Unraveled (Turner, #3)

“Not just!” Miranda protested. “And besides, my parents weren’t neglectful. They were just busy. I had supper with them every evening, and Mama always tucked me into bed. It was Mama who insisted that Papa find a patron when I was ten. She said we’d been bouncing about long enough. And so we moved to London.”


“Did you enjoy settling down?” Dalrymple asked.

“No.” Miranda scowled. “Jonas and Jasper left. Permanence wasn’t to their taste. I wept for days.”

Smite had never noticed it before, but there was something about the rhythm of that pairing. Jonas and Jasper. As if she’d often said those names coupled together in that particular singsong rhythm. Dalrymple’s hand clenched at his side. He looked up, his gaze sharp, as if he’d heard it too. Like that, the conversation lost its easy feel. Somehow, they’d drifted far out to sea.

“Tell me,” Dalrymple whispered, his voice suddenly hoarse. “This Jonas. This Jasper. They were…”

“They were good people,” Miranda said sharply. “Very good. They practically raised me.”

“They left together?” Dalrymple echoed.

“Ah,” Smite heard himself interject from his vantage point by the fire. “Miranda. You should know something. Of the many unforgivable things that Dalrymple has done, the worst was this: he started a rumor a few years back, claiming that I preferred men.”

Miranda’s spine straightened, not in haughty dignity, but as if she were a cat, drawing herself up and puffing her fur out in rage. She let out a scalded breath and hopped to her feet.

“You did what?” she demanded of Dalrymple.

“I can explain!” Dalrymple brought up his hands.

But Miranda bounded across the room to him. She was far shorter than Dalrymple was; still, she managed to loom. “I don’t care to hear your explanation. Do you know what they do to men like that?”

While Dalrymple was still sputtering for an answer, she slammed the ball of her hand against his shoulder.

“They hang them,” Miranda said. “And it doesn’t matter how good the men are, or how much they keep to themselves, or how kind they are to inquiring children.” Her voice trembled. “It doesn’t matter if they can translate ancient Greek into the most beautiful thing you’ve ever heard in English. They hang men like that. Do you know what it is like to live in fear of one whisper, one rumor, one false step? Do you know what it is like to fear love, because it will get you killed?” She punched his other shoulder. “Do you know what it is like to never stay in one place, just so nobody becomes suspicious of you?”

Dalrymple looked up at her. There was a long silence, broken only by the rasp of the other man’s breath.

And then… “Yes,” Dalrymple whispered. “I know precisely how that feels.”

Miranda took one step back. She raised her hand to her mouth.

Dalrymple dropped his eyes. “I know what it is like to live under threat. For many years, the only person who knew of my proclivities was Turner here. And he suggested that if I took one wrong step, he would reveal everything.”

“I did not,” Smite said, annoyed all over again. “I promised you I’d hold your secrets in confidence. You should have known that I would keep that vow.”

“Oh, yes. Lovely for me, that I should be forced to put my life in the keeping of a man who despised me.”

They faced each other directly for the first time that evening. Smite found himself growling. “Have you any idea how much of an insult it was when you believed that I would be so cavalier with my promises?”

“Why must it always be about you?” Dalrymple demanded. “I have been trying to be civil. How much must I abase myself before you, before you’ll deign to treat me as human? Why am I always the one who must put forth the effort?”

“Because you were the only one in the wrong,” Smite snapped.

Dalrymple turned white. “Is that what you think?”

“I never accused you of crimes. I never spread innuendo blackening your character. Yes, it is what I think. It also happens to be the truth.”

Dalrymple stood up. “Well. Fuck you, Turner. You could have stopped it at any time. For years, I begged you to tell me that you’d keep quiet. For years, you said nothing.”

“You should have known I would keep my promise.”

“Oh, I should simply have known without your saying so. I beg your pardon,” Dalrymple said icily. “When I weigh your scarcely-wounded vanity against my very real fear that I would face the gallows, you come up rather short.”

Smite caught his breath. He felt as if he’d had his legs swept out from under him, that he’d landed in an ignominious heap upon the ground. It made all his righteous anger seem…slightly less righteous. It made him even angrier that Dalrymple appeared to have an actual point.