When we arrived back at the house, Sebastian was waiting alone outside, and a flutter ran through my chest, like I’d opened a gift. He took my hand, led me into the sitting room, and didn’t let go.
“You aren’t to blame,” he said. “And if I could tell you that a million times and chip away at it, I would. But I think we both know from experience that it isn’t that simple.”
He fixed me with a stare. “You once found the kindness to forgive me for your sister. If you could do that, then you must allow yourself a fraction of that unfathomable kindness. Promise me you’ll try. And I’ll do the same.”
“I will,” I managed.
Sebastian’s power hummed through me, and though it was supposed to be weakening me, I couldn’t help but feel stronger. There was so much sadness, and we weren’t out of the woods yet. But maybe not everything needed to be forgiven and forgotten completely. Maybe it wouldn’t all heal. Maybe it was enough to share the pain, the guilt, the burden. Maybe that’s how we keep going.
Chapter Sixteen
“MR. KENT, if you are quite done—”
“Honestly, I’ve not even started yet.”
My message for the members of the Society had made the evening headlines. It was embellished, slightly.
Largely, it referred to me as Sebastian Braddock’s mistress. This was apparently extremely humorous to Mr. Kent, and I was resisting kicking at him across the carriage as we made our way to Paddington Station, heavily disguised.
“If you continue, I’m not going to heal your metal hand,” I threatened.
“I’ve actually grown quite fond of this fellow, so your threat means nothing,” Mr. Kent said, clapping his hands together. “Now, I have so many questions for the two of you.”
“And you shall ask none of them,” Sebastian snapped. He was wearing a pair of extremely thick muttonchops and a large floppy hat that belonged on a farmer, not a young gentleman. This seemed to amuse Mr. Kent almost as much as the newspaper’s little misprint, and he reached over to stroke Sebastian’s furry jaw.
“Don’t worry, Braddock, I am a gentleman. I won’t tell anyone.”
“There is nothing to tell!”
“Sure, sure.” Mr. Kent nodded knowingly and winked. “Nothing at all. And to think, Miss Wyndham, you could have had a scandal-free life with me, but you chose the indecent path with the roguish Mr. Braddock.”
“Yes, it’s all very amusing,” I said bitterly.
Mr. Adeoti was watching everything between us with a polite smile. “But on the bright side, everyone will be talking about your message now.”
That much was true. And for that, I was happy enough to take Mr. Kent’s teasing. As long as the message encouraged Oliver’s friends and any other unhappy Society of Aberrations members to seek our help and planted a seed of doubt about Captain Goode to the public, it was worth it.
The carriage came to a sharp stop. “All right, Tuffins?” Mr. Kent called.
“I am not sure, sir. I … I think not.” The reply was muffled but understandable. I strained to see through the grit-covered window, but all I could see was another stopped carriage in front of us. We shared worried glances and Sebastian tentatively opened the door, looking around. We were on the bridge, not far from Paddington Station now. In fact, we could see it.
For it was smoking.
“It was Braddock! He derailed the trains!” The shouts came from all around us. We could see two trains lying on their sides, the metal cars buckled—twisted and broken in jagged angles. We watched, helpless from the bridge, as the bodies of passengers were pulled from the smoking wreckage. Alarm bells pealed out as the fires were doused. Frantic footsteps fell down the bridge as people rushed to find their loved ones. Madness swirled around us, and there was absolutely nothing we could do.
“I … I should follow them to the hospitals,” I said numbly, moving without realizing how or where.
“I don’t know, Miss Wyndham,” Mr. Kent said, giving me a worried glance. “Captain Goode may retaliate there, too.”
“I’m sorry,” I said, my voice small. “I keep underestimating how far he is willing to go.”
Sebastian clenched my hand, sending a rush of shivers up my arm. “It’s not your fault. It’s Captain Goode’s,” he insisted, our endless refrain.
“Hope that Braddock fella hangs!” a passerby shouted.
“Aye, my train’s been canceled. I’ve got half a mind to go do it myself,” his companion remarked, unaware he was brushing past the man himself.
“Ignore them,” I whispered, clutching Sebastian’s hand back. “They don’t know a thing.” A few deep breaths gave me a moment to think, to find a way to salvage this failure somehow. “Mr. Adeoti, do you see any messages here?” I asked.
Mr. Adeoti gave a cursory look around the bridge. “Nothing.”
“Then let’s make a round.”
My arm remained locked to Sebastian’s as we navigated through the packed crowd to find our way off the bridge. With the station shut down, we circled the area in the hopes that some Society members had left messages on nearby walls. As we wove our way back and forth down each of the surrounding streets, newspaper boys shouted speculation about where Sebastian might strike next. Hastily drawn handbills offering rewards for Sebastian were being hung up on walls. One man wearing a sandwich board advertised that Sebastian had enjoyed a pie and a beer at a corner public house before committing his horrible crime.
I could feel it wearing Sebastian down. I could see it wearing all of us down. There was a growing heaviness to our trudging and a reluctance to hope for anything. It seemed Captain Goode had an answer for everything we did.
“Wait,” Mr. Adeoti said, a rush of excitement in his voice. “I believe I see something.”
We crossed the street to the brick wall of a rather mundane building, searching for signs of anything suspicious. Deeming it safe, Mr. Adeoti made his way to the message and leaned his back against the wall, his hands touching the bricks. He closed his eyes for only a few seconds before he snapped out of the trance.
“That was quick,” I said. “What did it say?”
“It’s … short,” Mr. Adeoti said. “It’s from Captain Goode. All he said was ‘Your turn.’”
We decided it best to leave then.
Our route was unnecessarily long to escape from anyone following us. We wound through a few alleys, down into an underground station, and out another gate before emerging back up on the street. Mr. Kent made sure to ask loudly if anyone was following us before we found Tuffins and took the carriage straight home.
The boarding house fell into a somber, helpless silence when we returned. The crash was reported in the evening papers, ten dead and eighteen injured, and the blame was, again, placed entirely on Sebastian, who had been seen running from the trains. We tried to regain the hope we all had the other day. Mr. Adeoti, Catherine, and Rose continued their research; I came up with plans and Miss Chen explained why they were ridiculous; and Sebastian went back to gardening moodily, while Mr. Kent tried to explain that he could brood just as easily at a brothel. But even by the end of the long day, no one had a single idea. The problem was dreadfully simple now. We didn’t know how to find Captain Goode, and anything we could think of would result in more and more retaliatory deaths.
The problem kept me awake long into the night. The ceiling provided little in the way of answers and the walls proved equally unhelpful. The blankets, my night rail, my skin were all too hot and I tossed and turned, fighting the urge to visit another hospital, to wait outside the Society of Aberrations, to do anything.
Finally, I rolled out of bed, settling on a secret trip to the best place I could think of: the kitchen.
Rose’s voice stopped me at the door. “You’re not sneaking away again, are you?”
“No, even I have run out of reasons to sneak away in the middle of the night,” I reassured her. “I just need some thinking cake.”
“Mmm, thinking cake,” she said sleepily. “Save me one with … brilliant-idea … jam.”