Unraveled (Turner, #3)

“An arrest and a cold cell is a token of good will?” Miranda muttered. “I’d hate to see him angry.”


“Your name will be on the list distributed to the magistrates tomorrow morning. Lord Justice will free you before seven of the clock. You won’t even have to wait for the hearing.” The woman turned, and then threw over her shoulder. “Tell him that, when next you see him. Tell him that you’re here on sufferance. Next time…”

Miranda shivered. None of it made sense. Why would the Patron want her, of all people, as a replacement? A reluctant replacement would hardly do any good. And Miranda had shown little talent for running criminal enterprises. She could drive a hard bargain; that was it. All those days in Old Blazer’s shop—had he been watching her then?

She curled into a ball. Her hands were trembling. “If the Patron doesn’t want to harm me, why threaten me? Why threaten Robbie?”

There was a long pause. “The Patron wants what every man wants,” the woman finally said. “He wants to leave a legacy.”

Miranda rubbed her forehead. Her head was beginning to ache with the dull throb of sleeplessness. She could hear the sound of boots tramping down the corridor once again—hard slaps against the stone floors.

“Why me?” She’d meant those words as a pure whine—the sort of thing that Smite would have immediately dismissed as self-indulgent rubbish.

She received no answer.

The guard returned and opened the cell door. The figure leaned down to recapture her lantern and slipped away. The lock clicked behind her. Once again, footfalls traversed the station. Five minutes, that had taken. It felt like hours. Miranda sat in shaking silence, her mind awhirl.

If sleep had been unattainable before, it was unthinkable now. Every tread of the guard’s passing reminded her of the nightmare she’d just gone through. Her hands shook. She could not find warmth, no matter how tightly she curled up. She didn’t escape that sense of terror until black night turned to dark gray, and gray turned to dawn.

Dawn brought her the first ray of hope.

Sounds of activity rose around her: the indistinct murmur of conversation in some other room, and the clop of hooves, filtered through the one high window in her cell.

A clock tower eventually chimed seven. Miranda imagined the lists going out to the magistrates. Smite might not look at his immediately. He had other duties, after all.

He might first read the paper. He’d surely look over the accounts of the more violent crimes first. Or…

With each passing quarter hour, she invented a new duty for him to perform. But each chime of the bells brought a fresh wave of anxiety. When eight o’clock came, a new fear ascended: he wasn’t coming.

That possibility had never occurred to her, not once during that foul nightmare of an evening. But he’d remarked before about the use of public power for personal gain.

At eleven, a constable unlocked her cell and escorted her to the hearing room. It was every bit as dingy as it had been when she’d stood here all those weeks ago. But the faces that watched her seemed harsher, less forgiving. And the magistrates…

There were four this time, all dressed in a somber black. Two of them scarcely glanced at her. One frowned—a frown that said he had every intention of punishing her to the fullest sense of the law. And the last…oh, the last was Smite.

She might have collapsed with relief, seeing him there.

Yet when his eyes met hers, he showed no sign of recognition. No widening of the eyes. No smile. No shake of the head. It was as if she simply didn’t exist, except as another prisoner to be judged.

Her knees almost gave way. If he had been anyone else, she might have thought that he was acting indifferent so as best to help her during the hearing. But she knew Smite. It was no pretense when his gaze slipped over hers. He didn’t have it in him to lie that well.

No. She had to face the simple truth. He had well and truly set her to the side.

She’d forgotten what he sounded like on the bench. He was incisive and clear. He ferreted out answers. He did his duty, without regard to the person who was before him. It was going to be awful to have him do his duty toward her.

Maybe it would be worse if he did not. The other magistrates were scarcely even attending to the other prisoners. Long ago, she’d told him that magistrates and constables saw the poor as guilty before the law, no matter what had actually happened. He was the sole exception to prove that rule.

She sat through three convictions before her case was called. She struggled to her feet and half stumbled on her way to the front. Her limbs were all pins and needles. But before anyone could speak, Smite stood.

Thank God.

He did not look her way. “Gentlemen,” he said to his fellow magistrates. “This lady is known to me. I cannot grant impartial judgment in her case. It is my duty, therefore, to recuse myself.”