Unraveled (Turner, #3)

No one came to greet her. No bustling rector asked what she was doing. The church held only ghosts and memories, as far as she could see. She kept her eyes on the dark flagstones beneath her feet. They were cut in diamond shapes, and she followed their line diagonally to the side of the room.

There was no required confession in the Church of England. Confession, she had been told once by a gentle-faced curate, was a papist affliction. True confession, he’d said, was between herself and God.

But Temple Church had been built before there was a Church of England. While confession had been stamped out, the architecture was not so easily changed. Miranda glanced about her once more—she truly was alone—found her way to the third pew on the right, and then identified the place she needed, where the wall was overhung with heavy, forbidding curtains.

It was the work of a moment to slide them aside and enter.

The onetime confessional had long since been converted to a closet. In the dark alcove that waited stood a broom, a bucket, a cracked bar of harsh soap, and a three-legged stool. One wall was partially blocked by a rosewood screen—the last remnants of Catholicism in this ancient church. She pulled the curtains back, plunging herself into darkness. Then she sat on the stool, folded her hands carefully, and waited.

She never knew whom she would talk to. Sometimes it was a man. Once, she thought the voice she heard had belonged to a woman. She doubted she’d had any conversation with the Patron himself; whoever he was, his identity was a closely guarded secret. Unsurprising; if Bristol had a thieves’ guild, the Patron was the undisputed head.

But the Patron was more than that. The constables kept order in the prosperous parts of Bristol; the Patron had taken charge of those places where constables didn’t dare patrol. If Miranda walked undisturbed on the streets at night, it was because he granted her safe passage, and the lesser bullyboys didn’t dare risk his wrath. If he refused to allow Robbie to get involved with the other street boys…well, she’d bargained for that, too.

She was mired deep in his debt.

The bargain had seemed so simple, on that fateful night when she’d begged for his help. She received the Patron’s protection in exchange for one favor granted every month. Without the bargain, a woman and a boy living alone in the slums would never have survived.

But with every passing month, the value of that favor seemed to escalate. And now…

However pretty he had been, Lord Justice had promised to put her in gaol. In gaol, like George Patten. Who had disappeared. The room was cold, indeed.

Perched on that too-short stool, she felt her calves begin to ache. Finally, a soft rustle announced that someone had arrived on the other side of the screen.

The voice that addressed her today was a tenor with a bit of a rasp. She wasn’t even sure it was a man. She detected the faint scent of tobacco from the other side of the screen. Still, she formed a picture in her mind—some hulking, brutish thing lurking in the old confessional.

“Have you come to confess?” the voice asked.

“I have.” She reached out and snapped a straw from the broom, playing it between her fingers.

“The Patron will hear what you have to say, my child.” The voice always started with that, no matter who spoke to her.

“I did as the Patron asked,” she said. “I went to the hearing. I volunteered to speak on behalf of Widdy. The charges were dismissed as unproven, and he went free.”

Her simple report was met with a brooding silence. Then: “Lying is a sin, child. And so is omission. What is it you aren’t telling the Patron?”

Of course. The Patron had likely had a man in the hearing room. “I only volunteered, sir. I was not asked to speak by the magistrates.”

Perhaps the Patron would claim that this favor didn’t count, that it didn’t clear her debt for the month. Miranda’s stomach churned.

But instead of disputing the point, the voice simply said, “Tell me about Lord Justice.”

“He offered to accompany me back to my inn. I mean, he offered to accompany Daisy Whitaker. I slipped away before he found me after the hearing.” No point in giving more information than requested. The Patron hardly needed more of a hold on her.

The voice didn’t remark on her second omission. The Patron probably didn’t know about her second interaction with Lord Justice.

“Hmm,” that raspy voice said. “Do you think that he might have a prurient interest in Miss Whitaker? That might be useful.”

She could call to mind the turn of his shoulder, the quarter profile he’d given her. I particularly remember you, Miss Darling. She’d felt the most absurd curl of heat run through her at that, so much that she shivered now in recollection.

“No,” she said forcefully. “I’m fairly certain that he recognized me. He was suspicious, not lustful. I don’t think he believed me.” She shook her head, and then blurted out the words that danced on the tip of her tongue. “I can’t do this anymore.”