch her in the face, Callie exhaled violently, then sank down onto the cot. Sister Zanna, armed with tea and medical kit, slipped into the room.
“How are we feeling?” She set the tray down with a plonk and promptly ignored it. Miss Kala took that as her cue to play mum. “Sister Constance, who runs the kitchens, sent along some oat cakes. Do try to get one down.” She pressed the back of her hand to Callie’s brow, nodded. “No fever. I suspect it’s nothing more than a missed lunch and the madness of the day, but, if you don’t mind, I’ll check you over.”
“She’s passed her daily sickness,” Miss Kala said. “Probably just a turn.”
“I won’t argue. But if you’ll be staying, I’ll need to see where we are.” With a briskness Callie found oddly soothing, Sister Zanna grabbed her wrist to take her pulse. She betrayed only a flinch of hesitation while folding Callie’s sleeve back, which uncovered her birthmark. But any gains her prophetic mole might have made with Sister Zanna were undone by smooth fingers searching for stigmata scars—and finding none. After a minute she set Callie’s arm down with a pat. “Elevated, but there has been a good deal of excitement. How are your bowel movements?”
“Er, regular,” Callie stammered.
“Good. Any frequent urination? Normal for a lady in your condition, depending how far along you are.”
“No. And... four months.”
Sister Zanna whistled. “That’s some precision. Memorable night, was it?”
“Yes.” Callie shone her eyes up at the ceiling, rubbed her stomach. “It was.”
When her gaze drifted back down, Sister Zanna’s hawk-eyed scrutiny confronted her. How such an observant woman had been recruited by Sister Juliet, she couldn’t fathom.
“How silly of me!” she exclaimed. “Asking all these bold questions and forgetting to introduce myself. Zanna Lawless, midwife to the novitiates and healer of ills.”
“This is Mrs. Rebecca Sandringham,” Miss Kala interjected. Callie had to credit her improvisation of a given name, a stroke of genius. “And I’m Shahida Kala, her companion.”
“Mrs. Sandringham? Little wonder you’re so sure of your date of conception.”
“Widowed some two years’ past.” After shoving a cup at Callie, Miss Kala returned to the tray. “How do you take your tea, Sister?”
“Black.” She lunged forward to help Callie take a weak sip. “And my condolences on the loss of your husband.”
Callie sank back against the pillows, finding it easy to fake exhaustion. This never-ending feint skinned years off your life.
“A storm off the coast of Italy. His boat capsized. All were lost. Our marriage... His family disapproved. Refused to forward his allowance. I took shelter at a local convent. Assisi. It was in their gardens I first heard Her call...” She bent her head forward for another sip. “I know the very hour, the very second it happened. A joy so hot it burned away my grief. And ever since, Her voice in my ear. A light within.”
Sister Zanna still hadn’t broken her stare. Lawless? More like relentless. Also unconvinced. Callie wondered anew what had brought her here.
“If you’ve come for sanctuary, you’ve found it. You don’t need to be a saint to be welcomed among us, just in need.”
Callie heard the hidden message: Stop the pretence, and we’ll still accept you. Sister Zanna obviously believed it; she wondered how true it was.
“I go where She leads. Your readiness is all that matters now.”
“Our readiness?”
“For Her return.”
Sister Zanna ill-concealed her smirk. “Of course.”
Her audience drifting and her energy waning, panic seized Callie. She’d been prepared for everything but cynicism. She sensed Sister Zanna didn’t just doubt her, but the Daughters’ whole enterprise. Unless Callie could root out her motivation for helping the Daughters and exploit it, their entire mission was at risk.
She recalled one of Hiero’s most cunning pieces of advice: When nothing else works, strike fear.
She lolled her head around in a wide circle, once, twice, thrice. Isolating the leg closest to Sister Zanna, she let it spasm and shake. A heady froth of high-pitched giggles escaped her, ending on a screech. Miss Kala dropped the plate she was holding. Both women jumped as it smashed. Callie had taught herself the old medium’s trick of rolling her eyes white.
Sister Zanna grabbed for her shoulders, but Miss Kala got their first.
“Tell us,” she whispered. “Tell us, Mother, what’s to come?”
With a final wild laugh, Callie shot into a seated position and pointed an accusing finger at Sister Zanna.
“The lamb was slaughtered. He was no sacrifice. There is rot within you, down to the root, down to the very soil on which you stand. Rot, rot, rot...” Sister Zanna
crossed her arms against her words, but Callie could see her left eye twitching. She’d hit a nerve. “Bury the lamb in your garden, but even he cannot cleanse you of sin. The sin is in your souls. The sin is in yourselves. More will suffer, but none will rise until the poison’s out. Weed her out, weed her out, weed her out!”
Dead pale but defiant, Sister Zanna grabbed the plate of oat cakes and tossed it in her lap.
“Thank you for that, Mrs. Sandringham. I’ll consider myself forewarned.” She twisted her fingers to stop them trembling. “Take some rest and do try to eat something. That’s all for today, but a word to the wise. I will eventually have to take a look down below.”
With that, she sped out of the room, leaving Callie shocked to the core.
“Well.” Miss Kala sighed, snatching up an oat cake and stuffing the entire thing in her mouth. “Ain’t she a darling. Still, you must be chuffed about your stay of execution.”
“My what?”
“She’s gonna poke around your fanny.” Miss Kala made a crude gesture by way of explanation. “And not in the nice way.”
“Not if we get to our work.” Or so Callie reassured herself. She regretted not consulting an experienced midwife before agreeing to their plan.
A gentle knock at the door saved her from her worries.
“How’s the patient?” Hiero slunk into the room with his catlike grace, then curled himself up at the bottom of the cot. “Ooh, tea! All this piety has left me parched. Pour me a cup, will you, my dear?”
“Don’t recall being kicked down to servant,” Miss Kala grumbled. “But aye.”
Callie heeled at his leg. “What news?”
Hiero considered this for a long as it took Miss Kala to serve him the tea. After a fortifying draught, he considered some more. A shot to his kneecap set him to rights.
“Brute,” he huffed. “The details are too gruesome to recall, but suffice to say, the evidence is insufficient.”
“What is the evidence?”
“Did you not hear me? I don’t recall.”
Callie felt a sudden surge of empathy for the murderer. “Was the boy killed at the tree, or elsewhere?”
“Hmm... couldn’t say.”
“What was the cause of death?”
“Oh! Yes, yes, this I... forgot.”
“Does Tim suspect anyone in particular?”
“Tim who?”
She jabbed him in the thigh. “Next one aims higher. What instructions has your Kip given you to give to me?”
“Ah!” Hiero produced a slip of paper from his inner pocket. “Being a gentlemen of high intelligence, he had the foresight to write you a note.”
Callie nabbed it before he even finished his sentence.
“Don’t get down on yourself, Mr. Bash.” Miss Kala chuckled. “At least you’ve got your looks.”
Hiero nodded. “The greatest of my many gifts and the key to opening all sorts of locked things.”
Callie gripped the edges of the paper tighter at her snort. “It says Tim and Han are conducting a search of the garden while the Daughters are preoccupied, but he fears they will not complete the task before nightfall.” She peered over the top at Hiero, foot tensed and ready. “Why, pray tell, are you not with them if we’re so undermanned?”
“Scrounging around in the dirt? You’ve answered your question.”
“Do you mean to play any part in this investigation other than Chief Hand-Holder?”
“I resent the implication. I take great care to keep my palms supple and soft.”
Her reservoir of patience dried to a drop, Callie returned to the note.
“Miss Kala, we are to undertake a search of the main house, particularly areas our gentlemen friends will be barred from. Mr. Stoker has made a list of items we should be on the lookout for. This dovetails well with our original ambitions. We’ll begin this very night.”
Hiero dropped his cup into the saucer with a loud clink before Miss Kala could reply.
“A word regarding that. Shahida, would you permit us some privacy?”
Miss Kala nodded, though appeared reluctant to divorce herself from the plate of cakes. “I’ll just find out where we’re kipping tonight, shall I?”
Hiero’s sudden stillness unnerved Callie, as well as how he bowed his head. At once she saw the toll this particular adventure was taking on him, though she didn’t quite understand why. The discovery of the boy’s body had raised the stakes and disturbed them all, but Hiero had seemed off his game since they entered the compound.
“I know you will accuse me of playing papa, or worse,” Hiero said, “and I know I’m your guardian in name only and rarely act it. But in light of today’s events, I would ask you to reconsider our ruse.”
With the last vapors of her goodwill, Callie attempted to decipher his meaning without huffing and puffing. “You mean abandon my mother?”
“No, no, of course not.” He laid a hand on her ankle, whether as an appeal or to stave off any further abuse, she didn’t know. “I mean that together, we claim the death of the boy has made us rethink our commitment to the Daughters. The Messiah cannot be born in a climate of death, et cetera, et cetera. We depart tonight and return tomorrow with Kip as our very own selves. With the freedom to investigate as we see fit.”
Callie gaped at him. “Whatever for?”
Hiero stirred and stirred the dregs of his tea as if he might read his fortune there. Knowing him, he likely could.
“For your safekeeping.” His hand flew up to halt her protests. “You are capable. That is not in doubt. But so are the women here, and they outnumber the pair of you by dozens. They have already disappeared your mother. I couldn’t...” Callie wanted to recoil from the emotion in his eyes when he finally looked up at her. They never really spoke of what they meant to one another—just trusted, from the first. “They will not have you. The risk is too great, and there are other means. Safer means.”
She inhaled deeply, reflecting. His words were as unexpected as they were sentimental. But he had never objected like this before and, for that reason alone, she gave them proper audience.
“We’ve made such progress. We have them almost convinced.” Her recent conversation with Sister Zanna notwithstanding, but that would hardly strengthen her argument. “We’ll never have the same kind of access as ourselves.”
“I swore to him I would give you your freedom but intervene when necessary.” Callie didn’t wonder why her Uncle Apollo had been unable to resist Hiero’s eyes when they turned so soft and melty. “I believe that time is now.”
She let out a blustery sigh. “That’s emotion speaking, not reason.”
“A babe was murdered.”
“Hundreds have left these halls unblemished.”
“Have they? Are you certain? Kip says the boy’s mother fled after his birth. What if she didn’t?”
“Now you’re being absurd. There’s no evidence supporting that, and until we uncover some, I’m staying.” She declared her decision before she made it, but it had the ring of truth. “To unearth secrets of this magnitude, it’s vital to have a woman on the inside. We have two.”
Hiero deflated before her eyes. “Very well.”
Surprised by how readily he conceded the fight, she reached out a hand to him. He rose to set his cup on the tray, gather himself.
On impulse she asked, “What is it bothers you about this place? If they weren’t possible kidnappers harboring a murderer, I’d almost admire their endeavors to lift up fallen women.”
“Echoes,” came his cryptic reply. Then, “Those who set out with the highest ideals often do the most damage.”
Chapter 8
Armed with a rake and an oversized pair of gloves, Tim was just about to tackle the compost pit—the most obvious site in which to dispose of vital evidence, alas—when the singing stopped. Han poked his head up from behind the rails of string beans, turned toward the main house. Tim whistled for Angus, who searched the corn rows and cursed.
They�
�d been racing the sun. Still not enough time, but with three men, a decent start. Twenty able souls would not have been enough to cover this kind of ground, so even if they had called in the local constabulary, there were still too many variables to contain. Dozens of suspects, five full acres, and three major buildings... Even the Yard would have been hard-pressed to canvass such an enormous space in the eight-hour post-discovery window. Half the officers required would have taken at least three to arrive.
If they would have bothered for an orphan child. For the legitimate newborn son of Colonel Sir Hugh Winterbourne, the entire Metropolitan Police Service and half the Royal Army would have descended upon the Daughters, truncheons and sabers at the ready. But all Little Bean had in his corner was Tim’s wits and Hiero’s savvy—effective weapons, to be sure, but hardly comparable to a knight’s arsenal.
In the distance, white-robed women fluttered out the conservatory door and spread across the back lawn like daisies on the wind. One bloom in particular wafted toward the garden gate at daunting speed.
“What now, Inspector?” Angus’s Scottish burr gave the question a sinewy melodiousness.
“I wish I knew.”
“They won’t be pleased to discover us here uninvited,” Han reminded him.
“Worse, I’m about to lock them out of their garden.”
“That’s nae gonna work. There’s a man still here, a gardener.”
“Blast.” Tim sighed. “I thought he’d gone with the others.”
“Not allowed to leave the garden, or so he says. Seems a bit off, but nae in a murderous way.”
“I’ll thank you to let us be the judge of that.” Tim rubbed a hand over his face as he looked to the sky. The Daughters likely rushed here because they only had an hour or so of daylight left. Tim didn’t know much about farming, but he imagined there were end-of-day chores to be done. And they hadn’t turned up anything of note so far. As was his custom when at an impasse, he turned to Han. “Thoughts?”
“Aside from ‘This is lunacy’?”
“Of the best and most noble sort.”
