Unraveled (Turner, #3)

His tone had grown harder as he spoke.

“What kind of…” Miranda stopped, not willing to go forward. She knew what the Patron’s justice was like. The man who’d threatened her all those years ago had been driven out of town—and that, just for a threat. Men had died for the Patron’s justice—died and disappeared. If Jeremy was supposed to become the Patron…

His skin was the color of cold wax. “I can do it,” Jeremy was saying, more to himself than to her. “If I agree to take her place, I can find out where he’s held. Have him released. The stakes this time…there could be riots. I can kill one man to save the city.”

Miranda wasn’t sure she believed him. Moreover, she wasn’t sure what it would do to him, to commit murder.

“If I knew where my mother kept prisoners,” he was muttering, “perhaps I could… But no. No. There is no other way.”

Miranda caught his arm.

“Actually,” she said. “I have an idea. I know how to find them, without going through the initiation first.”

Jeremy glanced at the front door.

“Quickly,” Miranda said. “If we go out the back way, you won’t have to talk to him at all.”



IT WAS COLD AND lightless when Smite awoke. He was slumped against some hard surface. He twitched; even that slight movement sent a scatter of pain through his head. No sun played against the lids of his eyes; no lantern-light danced nearby.

It made no difference when he cautiously opened his eyes. It was still black. The floor under him was hard and cold, and a series of curiously regular bumps jutted into his skin. Even breathing hurt.

It took him a moment to orient himself. Last he’d known, he’d been standing behind Temple Church, pretending to smoke a pipe and watching the church. He’d had his back to the wall.

Someone had hit him from the side. He had a vague, troubled recollection of movement, but no memory of how he came to be here. Wherever here was.

There was no movement to the air; it hung about him, close and still. The setting almost felt like one of his nightmares, yet it seemed curiously tactile for a dream. He could make out the odor of metal and grease, and he could never smell in dreams. And in his dreams, he always heard the babble of the passing millrace, growing to a crescendo.

Here, silence engulfed him. Only a faint sound—an almost liquid burble—hovered at the edge of his hearing. It made him uneasy.

He put his hand out. Cold metal met his fingertips, and he found a hard edge in the floor next to him. A moment’s exploration brought the surface to life.

It wasn’t a ridge, and he wasn’t asleep. It was a seam, and those bumps marching alongside the hard metal edge were rivets. He was enclosed in a box made of iron.

Don’t think of it, Turner. If you don’t think of it, it needn’t affect you.

“Turner?” It was a familiar voice. “Is that you?”

“Dalrymple.” Smite felt an unreasonable sense of relief at finding himself not alone. The man’s voice brought back everything—the plan, the church, the Patron… “Tell me Miranda’s not here,” he said.

“If she is, I’ve not encountered her.”

“Ash?”

“Not him, either.”

No point in thinking of them now. He hoped they were safe.

Instead, he ran his hand along the metal beneath him. “Where are we?”

“I’m not certain. I only saw a bit near the end, when the scarf binding my eyes slipped. They took us aboard a ship. I only got a glimpse before they slammed the door shut.”

“Ah,” Smite muttered. A simple word, to hide the unbidden nausea that rose in his gorge. There was only one deserted ship in the Floating Harbour. He was aboard the Great Britain. Buried deep in her bowels. That noise he heard—that was the flow of liquid around the hull. His hand trembled against the cold floor.

He pressed it flat.

Stop fussing over yourself.

“Are you well?” Dalrymple asked. “You couldn’t even bring yourself to swim at Eton, not without becoming ill. And now we’re surrounded by water. It’s all around us. I think—are you shaking?”

“Shut up, Winnie.” Smite drew a deep breath. The pain in his side was receding, but it still hurt. “If you don’t mention it, I don’t have to think of it.” If he didn’t think of it, he might be able to keep his old memories from devouring him alive.

“Oh. Sorry.” A pause. “It’s been ages since anyone called me ‘Winnie.’”

“A deplorable lapse on my part,” Smite said.

Dalrymple had been the Marquess of Winchester, back when they’d been boys—back when almost everyone had believed him to be the heir to a dukedom. The title had been shortened to just Winnie amongst his intimates.