Beyond the Pale

by Sabrina Flynn

Grimm wiped his boots, washed up to his elbows in the utility sink, and stepped into his mother’s domain. She was kneading bread. Her strong arms and sure fingers turned the dough over in a continuous rhythm. Bread had always been a luxury to their family. Baking bread took time, a dry space to work, along with an oven. That meant their family had a real kitchen, or something close to it.

  He stood quietly by, watching her work. The stove threw off heat, and by the smell in the kitchen, he wagered she was making rosemary bread. She’d have fresh goat cheese to go with it.

  Lily sighed without looking at her older son. “What has Tobias gone and done now? I swear that boy gets into more trouble than I know what to do with.”

  Tobias was like a cat. He got into trouble as much as he got out of it, and as far as Grimm could tell, his little brother had plenty of lives left.

  Grimm shook his head. Silently communicating that he wasn’t here about Tobias. Maybe this wasn’t the right time, he thought. But if not now, then when?

  Grimm weighed his words. He had learned early on that words had power—to heal, to hurt, to kill. Silence was the safest, but he’d been growing more reckless of late. That worried him.

  “I interviewed with Ravenwood Agency for a detective position.”

  His mother started in surprise. Earlier this year, he’d finally broken his six years of silence, but his voice still caught her off guard. Shock quickly turned to a furrowing of her brow. His mother slammed the dough onto the counter, sending a cloud of flour into the air.

  “Did Mr. Tim pressure you?” she asked sharply.

  “No, ma’am,” he said. “This is my choice.”

  Lily closed her eyes briefly. Then reached for a handful of flour, and sprinkled it over the dough. She started kneading again, avoiding his eyes.

  “I know it’s dangerous, Ma,” he whispered. “But I can’t keep living like this. This isn’t a life.”

  “It’s our life,” she hissed. “And we have a good one right now.”

  He stayed silent.

  Another slap of dough. “Why a detective?” she demanded. “It puts you near the law, Josiah.” She’d used his actual name. A rare thing. They all had fake names, save for Tobias. Grimm’s little brother didn’t even know their real ones. It was safer that way.

  “I’m already near the law.”

  Lily’s jaw tightened. “We should’ve taken off as soon as Mr. Riot walked into this house. I knew he’d be trouble. And with that police raid… someone could’ve recognized us.”

  “I got out in time.”

  “What about next time, Josiah?” She stopped kneading to look at him. There were tears in her eyes.

  “I can’t keep running.”

  “We’re all running.”

  “I’m the one they’re after.”

  “You don’t think they’d take me, too?”

  Grimm fell quiet with thought. The slap and turn of dough, the anger and frustration in her hands, filled the silence. What price would he pay for his next words? Grimm said them anyway. “We don’t know they’re still after us, Ma.”

  “They are,” she said with conviction.

  Grimm knew better than to argue with his mother. She’d kept them alive this long, and caution was rarely a bad thing. But he was tired of it. “Do you want Maddie and Tobias to live like us?” Grimm finally asked. “Because it’s not fair to them.”

  A tear rolled down Lily’s cheek to mix with the dough. She scrubbed the next away, leaving a streak in the flour that covered her cheeks. “Why a detective?” she asked.

  “You taught me to do what’s right, not what’s easy,” he said. “That’s what I want to do. I can’t be a policeman because of the color of my skin, but I can be a private detective.”

  Lily’s eyes shone with pride. “Did you get the job?” she asked.

  Grimm gave a sheepish smile. “Mr. Lotario said I might be on par with his own brilliance.”

  “Those twins have enough arrogance between them to fill an ocean.”

  “I think they have larger hearts, though.”

  “It would horrify the pair to hear it. When do you start?”

  “I haven’t accepted yet. I wanted to tell you first—before I give my answer. It seemed the right thing to do.”

  “I’ll be clear with you, Josiah. You don’t have my permission. But you don’t need it anymore.”

  “I know,” Grimm said. “Your blessing matters, though.”

  “That I’ll give. Just—” She caught herself, then changed whatever she’d been about to say. “Just take care of yourself.”

  Grimm shrugged. “My first assignment is caring for horses at a racetrack. I’m supposed to play dumb and deaf, and just listen. It’s not much different from what I do here.”

  Lily looked relieved. “Still. There are bad sorts at racetracks.”

  “I’m no stranger to those sorts, Ma.”

  “No, I suppose not.” She sighed faintly with regret, then rallied. “It’s about time Tobias learns how to manage the stables alone.”

  “He has Jin and Sarah to help. I think they can manage.”

  “God help us all.”

  36

  Knights of Chastity

  “I won’t lie,” Sarah said firmly.

  “I would lie,” Jin said.

  Sarah shot her sister a glare across the carriage.

  “We’re not asking you to lie,” Riot soothed.

  “What if this girl I’m supposed to befriend asks me what I’m doing at the rally?”

  “Tell the truth,” Isobel said. “That you came with your parents.”

  Jin eyed Isobel. “I do not think you are old enough to be her mother.”

  “Yes, but Riot is old enough, and he and Sarah both have dark hair. They easily pass for father and daughter.”

  “I have dark hair, too,” Jin muttered.

  Isobel tapped her lips. “You could be his love child from a secret affair in Hong Kong.”

  Jin’s eyes lit up. “With a pirate woman who was tragically beheaded.”

  “She might have been related to Ching Shih,” Isobel added.

  Ching Shih was an infamous prostitute-turned-pirate who tormented the Qing Dynasty, the Portuguese Empire, and the Dutch East India Company. The pirate queen was always a source of inspiration. She retired to Portuguese Macau and in their later years was on good terms with Isobel’s unconventional grandmother, something her mother refused to speak of.

  Sarah gestured at the pair with frustration. “Do you see what I mean?” she asked Riot.

  “My tragic love affairs with pirate women aside...”

  Isobel arched a brow. “There was more than one?”

  “…don’t feel like you have to explain anything,” he continued. “Let them fill in the blanks. Most people will be too polite to ask.”

  “My gramma always said silence is as loud as a lie.”

  Jin sighed with frustration. “This is an investigation. It is probably murder.”

  Isobel held up a finger. “I did not say that.”

  “Why else would you have Sarah make friends with another girl?” Jin shot back.

  “Because Sarah is friendly.”

  Jin crossed her arms.

  “Sarah, the Nobles are a religious sort of family. You were just telling me how you’d like to find a church. So tell the truth. You’re there to meet people.”

  Sarah frowned at her adoptive parents. “I’m not sure the pair of you are a good influence on me.”

  “Likely not,” Riot agreed.

  Not for the first time, or the last, Sarah mused over the strange turn her life had taken. For a girl from a quiet town in Tennessee, the city was a big change. And her new family even more so.

  Yesterday Isobel had swept into the manor like a whirlwind, told Jin and Sarah to dress in their Sunday best (it wasn’t Sunday), then taken them in a carriage to Carville—to the Falcon’s clubhouse. When Sarah had walked into the converted railcar, a shouted ‘Surprise!’ shocked her. />
  All her family and friends were there. Miss Lily, Tobias, Grimm, Maddie, Margaret, Lotario, Tim and… her father. She was so relieved to see Atticus that she rushed into his arms, uncaring that everyone saw her tears. It was the best belated thirteenth birthday present she could imagine. The easel and art kit they’d gifted her was a nice bonus, as was the pearl-handled derringer.

  Sarah wasn’t sure what to think of that. Atticus had taken her out into the dunes to show her how to shoot it. But Sarah had taken the little pistol out of his hand, loaded it, and shot the top off some purple dune shrub.

  “You know how to shoot,” he noted, sounding mildly surprised, which was close to shock for him.

  “I’m from Tennessee, Atticus. I’ve been hunting cottontails since I was six. My gramma called these peashooters. This is pretty, but I’m not sure it’d kill a squirrel.”

  “You’d be surprised. In my experience, a bullet can do just about anything.” He brushed a hand along the white slash of hair at his temple. “With the caliber and range I was shot at, I should be dead, and yet I’ve seen a peashooter kill a man hit in the right spot.”

  Sarah frowned up at him. “Is there something I should know?”

  Riot adjusted his spectacles. “You’re a young lady…” He hesitated, which made her worried. “It never hurts to have options. I’ll feel better with you carrying it.”

  And that was that.

  Mrs. Gunn, who ran a restaurant from an old railcar, catered the celebration-cum-Thanksgiving dinner. Despite the moody day, they’d eaten outside at a big table, with the ocean crashing beyond sand dunes and grasses bent under the wind. It was a perfect day.

  And now here she was. Being asked to make friends with some girl who’d just lost her brother in death. “Ask questions. Poke around. See what you can discover,” Isobel suggested.

  It felt wrong.

  “What about our names?” Sarah asked.

  “Saavedra is my family name. On my mother’s side.”

  “It sounds sinister,” Sarah said.

  “It’s Portuguese. My mother’s family come from some type of royalty.” Isobel waved a hand. “Thanks to the newspapers, the names Riot and Amsel are too notorious.”

  “What if someone recognizes us?” But even as Sarah asked, she knew the answer. It was unlikely. The Saavedra name fit.

  Riot had trimmed his beard to a point, curled his mustache, and slicked back his hair. He’d exchanged spectacles for a golden monocle and wore a formal homburg. With his sun-darkened skin, he looked a proper Spanish lord. Isobel was playing the part of his devout wife, wearing a high-collared dress with a proper amount of lace. She looked different, too. Softer, somehow. Even her eyes were more blue than gray.

  Sarah had dabbled with costume makeup while in the company of Mr. Sin, who was a master at altering his appearance. She knew about shadowing, contouring, and layering, but it still amazed her.

  “Then laugh it off and comment on how curious you find the resemblance,” Isobel said. “We’re going to a churchy event. You should feel right at home.”

  “I’m not quick like you, Isobel. I can’t come up with clever answers like that.”

  Riot placed a hand over hers. “Just be yourself, Sarah.”

  “Only not so honest,” Jin said.

  Sarah closed her eyes and let her head fall back against the cushion.

  “This is nothing like my gramma’s church,” Sarah whispered. She and Isobel stood at the back of an auditorium brimming with angry voices. A fiery Irish priest stood at the pulpit, raising his fist and shouting with all the enthusiasm of his country. Four other men in clerical collars stood on stage, nodding along with the speech.

  Riot and Jin had already split off to work their way through the crowd. Jin was wearing her usual oversized cap and boy’s suit. She was so small that unless someone bent down to look under her cap, they’d never know she was Chinese.

  “… our children are forced to walk by its gates daily. Respectable women pass it. Even the red-light districts of France would wonder that such a place is allowed to exist. The Nymphia degrades our fair city. It tears at our moral fiber, and it’s an entrance to the very gates of hell. We must take our stand against vice, for God has made hell for such places. We are coming, at least two thousand strong, to protest its existence and close down that vile resort for the salvation of all!”

  Cheers, angry shouts, fists, and signs proclaiming hell and damnation were raised in the auditorium.

  “Now that’s a Catholic Irishman at his finest,” Isobel whispered in Sarah’s ear.

  Father Caraher, the most beloved and feared priest in the city, was as strong and stubborn as a mule. He had a broken nose and bruised knuckles, and his blue eyes blazed with damnation. Isobel would never admit it out loud, but she rather liked the old devil. He never backed down from a fight.

  “They look set to burn down the building,” Sarah said.

  “They do, don’t they,” Isobel mused.

  “Is that Avó over there?” Sarah asked. She was standing on her tippy-toes, trying to look over the crowd.

  “Yes,” Isobel said with a sigh. “My mother is a great admirer of Father Caraher.”

  “Not surprising,” Sarah said.

  By the time the reverends and preachers had finished speaking, Isobel thought the lot of them would march on the gates of hell themselves (or rather the gates of the Nymphia), yet after thunderous applause those assembled broke off for refreshments.

  Anticlimatic, to say the least.

  But that didn’t mean there weren’t those with more bite than bark present. Riot was searching out the more radical members.

  They’d learned that Mrs. Noble was a founder of the Knights of Chastity—a constant thorn in the Nymphia's side. Had the owners somehow lured Dominic to the hotel with a mind to discredit the group?

  “She’s coming this way,” Sarah whispered.

  “Yes, I know. Stand behind me.”

  “Do you think she’ll recognize you?”

  Steely haired and wielding a cane, Catarina Saavedra Amsel was prodding her way through the crowd. Isobel didn’t want to take the chance that her mother would cause a scene, so she slipped through the crowd and sidled up next to her.

  “Mother,” Isobel whispered. “You did not tell me you were in the city.”

  If Catarina was surprised to find her only living daughter at an assembly against vice, she didn’t show it. “I’ll start sharing my whereabouts when you share yours,” Catarina bit out. “How are my granddaughters?”

  Isobel hesitated, only briefly, an idea beginning to form. She could work with this recent development. She led the way back to Sarah, who was glued to a wall.

  Catarina’s face transformed when she caught sight of her granddaughter. The two shared a warm embrace that Isobel couldn’t account for. “Are you keeping my daughter out of trouble?” Catarina asked.

  Sarah smiled, wisely remaining silent.

  Catarina turned a keen eye on Isobel. “I hardly recognized you.”

  “You didn’t recognize me at all, Mother.”

  “Of course I did. I didn’t hit you with my cane when you startled me.”

  “If you’d recognized me, you would have.”

  “Insufferable, girl,” Catarina muttered, turning to search the crowd. “Is Jin here, too?”

  “She’s here with Atticus,” Sarah said.

  “What was that nonsense about Atticus being charged with murder? Again.”

  “He didn’t do it, Mother.”

  “Of course he didn’t. He was released. I had to use that infernal device to speak with Mr. Farnon and get the story firsthand. I really do hate learning about your misadventures in the newspapers.”

  “I didn’t have time to telephone you.”

  “You never have time.” Catarina thought the world of her son-in-law. Isobel suspected she secretly harbored a hope that Riot would ‘tame’ her. “What are you really doing here? I’ve learned long ago not to hope y
ou’ve turned over a new leaf.”

  “Do you know Mrs. Noble and her daughters?”

  “The Chairwoman? Of course.”

  Splendid.

  “Sarah is looking for friends her own age. I thought the youngest Noble daughter might do.”

  Catarina was not a slow woman. She was as razor sharp as her eyes, and as intelligent as her daughter. “Does this have something to do with their son’s death?”

  “I can’t say, Mother.”

  “They’re in mourning, Isobel.”

  “As if sentiment ever stopped you before. What do you know about their son’s death?”

  “Gossip is a road to hell.”

  “So is murder.”

  Catarina arched a brow. Hah! She didn’t know the truth. And even though Catarina betrayed nothing, Isobel knew her mother was intrigued. Catarina glanced at Sarah. “I’ll not involve my granddaughter in whatever scheme you’re cooking up. However, against my better judgment, I will introduce you to Mrs. Noble. Perhaps some of her good influence will rub off on you.”

  “I don’t want to be known at this point. It’s a case that requires delicacy,” Isobel whispered.

  Catarina placed protective hands on Sarah’s shoulders. “She’ll not be involved.”

  “I just want her to make friends. She has none of her own age.”

  The two women locked gazes. And Sarah rolled her eyes and walked away through the crowd, ending the battle of wills. Sarah had never met two people more alike. She’d swear on a bible that mother and daughter enjoyed their bickering.

  It didn’t take long for Sarah to find a group of young ladies her own age. Girls always flocked together. Though two of the girls, with fur muffs and capes, stood off to one side. They were clearly wealthier than the others. And one of the wealthy girls wore a black band around her arm.

  Sarah hadn’t been given any details about the case, or even instructions. But she knew she was supposed to find out as much as she could. Whatever that might be. If this Dominic Noble had recently died, then it stood to reason it would be his sister wearing the black ribbon.

  Sarah gave the two girls a tentative smile and was relieved when the girl with the mourning band motioned her over—a brown-haired girl with rosy cheeks and warm eyes.