By half past one, Corinne had fallen asleep on her cot, her grandfather’s watch cradled in her hands. Ada wrapped herself in her blanket and sat with her back against the wall for almost an hour before she gave up. She was exhausted, but sleep wouldn’t come. Corinne was convinced that if they just asked enough dangerous people enough dangerous questions, then they could somehow make sense of Johnny’s murder. That if they found answers, then they could somehow stop the HPA from inching ever closer. That they could prevent the Cast Iron from closing its doors for good.
Ada had told Corinne that together they could do it, because that’s what she was supposed to say. That was always the way of things between them. Ada made the promises, and Corinne found a way to keep them. But this time Ada wasn’t so sure. Ever since Johnny’s death she hadn’t been able to shake the feeling that Haversham was somehow inevitable.
Eventually she climbed off her cot, dragging her blanket like a cape into the common room. When she saw Saint sitting on the couch, working in his sketchbook, she almost turned around. He glanced up, and his face colored. He hunched back over his work.
Ada decided she didn’t care and curled up in an armchair. For half an hour they were silent. Ada laid her head on her arm and tried to doze off, but sleep didn’t come any easier than it had in her bed. She gave up and stared at Saint until he met her eye.
“Do you want me to leave?” he asked.
His freckles were still drowning in blotchy red. One of the things Ada had always liked about Saint was how his emotions always flared on his face. In the Cast Iron it was usually impossible to tell what anyone was feeling.
“I want to know what you were thinking,” Ada said.
Saint’s throat worked with a swallow. He looked back down at his sketch.
“I’m serious,” Ada said.
“What does it matter now?” he murmured.
“I’m trying to figure out how I’m supposed to live with you. How I’m supposed to ever trust you again.” Ada straightened in the chair and put her feet on the ground.
“They were going to put me in lockup,” Saint said. “All that iron and steel. It’s worse than the asylum.”
“The bulls didn’t have enough to arrest us.”
“That’s never stopped them before,” he said. “Not when it comes to hemopaths.”
“Even if they did, Johnny would’ve gotten you out.”
“You don’t know that.”
“He got me out of the asylum, didn’t he?”
Saint’s mouth quirked with the start of a reply, but he just pressed his lips together.
“What?” Ada asked.
Saint placed his pencil on the top of his sketchbook and watched it roll down the incline into his lap.
“Just because he got you out doesn’t mean he would’ve helped me.”
“Don’t be stupid. Why wouldn’t he?”
Saint adjusted the sketchbook and dropped the pencil again. It rolled more slowly this time. He waited until it hit his lap to reply.
“Bad blood.”
Ada instinctively looked for something to throw at him. Saint had never been one to talk riddles before. Maybe Corinne had rubbed off on him. Finding no suitable projectile, she pressed forward.
“What have you ever done to Johnny?”
Saint held the pencil in both hands, pushing his thumbs against the middle as if to snap it in half.
“Not me. My dad.”
“Your father died saving Johnny’s life—and half the troop. And you told me they’d been friends for years before the war.”
Saint’s eyes flickered to hers. There was a crinkle between his eyebrows, but Ada couldn’t tell if it was anger or determination or something else altogether.
“They were friends, but my dad didn’t save anyone.”
Ada frowned. The priest had told the story at the funeral: how the small Allied troop had come across a German squadron. Seeing that they had stumbled into a slaughter, Temple had drawn fire to himself, giving eleven soldiers—including Johnny—enough time to retreat. Johnny had been one of the pallbearers at the graveside.
“Johnny got drunk at the wake,” Saint said. “He told me what really happened.”
The color had faded from his cheeks, and his shoulders were hunched. Before she could convince herself otherwise, Ada moved to sit next to him on the sofa.
“Tell me,” she said softly.
“They did run into a German squadron on the highway, but the troop hid in some trees before they were seen. Johnny said it wasn’t the best position, but chances were good that the Germans would just pass them by.” The pencil snapped in Saint’s hands. “My dad lost it and ran. The Germans heard him, and that’s when they opened fire.”
Saint turned his head toward Ada, his eyes damp.
“Johnny was the only one who saw what really happened. He told the survivors that my dad had been trying to draw fire. Everyone believed him. My mother, my sisters, everyone. I’m the only one he told.”
He had the jagged end of the broken pencil against his thigh and was driving it downward. Wordlessly, Ada pried it from his grip. It felt irreverent, talking about Johnny like this, like he couldn’t at any moment throw open the door to his office and holler at them to keep it down.
“I asked him why he lied,” Saint said. It came out like a gasp. He was struggling against tears. “He told me that debts have a way of being paid, in time.”
Ada retrieved the other half of the pencil from the floor and set them both on the coffee table.