Reynolds was a surprisingly small man with misleadingly youthful features. At the moment, as he stepped swiftly through the shaft of light from a window across the street, he was beaming like a schoolboy.
Harper had counted to ten when Miller appeared. He could have been Reynolds' twin if it hadn't been for his black mustache and slightly darker hair. Miller tossed something limp and partly white to Reynolds. It was the lace cap. The pulse of Harper's blood began to quicken.
Twelve, Harper counted. Reynolds gestured ahead. Miller nodded.
Thirteen. They began to run toward the carriage house.
Fourteen. Harper calmly latched the lock on the nearest door and then reached past the drunken student and locked the opposite door.
Fifteen. Miller was close enough that even through the rain, Harper could see the glint of his little round spectacles beneath his black cap. Reynolds was bounding ahead through the mud as if it were scarcely there.
Sixteen.
Harper was suddenly rocked back into the thin padding of his seat as the carriage pulled out into the street. He kept watching as the carriage rushed farther and farther away from the two Inquisitors. It was only when he had come to a full count of sixty that Harper leaned back against the worn seat of the carriage and relaxed enough to pay any attention to the student across from him. The young man swayed back and forth as he clumsily tried to shove a half-empty bottle of wine under his seat cushion.
Some men certainly hid their deceptions better than others, Harper decided, but he said nothing of it.
At St. Christopher's Park, he lifted the old woman back into his arms and carefully got out of the carriage. Here the houses were not as sprawling as those of Chapel Street, but they stood against the black, storming sky with a conservative elegance. Harper walked quickly, ignoring the tired ache in his back and legs. Four blocks up the line of steepled roofs and miniature rose hedges, Harper reached his destination.
The house had been recently rebuilt, and Harper was no longer familiar with it. There had been six steps to the front door before. Now there were seven, and Harper almost tripped on the last one. It worried him that the woman didn't wake at all when he stumbled. He pulled the bell a little more violently than was necessary and waited.
It was late enough that most of the house staff would have been in bed or gone for the day. Harper jerked the bell chain again. Only a moment later, the door opened.
Edward took a quick look at Harper, then the old woman in his arms, and let them in.
"What happened?" Edward asked as he led Harper past the waiting room and into the consulting room.
"Exposure, I think. She's been out in the cold most of the night."
"Lay her on the table." Edward pushed his blonde hair from his face. One of his cheeks was much redder than the other. Harper guessed that he had fallen asleep at his desk again.
As Harper lay the woman down on the raised nursing table, Edward reached past him and took her pulse. Edward frowned slightly and placed his hand against her pale cold cheek. Gently, Edward brushed Harper aside and stripped the wet black coat off the woman. He tossed it to the floor.
"She collapsed on the street." Harper stepped back out of Edward's way.
There was a chair, but he felt too agitated to sit. He hung behind Edward waiting for something to do. Edward pulled the old woman's eyes open, then let the lids drop back closed. Then, carefully, Edward ran his fingers along the woman's neck and over her head.
Harper wanted to pace, but the room was too small, and he knew he'd just get in Edward's way. He wasn't good at waiting while another man took care of things. He had to keep himself from restlessly picking up the surgical instruments in the room and toying with them.
"Will she be all right?" Harper asked.
"I think so...It doesn't look like she hurt her head when she fell. Her neck feels fine as well. These clothes have to go." With a practiced ease, Edward grabbed a pair of surgical scissors and sliced off the filthy remains of the woman's clothes. He studied her withered white body for a moment.
"Her knee looks bad. It'll need stitches." Edward moved quickly past Harper, gathering the supplies he would need. "There aren't any swellings from broken bones that I can see. Aside from her knee and the cold, she seems just fine." He paused a moment to catch Harper's eye. "By the way, it's good to see you at last."
Harper nodded and tried not to look awkward. In the last two months he had hardly seen Edward at all. He knew he should have been there to comfort Edward after Joan's funeral. But pretending to mourn while Edward truly suffered made Harper feel sick with his own deception.
It had been easier to bury himself in work and avoid all thoughts of the matter.
"I've been busy...I'm sorry." Harper offered the excuse flatly.
"I understand. I've been trying to keep myself busy too." Edward filled a basin and rinsed his hands. "Will you be going out to the Foster Estate again this year?"
"I was on my way when I came across this woman."
Edward nodded.
"Do you think you might have a few days free after that?" he asked.
"I wasn't thinking of staying there the entire month," Harper said. "Just a week or so. After that I'll be free. Why don't we plan on getting together next week?"
"I'd really like that." Edward smiled brightly for a moment, then his attention returned to the old woman.
"Older ladies shouldn't be hauled around through storms, you know? You should have sent for me. It would have been just as fast for me to come to you as it was for you to get her here to me."
"I'll remember that next time," Harper replied.
"No, you won't." Edward smiled. "You couldn't stand to just wait around for me to get to you."
As he spoke, Edward sponged the mud and water off her and then covered her with a thick cotton blanket. He left only her wounded, right leg exposed.
Harper watched as Edward laid out the tools he would need: the long curving needles, silk thread, gauze, a hypodermic needle and syringe. Harper stared at the syringe for a moment as a feeling of dread welled up through him.
"Belimai," Harper whispered, and Edward glanced up to him.
"What?" Edward asked.
"Edward, I have to go." Harper started for the door.
"What about this woman?" Edward demanded.
"I'll be back for her. Just don't let anyone know she's here with you, all right? Especially not anyone from the Inquisition." Harper knew he was asking more of Edward than he had a right to, but he had no other choice. "I have to go. They may kill him if I don't get to him first."
"Wait! Will, who are you talking about?"
"I'll explain later."
Harper bolted out, leaving his coat behind. All he could think of was that time was not with him tonight. No matter how fast he ran, no matter how brutally he forced strength into his exhausted body, the moments between life and death slipped past him.
Chapter Three
Black Nails
The rain worsened, and the packed dirt of the streets softened into a citywide bog. Harper ran hard, keeping to the raised walkways. In the street beside him, cart horses struggled to pull themselves and their burdens through the thick mud. Harper crossed the road at Butcher Street. He sank almost to his knees. The mud clung to Harper's legs and pulled at him as he fought his way forward.
Frigid rain slapped down against him. His wet clothes clung to his body, spreading the chill of wind and rain across his skin. Mud oozed through the crack in his boot heel. If he had thought about it, Harper might have noticed that he could hardly feel his fingers or toes anymore.
But he didn't think about it. Just as he didn't think of what the Inquisition men could have done if they had already found Belimai. Vivid, bleeding images flickered through Harper's mind, but he did not acknowledge them.