Unraveled (Turner, #3)

She might have negotiated Temple Parish by scent alone. The wealthy might choose their abodes by view—did one want a panorama that included the cathedral, or a look at Brandon Hill?

The poor chose by smell. At Miranda’s home, the scent of the coal burned by the glassblowers predominated during the day. At night, the breeze off the Floating Harbour brought in the smell from the starch works a few buildings over—a scent that put her in mind of clean laundry and boiling wheat. Far better than what she’d have endured with the stockyard as neighbor.

She shut her eyes and inhaled. And just as she did so, it came to her—the information the Patron had received.

“He wanted to know if I was willing to put myself in real danger after all this time being careful.” She spoke aloud. “And I let him know I was. I’m such a fool.”

Before she could do anything more, though, an arm snaked around her from behind—a strong, solid arm. She opened her eyes and tried to turn, tried to fight, but whoever had her took hold of her wrist and held it in such a way that she could scarcely wriggle without pain shooting down her arm. She hadn’t a chance to feel fear—not until she looked down and saw that the arm holding her was clothed in unwrinkled superfine wool.

Of course. Lord Justice knew where she lived.

“I’m such a fool,” she repeated.

“Would you know,” a familiar voice said in her ear, “I quite agree.”



WITH HIS ARM AROUND Miss Darling and his hand on her wrist, Smite could tell how thin she was. He could feel her pulse hammering against his grip.

“I’m going to turn you to face me,” he said, “as this is no way to conduct a conversation, but I’m not about to let go. I’ve chased you three miles already, and I’m not interested in starting over.”

“I didn’t offer false testimony today.” She struggled against him, but he held fast. “Ask anyone you like. Check the records if you wish. The clerk can tell you.”

He already knew that. He’d been there, after all. He took his arm from around her, but did not let go of her wrist.

She turned to face him. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Then why did you run?”

“You said you’d have me arrested if you saw me again.”

His eyes narrowed. “I never said any such thing.”

“You did.”

He stared at her, searched his memory. And then—“I said, ‘If ever I see you before me again, dressed as someone else and spouting falsehoods, I will have you arrested on the spot.’ I can’t have you arrested merely because I catch sight of you in a public building.”

She yanked her hand from his grasp. “Begging your pardon, Your Worship, but you could have me arrested for breathing. Who would gainsay you?”

“If you wouldn’t act guilty, I wouldn’t—”

“Act guilty?” she cried. “I’m poor. My mother was an actress; my father the manager of a traveling troupe of players. I sew some for a living, and when I’ve got the wherewithal, I make wigs. I don’t have to do anything to be guilty. I’m guilty the instant a constable lays eyes on me and decides I appear out of place.” Her hands balled into fists at her side. “It doesn’t matter what I’ve done or what I say. Who would listen to me?”

“I would.” He glared at her. “I do listen to people like you. Every day.” He took a step closer, and she shrank against the wall. “If you’re so innocent,” he pressed, “why were you there?”

But her gaze fixed on something just beyond him. Her mouth rounded. “Look out,” she called. “Behind you.”

He didn’t take his eyes from her. “A feeble attempt. There’s nobody there. You won’t be evading me so easily.”

And that was when something struck him from behind. He experienced a sharp, splintering pain in his head—a savage sense of disbelief—and then, the sure knowledge that his knees were giving way beneath him.

Darkness flooded his vision before he hit the ground.





Chapter Five




SMITE WOKE TO HEAD-POUNDING confusion. A twisting burn of pain at the back of his skull warred with the dryness of his mouth. Straws poked his back; a warm, wet cloth lay on his forehead. The air around him was thick with a perplexing mixture of smells: heavy coal smoke, overboiled wheat, lye soap, and over everything, a heavy, distasteful scent that put him in mind of the worst of the street’s refuse.

Gradually, memory returned. He’d chased after Miss Darling in the gloom of a cloudy afternoon, ducking through the alleys of Temple Parish. He’d put his arm around her. She’d yelled at him. And then, the last thing he could bring to mind: her eyes cutting up and to the right, widening at what she saw behind him.

So. Her surprise hadn’t been a ruse.

That explained the knot of hurt at the back of his head. Someone had struck him from behind.

And now he didn’t know where he was or who held him. The thought of moving made his head whirl. He wasn’t precisely in a position to fight his way to safety.