Unraveled (Turner, #3)

She pushed aside dusty curtains and took her seat on the stool.

Even through her gloves, her hands were cold. When the curtains stopped swaying, they cut off even the hint of faintly flickering candlelight. She’d started the day cocooned in the darkness of her cell; her memory stirred uneasily in these close, dark quarters.

She smelled wood and soap and wax. But her ears brought her no sound—nothing but the faint creaks of the building around her. No footsteps. No breath.

Each minute seemed to stretch into forever. The darkness slowed time.

There was no warning when things changed—no announcement, no sound except the sudden, sharp crack of the rosewood screen one second, and the whistle of falling wood the next. Miranda scarcely had a chance to lift her hands to shield her head before the wood struck her, hard.

She was too scared to scream. She scrambled backward through the curtains, tripping over her own skirt. Even the dim light in the chapel seemed blinding. Her heart pounded. She launched to her feet and dashed down the aisle.

Her eyes had scarcely adjusted when she caught sight of a silhouetted figure in front of her. She tried to stop but couldn’t. Strong arms grabbed her shoulders.

“Miranda.”

She let out a gasp of relief. It was Parford.

“Tell me they have Old Blazer,” Miranda said.

“No.” She was now beginning to make out features. Parford’s face was set in a grim mask. “They’re gone. Smite and Richard. They’ve vanished.” The duke ran his hands through his hair. “God damn it,” he swore. “I shouldn’t have let him do this.”

“What are we going to do about it?”

“Rouse the constables,” Parford rumbled. “Rouse every able-bodied man I can find. Muster the militia, if I have to, and tear this city apart brick by brick until I find them.”

“Do you know what will happen if the militia comes after the Patron?” Miranda demanded. “Here? The Patron has been all that’s kept us safe. It will be like the Riots of ’31 again, except this time, the other side will be organized. It will be war.”

“The Patron grabbed a magistrate off the streets.” Parford glared at her. “The Patron took my brother. It already is war. I walked away from him once before. I don’t care if it takes a riot to get him back. I am not leaving him on the streets of Bristol again.” He bristled in fury. “As it is, it’ll take ’til dawn to get everything in readiness. There isn’t any time to spare.”

He turned and strode off, obviously expecting her to follow. She did—but she could scarcely keep pace with him. And when he turned on to Temple Street…

There was almost nobody about at all now. The shops stood silent and closed. Only a hint of music in the distance suggested life. Miranda slowed; Parford hadn’t noticed yet that she’d dropped back.

If the Patron was confronted with force and backed into a corner, who knew what he might do with his hostages?

Parford didn’t realize when they passed Blasseur’s Trade Goods & More, but Miranda surely did. There had to be a better way.

She was going to have to find it herself. Before Parford noticed her absence, Miranda slipped into an alley and stole away.





Chapter Twenty-three




MIRANDA GAVE UP AFTER a few seconds of tossing pebbles at Jeremy’s window. The tiny stones weren’t drawing attention. Instead, she searched in the rubble against the building for a rock. She had just found a likely candidate when the scrape of wood against wood sounded above her. She looked up. Jeremy leaned out over the sill.

“Miranda, what are you doing here?” Jeremy asked.

What she could see of his hair was tousled; most of it was hidden under a voluminous nightcap. A heavy nightshirt covered his torso.

“Where is Old Blazer?” Miranda hissed.

Jeremy frowned down at her from his window, rubbing his eyes. “God, Miranda. That’s all you have to say? Last I saw you, you said you were leaving town. After—” He looked about. “I heard you were set free. Why in God’s name did you stay, when you’d had the dangers spelled out so clearly?” He frowned down at her. “It’s not safe out. I’ll go down and let you in.”

“No, I—”

But he’d already ducked back into his room, and her words were swallowed in the screech of his window closing.

She waited at the back door. A few infinitely long minutes passed before Jeremy opened the door. He’d pulled on trousers and a shirt, but his feet were bare. He folded his arms about him against the cold, and jerked his head, indicating that she should come inside.

She tapped her toes stubbornly on the doorstep. “Where is Old Blazer?”

“Asleep. Listen—you can hear him snoring.”

She could, very distantly. Miranda shook her head. “Then I’m not going in. It’s not safe. He’s got to be furious at me right now. Jeremy, we need to do something.”