Inquisitors shouted at people to stay clear. Others barked orders to subordinates. The wheels of the water hoses and pumps chugged like train engines, and above it all the sirens continued to wail.
In their white caps and robes, the Sisters of the Order of the Flame closed around me like a wall. One of them lit a small lime torch. I flinched from the sudden brightness. A novice gently cradled my head back so that I was staring up into the sky.
I felt the familiar sting of a needle piercing my arm. The circle of Sisters closed in over my stomach. I distantly felt their fingers moving across my skin. I could hear one of them giving rapid orders, but the words themselves eluded me.
The pain and chill of my body began to slip away. I stared up into the night. High in the sky I thought I made out a thin black silhouette. A star shimmered behind her, and for a moment she seemed to flicker against the darkness like a single firefly.
I wondered if Harper saw her, or if she was looking down at him. Either way, the sight was not meant for me. I closed my eyes and let it go.
Chapter Twelve
Stitches and Alcohol
The Sisters' threads were so thin and their stitches so tiny that it was hard to imagine how they alone had barred death from my body. The scars that remained after the stitches were removed were white and faint. The one that ran up my stomach was hardly visible. Only a dull ache lingered from my broken wrist. It seemed that my body longed to erase any traces of Scott-Beck's crimes.
The editors of the newspapers had done much the same. Their stories read like a tragedies. A man of deep compassion, Albert Scott-Beck, as well as his associate, Lewis Brown, and his secretary, Timothy Howard, had perished in a terrible fire. Scott-Beck left behind a grieving wife, two children, and many friends from all walks of life. Hundreds of Prodigals held a vigil in his memory, and many attended the services in his honor.
The world, the papers said, was a darker place for his loss.
I clipped out an article, scrawled the word LIES across it, and then added it to my most recent scrapbook. I should have been immune to the sinking feeling of futility by now, and yet I wasn't. I was half-sick thinking of Prodigals weeping for a man who had murdered their children and friends. Scott-Beck was on his way to being remembered as a hero to our kind.
I wondered what Harper thought of all this, then regretted it. I hadn't seen nor heard from Harper in nearly three weeks. He had gotten what he needed of me, though I doubted it had been to his satisfaction, and now he was gone. That was to be expected. I shook my head, disgusted with my own loneliness. I had never expected things to work out with Harper. There could be nothing between us once my job was done. That was simply the way the world was. Somehow, it still cut into me deeply.
The night outside was hot and thick with insects. My rooms seemed to resound with emptiness, despite the stacks of book and papers. They were only evidence of my solitude. In any case, I was out of ophorium and had been for a day. I had to go out sooner or later.
I trudged out and wandered the streets. The darkness hung around me, but it was not enough to allow me to forget myself. I wandered farther until I found a familiar staircase. I remembered the dog's head painted on the wall and descended down into the ale house. I knew I was hoping to see Harper there, but I didn't want to admit that, not even to myself.
When I didn't find him, I couldn't just turn around and leave. It would have brought my half-recognized motivation up into brazen acknowledgment. I bought a bottle of blue gin and sat down at one of the tables far in the back of the room. The gin tasted like paint thinner. I took a long drink straight from the bottle, just to catch myself up with the other men who swayed in their seats throughout the room.
Once the gin started to erode my senses, I began pouring my-self shots and tossing them back at a more refined rate. I remembered that my mother had drunk this way right after my father had been executed. At the time I hadn't understood it.
Now, I thought that she had been a fool to ever stop.
"Belimai?"
I was a third of the way through the bottle when I heard Harper's voice.
I turned too quickly and almost looked right past him.
He looked as tired as ever, but he wasn't wearing his uniform. Instead, he had on a collarless work shirt and dark gray pants. He looked thinner than I remembered, and more pale. The strangest thing about his appearance was that his hands were bare.
"I'd offer to buy you a drink, but you seem to be well ahead of me," Harper said when I just continued staring at his hands.
I drew back slightly and studied Harper without responding. I had no idea what he was doing dressed like this.
"Would you mind if I joined you?" he asked.
"You can do as you please," I said.
"Good enough." He took the chair across from me and poured himself a shot of my gin without asking.
"I didn't think you'd be up and about so soon," he said.
"Apparently I'm harder to kill than you'd think."
Harper frowned and took another shot of gin.
"I didn't think Scott-Beck would go after you." He rolled the empty shot glass between his fingers. "I'm sorry to have done that to you, Belimai."
"It was what you paid me for." I hated the way my skin pricked when he said my name in that quiet, rough tone. I hated the fact that just an offering of a few words could make me want to forgive him.
"So, how is Mr. Talbott taking all this?" I asked, just to get off the subject.
"He's pretty broken up."
"Did you tell him the truth?" I asked.
"It wasn't mine to tell," Harper said. "Do you know what I mean?"
"I think I do, yes." I poured myself a shot and filled Harper's glass also. "It was your stepfather's secret, then Joan's. It wasn't your right to tell it to anyone." I had felt the same way about Sariel. No matter how small of a secret I had been trusted with, I had not wanted to betray it.
But, of course, I had. Harper had not.
"So, where have you been these past few weeks?" I asked.
"In questioning." Harper shook his head. "My abbot wasn't terribly happy with my ignorance as to who shot Mr. Lewis Brown and Mr. Timothy Howard. Nor was he pleased with the fact that I didn't recall your name or description."
"They didn't put you under a prayer engine?"
"No," Harper said quickly. "God, no. If they had, I don't think I could have kept my mouth shut. It was bad enough standing around naked and answering questions for days on end."
"So, what did you say?" I asked.
"I had a surprisingly poor memory of the entire matter." He smiled, but in a bitter way. "The abbot dropped the whole thing once I brought up Scott-Beck's access to Peter Roffcale while he was in custody." Harper took another shot of gin. "We finally reached the understanding that as long as I don't investigate Scott-Beck's life, the abbot won't pursue further questioning of his death."
"So, we all keep our secrets."
"For the time being." Harper ran his bare hand through his hair.
"Are these the clothes they gave you on your release?" I had thought they looked familiar.
"Indeed." Harper touched the front of his rough work shirt. "The very finest in custody-release apparel."
"So, you came straight to the bar?" I smirked.