The Timeseer's Gambit (The Faraday Files Book 2) (23 page)

“You weren’t so bad, dear,” Grandfather Thaddeus reached over to pat gently at her hand. Their story put only a year between them, but he seemed much older than her.

Grandmother Harriet laughed. “He’s very kind,” she said, affection clear in her voice. “I was a monster! But you taught me the way of things in time, didn’t you, darling?”

“You just had to learn that there are silver linings to every cloud,” he murmured.

“He made me realize that there are worse ways by far to ‘fail’ categorization than to not come out with a proficiency!” she clarified. “Unless I was immensely talented, which was rare even back then, there was no guarantee I’d be off the streets! There were plenty of memoryspinners and truthsniffers and wildwhisperers living in hovels right beside me. But we priests, we’re taken under the wing of the Gods themselves. There are laws to protect us. We’re fed and clothed by the faithful, and we’re never cold or hungry or alone.” She sighed suddenly. “Hearing what some of those other young ones who’ve passed were going through, I wish I could explain that to them. In this day and age, if you can get placed with a church, you’re the luckiest of all. There are spiritbinders, gearsetters―
valuable
workers out there who are starving on the side of the road, begging for work. It would have gotten better. For all of them.”

Chris chewed thoughtfully at a shortbread biscuit. He saw the opening. Should he take it? He swallowed and made his decision. “Like Brother Lachlan?”

“Oh, goodness, no!” Grandmother Harriet laughed. Her Elder’s shoulders shook faintly. “No, Lachlan didn’t need time or adjustment. I’d never seen someone ease so gently into the holy family. I watched Greta and Otis as Maiden and Youth, and I’ve seen my share in other families, as well. There’s always an adjustment period, a rebellious phase. Sometimes it’s short, and sometimes it lasts for years.” She gave a rueful laugh. “Like it did for me! But it wasn’t like that for Lachlan. Maybe he was furious the day he was given his card, but two years had passed before there was an opening for him, and maybe he made his peace in the interim.” The Crone sighed, stirring her tea thoughtfully. “That was a difficult day for me. Grandmother Wilhelmina had just passed and I had bid my goodbyes to Grandfather Ellert as he went into retirement. The hardest thing I’d ever done was stand at those doors and await this new Maiden and Youth. I’d only been a Crone for a day and I didn’t know what I would do, but just like Eugenia told me… the moment I saw Lachlan, I knew I would manage. He was a…” Her voice caught. There was a long moment of silence, and Grandfather Thaddeus gently patted her hand all the while. “He was special,” Grandmother Harriet finally said. “No resentment. No regret. No looking back. Lachlan Huxley lived to serve.”

“Grandmother?” There was a small voice at the door behind him.

Chris turned.

Sister Elisabeth stood framed in the doorway. Her habit was well put together, but her face was still streaked with tears and she’d clearly been sobbing. Her voice trembled and hitched as she spoke again. “Oh, I… I’m so… so sorry. I didn’t know… I heard you talking about Lachlan. I thought it was just to Grandfather. I wanted to―” She hiccoughed. She reached up, brushing tears from her cheeks. “I’ll go. I’m sorry.”

“Elisa, dear, hold a moment,” Grandmother Harriet said gently. She turned her attention back to Chris. “You have a soothing way about you, dear,” she said, reaching out to touch his wrist. “You remind me a bit of Lachlan. Do you mind taking a little walk with Sister Elisa? She’s―she’s having a difficult time, and I don’t think there’s anything I can say to her that I haven’t already.”

He’d been offered the exact sort of opportunity Olivia had sent him to find, but Chris quailed. Sister Elisabeth was almost elemental right now, a being of pure grief. His own emotions were hot wires of confused mourning. “I…” he murmured.

But what was he going to say? No? How could he be so unthinkably rude? Grandmother Harriet was taking a chance asking a young man she barely knew to walk out with someone she considered a member of her family, someone who needed a great deal of care and love right now. To refuse would be to throw that in an old woman’s face. Chris sighed, ducking his head. “Of course,” he murmured.

She smiled gratefully and he rose from his chair, setting his cup and saucer on the table between them. He dipped a small bow to the grieving Maiden. “Sister,” he said, and when she swallowed hard and nodded, he went to her.

“You’re… the Deathsniffer’s assistant,” she murmured as he drew close.

He ducked his head. “Christopher Buckley,” he introduced himself. “I was hoping that you might show me about Heart Church? My―the man who raised me attended regularly, but it was only a few days a year, for me. I’d like to see what he saw in this place.”

Sister Elisabeth blinked slowly up at him, and then took a deep, trembling breath. “Ah―of course, Mister―Mister Buckley. I-I’m Elisabeth Kingsley, but you can―I mean, that is, I’m Sister Elisabeth. I-I prefer Elisa. Please. If it isn’t trouble.”

“Of course, Miss K―” Chris cut himself off and corrected. “Sister Elisa.” He smiled ruefully as he extended her his arm. “I’m sorry. I did it, too.”

Elisabeth looked at the arm, and then over his shoulder. “I’m not permitted any… gestures of chivalry with young men,” she said faintly. “Because of my connection to my Youth. But I
am
allowed alone without a chaperon, so long as we stay on Church grounds.” She hesitated, and then turned on her heel and started out the door. Chris wanted to look back at the Elder and Crone, seeking their blessing or permission or―something. He hurried after Sister Elisa.

The moment they were in the hall together, she gripped his arm as if they were sweethearts walking out. Chris jumped. “Sister?” he asked, his voice strangled.

She looked up at him with desperation. “I don’t have a Youth right now. No one is allowed to touch me. Not even to hug me. Mother Greta was scolded for it. I need―I feel like I’m completely alone. Just drifting in the world, without Lachlan. Please, I know it’s improper. Please.”

He really should have refused. Chris swallowed, but nodded. How could he say no? Sister Elisa relaxed a bit, leaning into his side. “Of course, Miss―that is, Sister.” His cheeks burned. She was an ordained Maiden, but she was also a beautiful young woman, and she was pressed tightly up against him. As he often did, he thought of the first person he’d ever kissed―the murdered Duke Viktor val Daren. The kiss had been experienced through one of William’s seeings, but it had been as real as life. He directed his thoughts toward Rachel Albany, who he’d also kissed… in a way.

“You don’t really want a tour, do you?” Sister Elisa murmured. “Mother Deorwynn, I―ah, I’m sorry. I’m not used to―” She shook her head. “We’re not supposed to do that. Not a specific god. Especially not by name.” She shivered. “There are so many rules. Gods, who will they bring me instead of Lachlan? What if I end up like Margaret or Calum? I can’t. I can’t.” She buried her face in his arm. A sob wracked through her. Chris stood, motionless. What was he supposed to
do
?

“I…” he said faintly. “Sister―”

“He was perfect,” she sobbed, her face buried in his shoulder. They were still walking, though he didn’t know where to. She was doing all the directing, though surely she couldn’t see. “They could replace him with… with… he was supposed to be my husband. He was supposed to be with me
forever
. How could he do this to me?”

Fernand’s eyes staring straight ahead. The bathwater scarlet. The gashes in his wrists.

Chris jerked away from the priestess. He shuddered. He wrapped his arms around his middle. “Sister Elisabeth,” he said, weakly, realizing what he’d done, but unable to get himself together enough to look at her. “I’m sorry, I―”

He felt her eyes on him. He flicked his gaze to her. Her violet eyes stared at him. “You’ve lost someone?”

“Yes,” he admitted.

“You have,” she repeated. Something that looked like… like
relief
spread over her face. “Someone you love?”

So many people, Chris thought. He nodded. “My parents, in the Floating Castle. And just recently… the man who raised me.”

“The one who attended this church?” she asked. Her violet eyes were so clear and guileless.

“Yes. He… he took his own life.” The words were hard to say, even now. They felt wrong in his mouth. He hated saying them, making them true. Fernand would never have killed himself. He’d never have left Chris and Rosemary. But he had. Will’s seeing proved it.

“Ah,” Sister Elisa breathed. “And you feel like he just―left you.”

Chris could only stare at her, shocked.

She swallowed a sob. “How couldn’t you?” she asked. “I feel that way about Lachlan, and he didn’t want to die! I can’t imagine.”

He didn’t want to talk about this. None of it was useful to the investigation, and it hurt like all three hells to even consider. “Sister―” he said, and then he was rescued.

“Christopher,” a very familiar voice said. Chris turned, fighting back tears, and saw Olivia standing just down the hallway from them. His breath caught as he sighed in relief. She looked like an angel in her working class clothes with shell cameo, and her ridiculous ribbons, rosettes, and red feathered hat.

“Miss Faraday,” he breathed.

“We’re leaving. Come along, won’t you?” She turned and swayed down the hall away from them, so Chris would have to hurry to keep up.

He turned to the Maiden. “I’m sorry, I―”

She seized his hands, and she squeezed them so tightly in her own that it hurt. “Come back,” she whispered. “Please, please, please come back. I need to talk to someone. I need to―I’m so alone. I’m so alone.”

“I’ll… do what I can,” Chris said, pulling his hands from her grip and starting off after Olivia. He didn’t look back. He couldn’t. Sister Elisabeth Kingsley was a yawning whirlpool of grief, and woe be to all sailors caught in her current. He moved like he was on fire, and he didn’t stop until he and Olivia were seated back in the carriage.

“What did you find?” he asked her.

He’d meant to keep the desperation out of his voice. He’d failed. She raised an eyebrow at him and shook her head, leaning back in her seat. “What did
you
find?” she asked. “Aside from, apparently, a madwoman.”

“Nothing,” Chris said. “Nothing except what we already knew. Lachlan Huxley was a model Youth. The only cruel thing he ever did was have the audacity to be murdered.” The bitterness in his tone was not fair. He knew what grief was like. But Sister Elisabeth had put him so on edge he couldn’t help himself.

Olivia growled and turned to look out the window. “Well, I found nothing, either.” She blew out a stream of air. “That scene is impossible to reconstruct. Any evidence was washed away in the flood. I’ve never seen a less useful crime scene in my entire
life
. I really need those autopsy reports from Maris. This evening. She said this evening. I won’t be able to sleep until she mirrors, I swear.” She scratched her chin. “Maybe we could have the other three exhumed?” she mused. “I don’t know what we could find, autopsy is such a new science, but perhaps it’s worth trying?”

The thought of exhumed corpses made Chris’s stomach turn.

Olivia made a disgusted noise. “Lachlan is a key to this. Somehow. He didn’t share the flaws the others did. He wasn’t killed at night in his bed. There was clear evidence of foul play.
And
he had defensive wounds.” She waved him off before he could correct her. “
Possible
defensive wounds, yes, yes I know.” She tapped her fingers on the window ledge, staring out. The cab jostled her back and forth. Her red feather waved. “That girl…”

Chris closed his eyes tight. “Like you said,” he murmured. “A madwoman.”

“According to their categorization papers, Miss Kingsley and Mister Huxley mathematically couldn’t have known one another longer than two years,” Olivia said, reaching for said papers and flipping through them. “Elisabeth was categorized three years ago. Lachlan was two and a half. And there’s that waiting period everyone’s spoken of. And yet, grief like that…” She shook her head.

Chris shrugged, feeling awkward. Despite the unwelcome intensity of the encounter with Sister Elisa, he wished Olivia would think more kindly of her. His employer found it far too easy to look at messy emotions atop her mountain and pronounce judgement upon them. “Two years can be a long time. I’ve only know you for three
months
, and I’d be―” He cut himself off, flushing.

Olivia gave him a little grin. “Oh, why, thank you, Christopher!”

He hurried on. “And it’s more than that. They talk like they’re
really
family. It’s not just a construct to them. They…” He frowned.

He
had
learned something. But he didn’t know what. His recollections of the conversation began swarming in his mind, arranging themselves into patterns that made no sense. They rearranged, rearranged again. He furrowed his brow.

“Chr―”

He held up a hand. Olivia lapsed into surprised silence and the pieces broke apart, came back together, and then…

“Eugenia,” he said, looking up abruptly. “Calum. Margaret?”

Olivia tilted her head.

“Those―” Chris tried to remember the interview he and Olivia had conducted yesterday. More than twenty strangers crammed into that room. He flipped back to his notes. He realized now that there had been none of the discomfort in them that one exhibits in a room with strangers. They kept to their own families, but there were no searching glances, no requests for introduction. His page fell open to his notes on the whole lot of them. No “Margaret” that he could find, but Grandmother Eugenia, no surname listed, served at the Church of Eadwyr and Healfdene’s Loving Embrace. And Brother Calum Rowe was the cringing little ginger, the Youth who had served with Georgie at the Sanctum of the Father’s Sheltering Arms.

“They
know
each other,” he said.

“What?”

“Just now, Grandmother Harriet mentioned Grandmother Eugenia,” he said. “And Sister Elisa said that she didn’t want to end up ‘like Calum,’ with…” He shook his head. “With a subpar partner.” Poor Georgie. “She mentioned someone else, another Maiden, perhaps? Margaret. We didn’t meet any Margaret. Which makes three priests from
separate
churches, spread across Darrington!”