Unraveled (Turner, #3)

“But, Miss…” This protest came from the maid Smite had insisted should accompany her for good measure. It had seemed so excessive; Miranda had never needed a chaperone in Temple Parish. “We were told to take you straight there.”


“I need to say farewell to someone.” She hopped down out of the cart. She was too visible on the street now. Even though she’d donned a traveling habit, a dull brown high-necked gown designed to hide the dirt of a journey, passersby glanced at her. The gown was tailored to her form, leaving no room for the bending and moving that a working woman required. The bustle and petticoats were too wide. And even though the material was plain brown, it was well-made and lustrous. People watched her idly. Speculatively.

And then someone knocked into her from the side. Gray fabric flew everywhere. Miranda turned, catching herself before she fell. Dryfuss stepped forward.

“Oh, dearie me,” said a familiar voice.

“Mrs. Blasseur!” Miranda said. “I’m so sorry. I was just standing here, looking around—I didn’t even see you coming.”

Mrs. Blasseur began to pick up the laundry that had spilled from her basket. The tips of her fingers were blue, her movements slow. Miranda knelt beside her as best as she could in her stiff corset, and helped her collect towels.

When they’d finished, Mrs. Blasseur looked up. “Well, look at you.” She paused, took a step back. “You look well. Very well. I haven’t seen you in an age.” She wrinkled her brow. “When you said your father had left you a bit of money, I hadn’t realized it was quite so much.”

Miranda simply shook her head and picked up the basket. “You’ve never been stupid, Mrs. Blasseur,” she said. “You know quite well how I came by this.”

The woman gave her a small, pained smile. “Indeed.” She coughed heavily into a handkerchief and looked away.

“I’ve come…I need to talk to Jeremy, actually. Is he in?”

Mrs. Blasseur gestured in front of her. Miranda opened the door, and then held the basket for the other woman.

Once inside, she turned to her. “Do you need—”

Mrs. Blasseur rescued her load of laundry. “Shoo,” she commanded with a shake of her head. “Go talk to Jeremy.”

Miranda smiled. The store was like Temple Street itself: the same as always, and yet substantially dingier. The bolts of fabric looked cheap to her eyes, the ribbons pale and faded. She was almost afraid as she made her way to the back of the shop. Afraid that she herself would have altered so much that…

But no. Jeremy sat in his usual spot on a stool, mending a seam on a pair of trousers with infinite patience. He didn’t look sullen or scuffed to her eye. He still looked utterly dear.

“Jeremy,” she breathed.

“Miranda!” He stood up, smiling. “Oh, you look fabulous. What are you doing here?”

She crossed over to him and put her arms around him. He stiffened slightly, but hugged her back. “I’ve come to say farewell,” she whispered. “I’ll be leaving soon—leaving Bristol. Possibly forever.”

He nodded sagely. “Going with your protector?”

“No.” She took a deep breath, and dropped her voice. “It’s not safe for me here. I have to leave. The Patron threatened Robbie—set him up for a hanging offense. I don’t want to be next.”

Jeremy turned utterly white. “Robbie? The Patron threatened Robbie? Who—no—why—” He took a breath. “How do you know?”

“He sent a note, mentioning me. The Patron wants something. I can’t fathom it, either, but I don’t intend to wait around to find out what it is.” When the danger had passed, of course…

“Ah,” Jeremy muttered. “God. Not again. This isn’t happening again.” He set his needle down and looked across the room, his eyes shadowed.

“I don’t know what he wants,” Miranda said, “but the Patron has proven that he’ll pursue the ones I care about. Jeremy, I’m worried about what he might do to you.”

Jeremy didn’t look at her. “I’m not in any danger from the Patron.”

“I don’t care if you’ve paid for protection. Something different is going on. The normal rules are suspended.” Miranda looked away. “Assume the Patron knows everything. He knows we’re friends. He knows I’d want you to stay safe. Maybe you should…”

But of course Jeremy wouldn’t come with her, not with his mother in such straits.

Her eyes fell on a display of top hats—rat-eaten, battered, and coming apart at the seams. So limp, they’d scarcely stay on a head. They were in a bin next to some shabby coats. Someone had pinned a label to one of them: “Old hatts for the Guy. 2d.”

It was close to the Fifth of November. But the possibility of buying a hat wasn’t what caught her attention. She reached and picked up the foolscap label. That handwriting… That spelling. It couldn’t be.

Her world swirled around her.

“Trust me,” Jeremy said behind her. “I’m not in any danger from the Patron. I’m certain of it.”

She knew that hand.

“I see,” she heard herself say. Someone from the shop must be working with the Patron. Closely. She’d received letters from him.