Ember: A prequel to Firelight Page 6

  She lifted her chin. “Because I was.”

  Martin blinked at her. “Picking pockets. You.”

  “A regular parrot, this one.”

  They both glared at Billy, who glared right back.

  Martin’s jaw was tight when he returned his gaze to Miranda. “You pick pockets. Like a common street rat.”

  Her face flushed. “Do not look at me in that way, Martin.”

  When his brows merely rose, her fists clenched. “Father made me do so. To supplement his meager income.” Martin still stared, and she ground her teeth. “We were in danger of being turned out on the streets, in danger of starving. What would you have me do?”

  “Come to me?”

  She sighed. “You can barely support yourself. And it was my cross to bear.”

  “I’d say you’ve borne in well.”

  She bristled. “If I was a martyr, I’d have come crying to you.”

  Martin’s nose wrinkled but he nodded shortly. “All right, Miranda. I understand. You had no choice.” His tone suggested otherwise.

  “Martin…”

  She stepped closer but he backed away, holding up a hand as if to warn her off. The act felt like a physical slash to her chest. “It’s all right.” He swallowed. “I… I should go.”

  It hit her then that they were supposed to meet at the church in a few hours. Every joint throbbed as her body seized in sudden fear. He would not look at her. He was walking away with stiff, uneven strides that took him back to the open window from whence he came.

  “Martin,” she licked her lips, “I’ll see you soon?”

  His stride stuttered. “Of course,” he said after a pained moment.

  He left without looking back.

  Central Mexico, March 17th 1881

  “Hey!” A rough hand shook his shoulder. “Lord Archer.

  You there?”

  Another shake.

  Archer groaned, nausea making his guts tumble and writhe. Slowly, feeling came back into his body. With great concentration, he lifted his lids. Sunlight stabbed at his eyes, making them water. He blinked, and Smith wobbled into view. The shaman was on the other side of him, his dark eyes twinkling as if the sight of Archer laid out like a drunkard was highly amusing. With an approving nod, the shaman turned and spoke a few words to Smith.

  Smith grinned down at Archer. “Quite a trip, eh?”

  A trip? Archer thought the word too benign for what he’d experienced. It had been so… vivid, intense… I love you,

  Benjamin Archer. A stab of longing hit him with unexpected force. Her.

  He swung himself upward and groaned again. A bad move, that. His empty stomach heaved. Swallowing hard, he put his head in his hands.

  “Well?” said Smith crouching beside him. “You find your answer?”

  The word tumbled out of his mouth before he could stop it. “Miranda.”

  Both his salvation and the one woman he would stay away from, because he wasn’t yet cured. But his resolve was crumbling. Come back to me, Archer. Dreams were nothing like reality. Likely, she’d run in fear of him. He’d forced her father’s hand. She was his without her even knowing it. How could he do that to her? Everyone deserved a choice.

  His chest felt heavy, aching.

  A hand touched his shoulder. The shaman squinted into his eyes and then spoke to Smith.

  “He says,” said Smith, “that you are like a hawk struggling against the wind and never getting anywhere. You resist your fate. Let go and trust that the wind will take you where you need to go. Follow the signs.”

  Archer scrubbed a hand over his face and found that he still wore his half mask. Let go? Christ, he wanted to.

  Stay away. Your presence here puts us all in danger.

  Come back to me, Archer.

  Which course was the truth? Perhaps he’d let fate decide. All he needed was a sign.

  London, May 15,1879

  Miranda was late to her own wedding, a regrettable occurrence due to the fact that Billy Finger had fussed and complained about his wounds and demanded that they be re-dressed. Rotter. Cad.

  She fought a smile. As she was entering a church, she supposed she ought to be truthful with herself and admit that part of her liked the dissolute thug. She had no idea why really, only that his frank discourse and the unapologetic way he moved through life was something she admired. Or perhaps it was the truce they had arrived at over the days in which she helped him heal.

  “What’s your name then?” he’d asked on the second day.

  “Miranda.” She tucked in a loose end of his bandage and handed him a cup of hot tea, mildly laced with laudanum.

  “Heard that bloke who was visiting you in the garden call you Pan.”

  Miranda glanced at him. “You were spying on me?”

  Martin had called on her that morning, and they’d spent a few quick moments together in the garden. The memory made her cheeks scald. If Billy Finger had been watching, she would die of mortification.

  But Billy only scowled. “How can I be spying when I can’t get out of this bloody doss?” He made a sound of disgust before looking at her again. “But I heard well enough through the open window, eh?”

  She pressed her lips together. “Pan is a nickname.”

  “Name fits.” He took a sip of tea, and his nose wrinkled. “Haven’t you got any blue ruin in this place?”

  “No. Nor would I give you any if I had.”

  They were silent while Miranda tidied the bed.

  “How long have you been a dipper?” he asked.

  “A while. My father taught me.” And hadn’t that been quite the education.

  “Don’t understand it.” He shifted, then grimaced. “You’ve this fine house. Why pick pockets?”

  She sighed. “Father owns the house but he needs to keep it. Turns out I’m good at dipping, as you call it. So I do what I can to help him.”

  She moved to go when Billy stopped her. “You’re a cut above, Pan.” His mouth twisted. “Even if I’m cursing the day I met you.”

  She’d smiled bitterly. “Thank you.”

  And now, she was late because of him.

  The skirts of her new taffeta day dress rustled in the lofty silence of her childhood church, a cold, stone building that made her footsteps echo. The sound bounced around and her breath quickened unexpectedly. Why was it so very quiet? Where was her father? Her sisters? They were to meet her at the church. Had she gotten the time wrong?

  “Hello?” Her soft call became lost to the cool air, and her heart began to pound. Where was Martin? The reverend?

  The murmur of voices caught her attention, and she followed it to the vestry.

  “Are you sure, son?”

  “Yes. I… I apologize, Reverend. I--”

  Martin’s words were cut short as Miranda stepped through the door. They faced each other for one thick moment before he gave her a smile that made the corners of his eyes go tight.

  “Miranda. You look beautiful.”

  Her fingertips had gone numb, indeed, so had her face. She could not smile back, nor look upon the reverend as he slipped out of the room. “Why are you back here?”

  It was the only thing she could think to say. To ask why he was apologizing to the reverend was to risk a cut that she feared would not heal.

  He took a hesitant step toward her, and she moved back. His face had closed against her. Cold pain shot through her chest.

  “We should get started,” she said. “Surely Reverend Spradling is waiting for us.”

  “Pan--”

  “Whatever it is, Martin, you can tell me later.” Gods, she had become such a coward. Her lower lip trembled, and she

  bit it hard.

  “Miranda,” he said softly, “I can’t do it.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I cannot—”

  “No.” She held up a hand. “Do not…” A deep breath did not help. “Do not say it, Martin.”

  His chin firmed. “I can’t marry you.”

  Her shou
lders hit the hard stone wall with a thud. She could only stare at him.

  “I thought I knew you.” His voice came from a distance, the tone of it nearly a buzz in her ears. “It turns out I never did.”

  “You know me,” she said through stiff, cold lips. Her stomach trembled. He was the only one who knew anything close to her true self.

  A spark of anger lit his eyes. “Truly?” She watched his fists clench. “I knew a thief? A woman who might kill me with one thought if I displeased her?”

  Somehow she swallowed and found the ability to move her mouth. “I would never hurt you, Martin. Never.”

  “Never,” he spat. “When have I heard that before? Right, the night after you burned down your father’s warehouse.”

  “I was ten!” She didn’t know where she’d found the strength to shout, but it felt good. Bloody good.

  “My parents lost everything they had that night!” The veins on his neck bulged. “Have you learned nothing from that?”

  “Have you?” she countered. “Or would you lay it all at my feet? You dared me to light that fire.”

  He flinched. “Aye, I did. And I would live with that, live happily with you, had you stopped your antics then and there. But you haven’t, have you?” He moved away from her with a sneer. “You lit up a man.”

  “You know why I did so!”

  Martin looked at her from over his shoulder. “Yes, let us discuss why.” He came forward. “Because you were thieving and another low-life criminal thought to follow you home.”

  Low life. Miranda ground her teeth. “I steal because I have to.”

  “Your choices are lacking in good judgment, Miranda.”

  The air about her heated. Miranda drew in a long breath and held it for a moment. But Martin must have seen something in her face, for he recoiled.

  “Even now you are tempted to fry me, aren’t you?” His face paled, then twisted with such disgust that something inside Miranda died. All the heat inside her went ice cold.

  “If you were responsible for ruining your father, would you say no to his wishes, Martin?” She swallowed. “Yes, I’ve made poor choices, but I am trying. I am trying to do right by those I love.”

  “You are a beautiful woman, Miranda,” he said. “Full of life. I might have loved you well, but I cannot live with…” A scowl twisted his features. “Do not look at me in that manner. You ruined everything… sodding hell!”

  Miranda flinched as he took a hard step toward her. His hands bunched into fists. “You’re all I’ve ever known, Miranda. Have you any idea how hard this is for me?”

  For him? Hot pressure built up behind her eyes. “You are all I’ve ever known as well, Martin. Do not end it this way.” Her breath caught. “Do not end it.”

  But he shook his head slowly. “It is you who has ended it. I want a normal life. A normal wife. I’d rather live alone, however, than live a life pretending to love a monst--”

  He ground his teeth at the sound of her sharp hiss, but then forged on as if he hadn’t just slashed through her heart with his words. “With someone I cannot trust.”

  She heard his footsteps, strong and sure as he passed her.

  “I’m sorry,” he said shortly as he got to the door.

  Miranda blinked away a veil of tears. “What about Father?” she croaked, then licked her lips. “The ship?”

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him pause, but he did not turn to look at her. “I spoke with him earlier. He has agreed to keep me on.”

  Miranda sucked in a breath. He’d told her father first? Secured a place with him? No wonder Father had made himself scarce this morning. A red haze swam over her vision, followed shortly by the scald of tears. She would not let him see her cry.

  “Get out.” She ground her teeth as the haze grew darker.

  Don’t go. Stay. Tell me you need me. Tell me you love me for me. Her insides heaved. He was leaving her all alone.

  Forget crying. She was going to be ill, all down the front of her precious pink taffeta.

  “Be well,” he said.

  Two words to end a lifetime of friendship.

  Chapter 7

  London, later in the day

  Somehow, she made it back home and up to her room.

  The moment the door closed behind her, Miranda blinked several times, pain welling up within her until she could not hold back. On a sob, she burrowed her head into her crossed arms and cried. She tried to do the deed quietly, with dignity. Only, she couldn’t quite keep it in. Her shoulders shook as sobs burst forth. Admittedly, crying felt good, a relief.

  “Are you crying?” came the cross voice of her patient from the far side of the room.

  Miranda’s head popped up. Oh, God, she’d forgotten about her guest entirely. “Yes,” she managed.

  A pair of close-set brown eyes narrowed in disgust.

  “Well don’t. It’s bloody pathetic.”

  “I am not pathetic!” She wiped her nose with her sleeve, then cringed. Stumbling a bit, she got up and searched for a proper handkerchief.

  “You are.” He struggled to rise in the bed. “Babes cry. Cryin’ don’t do nothin’ ’cept make you feel. An what’s the good in that?”

  Finding the kerchief, she gave a good blow, then glared at Billy. “Crying is a perfectly relevant action.”

  “Aye, for chavs and glocks. You a little chavy in short pants? Feelin’ sorry for what you’ve done?”

  “Not anymore.” She tossed aside the kerchief and stalked over to the bed. Billy glared up at her, the lines around his mouth white and thin. She would have to fetch more laudanum.

  He snorted as she fussed about with his pillow. “Then wha’? Have another row with yer old man?”

  She turned away. “No.”

  Unfortunately, the oaf was not as dull -witted as he appeared. “You did.”

  “Today was my wedding day.”

  Billy glanced at her fine dress, and his eyes widened.

  “Bloody hell, mot! Whatcha doin’ here? Get on with you.”

  A shaky sigh pushed through her, and she turned to face him. “I said ’was’ didn’t I?” Bloody, inconvenient tears. They threatened once more, and she took another breath. “ ‘Was’ being past tense of ’is,’ as in an event no longer occurring.”

  Billy’s face screwed up in confusion, but something must have seeped through, for his lips thinned again. “What happened, darlin’?”

  Oddly, she found herself sinking to sit at the foot of the bed. “He… the incident with you…” Miranda focused on the stitching along the quilt. “Well, it’s done. He is gone, and we won’t be married.” Desolation was a block of ice in her chest.

  The room went silent. Silence was not what she wanted.

  Silence let in conversations better left in the past. Martin’s voice rang in her ears with crystal clarity.

  “He called me a monster,” she whispered. She would not cry.

  “That worthless, bloody buggering shite.” Billy lurched as he tried once more to sit. He was too weak and fell back with a curse. “He’s only sour cuz you can fry him like fish and chips.”

  She smiled without humor. “He’s afraid of me because I can fry him into something resembling a crisp slab of whiting.” The smile faded. “Because I am not normal.” So this was what being all alone felt like. It hurt, hurt enough to make breathing a task.

  “You want me to do him down?” Billy’s eyes blazed. “I know a couple of superior punishers who’ll nobble him until he’s a stain on the cobbles, eh?”

  She stood and wrenched away from the bed. “If there’s anyone they should be… nobbling? It is you.” She turned to glare at him and found his mouth hanging open in outrage.

  “This is your fault, you know. You tried to rape me! God, I should have let you burn. I should have done it and run away with no one the wiser.”

  Her anger was a hot thing that grew within her chest.

  Martin had left her without a look back. Rotten, feckless bastard. He’
d left her all alone. Her lip trembled and she bit it hard. Damn it all, she didn’t want to cry. The little rat Billy was right, crying was for children and weak-minded individuals.

  “But you didn’t leave me, eh?” Billy’s voice was unexpectedly soft. “That’s gotta count for somethin’. Hasn’t it?” His thin brows drew together. “Not many that would save a hide as flea-bitten as mine.”

  “I should burn you in the bed now,” she muttered without heat.

  Billy laughed low. “Aye, I reckon you should. Look it,” he began, his long face going a nice shade of red, “I was a shit, right. To come at you like that.”

  She looked at him askance. “Yes, you were.”

  He sank further into the pillows. “All right, a huge shit. I’m… fuck. I’m sorry, eh?”

  Miranda sighed. “I am, too. For all of it.” Her body felt too heavy to hold up. “I’ll go get some laudanum.”

  She didn’t look at him as she made her way to the door. She’d cry in the privacy of another room and curse him for making her feel pitiful.

  “Miranda.”

  She stopped, the unexpected use of her name shocking her.

  Billy’s expression was hard and unforgiving as he held her gaze. Here was the face of the criminal, the man who’d made her blood run cold, then righteous hot in the alley.

  “We’re all monsters, luv. Each and every one of us. So happens some of us have prettier faces to hide behind is all.”

  On a train, somewhere in Maryland, United States of America, April 1881

  Bone weary and feeling oddly fretful, Archer slowly made his way by train back to New York City. He had business there that needed attending. And after that? Would he go to

  London? Or stay away? He could not decide. His world felt off, as though its axis had been tilted in the other direction.

  There were no more dreams of Miranda. No matter how hard he tried, she would not come to him.

  As a result, he almost never slept. What was the point when sleep had become a dark void? It made him angry, churlish even, that his one last pleasure was denied him.

  Damn it all, he needed her.

  His reflection flickered in the large picture window of his private passenger car as the train went through a tunnel. He closed his eyes to the sight.