The Timeseer's Gambit (The Faraday Files Book 2) (49 page)

And then, suddenly, all at once, he did feel sorry. Terribly, terribly sorry. His eyes flew back open and he turned his gaze back to Miss Albany. He could barely look at her, he was so ashamed. “Maiden’s sigh, I’m―I really am sorry, Rachel.”

She blinked and looked away, colour on her cheeks. “You need sleep. So do I. Rosemary is probably already abed. We shouldn’t wake her. We… we’ll need to get up at dawn, take her to the station. We can’t take the train we were going to.”

“Oh,” Chris said. He wanted to protest.
No, I want to see her more. She only just got here. Don’t take her away, not yet.
But she was right. What had happened tonight had made it perfectly clear to him how stupid they’d been bringing her here. Rosemary needed to be out of town as soon as possible, because tomorrow…

“They’re going to find Livingstone guilty,” he said. Saying it out loud made the air almost shiver, and Miss Albany nodded.

“Yes,” she said. “They always were.” She sighed, raising a hand to brush flyaways out of her face. “The doctor…” She went silent for a long moment, and Chris knew what that sort of silence meant. He didn’t say anything to intrude on her grief. “I never would have made it without him,” she said finally. “Never.”

And it was Chris’s fault that he’d be gone.

They were quiet the rest of the way home. Rosemary was indeed soundly sleeping, and didn’t even stir when Chris sat beside her, kissing her forehead, holding her hand, wishing she’d blink up and smile even for a moment. This wasn’t what he imagined. He’d wanted today, tonight, to be…

He was too tired to even fill out the details of his own silly fantasy. A long day awaited him tomorrow. A very, very long day. He brushed jet black ringlets back from Rosemary’s face and smiled sadly at her. “Sweet dreams, Rosie,” he breathed.

He nearly tripped over Rachel in the hallway outside of her bedroom.

She’d stripped out of her fine clothes and was wearing a simple blouse and skirt, not even buttoned all the way to her chin, hanging loose on her. She met his eyes, and then quickly looked away.

“What is it?” he asked. His voice was a low, mumbled drone. It felt like a million years since he’d slept.

But to his surprise, she held up a deck of cards. “You wanted to play cribbage,” she said quietly. A touch of colour painted her cheeks.

Chris opened his mouth and then shut it. “I’m not sure―” he began, but despite the fact that it was most certainly not the right time or place and he might fall asleep in his chair at the table, he nodded. “That sounds… lovely.”

As it turned out, Miss Albany was quite a deft hand at the game. Or perhaps it was just that Chris was so exhausted he kept setting up ways for her to peg extra points, letting her tear off ahead of him on the wooden board. But the tension between them melted as they counted points and laid down cards and Chris’s exhaustion lulled him into an almost trancelike state.

“I don’t thank you enough,” he said quietly, staring down at a hand and knowing it was full of fifteens and not actually seeing any of them.

“For humbling you mercilessly?” Miss Albany asked with a small smile. She smelled like rotten apples. They both did. He laughed wearily.

“For putting your entire life on hold to care for my sister, far from your home,” he said.

Rachel looked away. “Mnn,” she hummed. She brushed hair from her face. Her eyes were bloodshot and his faced ached where he’d been hit with the pistol and they were both half comatose, and yet… somehow this felt more real than anything else that evening. “Darrington isn’t my home,” she said quietly. “Just a place where I live.”

“Where’s home, then?” Chris asked quietly. He stared helplessly at his cards.

“I… don’t know yet,” Rachel murmured. She looked up briefly and gave him a small, tight smile. “I’m still looking. I’ll be sure and tell you if I find it, Mister Buckley.”

“Christopher,” he reminded her.

She blinked and flushed. “Christopher,” she repeated. She reached to brush hair from her face again, though this time there was none there.

“Rosemary is better off with you in her life,” he said quietly. “And I do mean that.”

A smile quirked one corner of Miss Albany’s mouth, and for a moment Chris thought she would ask one of her cutting little questions, asking if he was sure she hadn’t irrevocably tainted Miss Buckley’s capacity for choosing footwear. But the smile melted. She looked at him across the table in the near-dark. “I have my reasons for being here,” she said. “Some of it is about Rosemary. Some of it is… about you. And some of it is about me.” She wouldn’t meet his eyes, and she cleared her throat quietly. “Now,” she said. “Do play, won’t you, Christopher? I believe you’re about to be skunked.”

Her pale face in the darkness was not pretty. He made very sure of it, considering it from all angles. And yet, he realized, he found it beautiful anyway.

In the morning, before the sun was awake, Miss Albany stood beside Rosemary on the train platform. The heat of the day was already building, but a breeze plucked at Rosemary’s travelling skirts and tried to make off with their hats. The wind was changing.

Rosemary stood on her tiptoes and threw her arms around Chris. She buried her face in the curve of his neck and held on so tightly he worried he might not be able to pry her off. “I want to stay,” she said fiercely. “I want all three of us to stay here in the city.”

Miss Albany’s face was pained in the watery light of false dawn, and Chris locked eyes with her over Rosemary’s shoulder. The governess glanced away, and Chris sighed. “I want that too, Rosie, but this was a mistake. We’re lucky nothing happened to you. Darrington may be home, but it’s―”

Rosemary released him and looked up into his eyes. “I know,” she murmured. “It’s too dangerous.”

Chris brushed a tear from her cheek. “You sound as if you actually believe that,” he said, smiling faintly.

Rosemary returned the expression. “I have to grow up sometime, don’t I?” she asked, and Chris could swear that he heard Rachel’s cadences in the words.

“Last call!” the conductor shouted across the platform, sounding very far away. “Last call for Gilton, Cardinalia, Summergrove, and Northshire!” They were the only ones there. He knew exactly who he was shooing into the train.

Chris stepped back. Rosemary sniffed, turning away from him. He wanted to reach after her, but knew better than to do so. Growing up was hard enough without someone holding you back.

“I’ll be sure to mirror,” Rachel said. They locked eyes for one long moment, and then Chris nodded and turned away, heading back to the carriage. He looked up into the sky, where the rising sun outlined a single silver cloud.

LIVINGSTONE TRIAL TODAY, CONVICTION CERTAIN TO COME.

THE GOOD DOCTOR STANDS FOR HIS EVIL DEEDS TODAY AT NOON.

DR. FRANCIS LIVINGSTONE TO STAND TRIAL TODAY ON CHARGES OF CONSPIRACY AND MASS MURDER.

hris flipped through the papers one after the other. Newsboys had been hocking them on every corner, trying to outshout one another, waving their papers like sobbing fiancées bidding farewell with hankies at a train stop. Some had pleaded for mercy for the good doctor. Some had condemned his many and heinous crimes. Most had adjusted their tune to match whatever customer walked past.

Despite all the disparate opinions espoused by editors and journalists, there was a consensus in the papers. While many of them were very sad about it, not a one tried to suggest that the doctor might be found anything but guilty.

The front door opened and Olivia sailed in. “Praise every God!” she cried, and he flipped to the next paper. “All six! There are
clouds
in the sky, Christopher!
Clouds
! It’s coming, I feel it. It’s truthsniffing hard at work! It is going to rain today and this
nightmare
will be over!”

He sensed her stop moving. Her eyes were on him. He didn’t look up.

“You’re in the Arrow,” she said cheerfully. “The Society section! And it’s
before
that ‘militant’ asking about some list of names ruined your lovely face, so that’s good news.”

It would have been the greatest news he’d ever heard as early as yesterday afternoon. He sighed now, dragging his eyes up from the paper. “I didn’t notice,” he said, but then he
did
notice Olivia. She was wearing… the very same fine, expensive ball gown she’d worn the night before. “Mother Deorwynn, Olivia,” he blinked. “Did you
change
?”

“Of course I did! What do you think I am, an animal?” Olivia pulled off her lace gloves in one smooth motion for each hand, tossing them aside like they were rubbish. “I wore my nightgown to bed like a normal woman. But I
like
this dress, and it hardly got the exposure it deserves last
night
. The dress deserves this, Christopher. Don’t take this moment away from the dress.”

“What is the
matter
with you?” Chris demanded. This was manic even for her.

She shrugged and fluttered her eyelashes at him. “I’m in a good mood! I feel this is going to be a good day, Christopher, I
feel
it.”

“Francis Livingstone is going to be sentenced to death in four hours. We all nearly died last night. The things we saw―”

“Are behind us,” Olivia said firmly. She sighed, sliding into her favourite velvet upholstered chair. “The militants took their own lives. That business with your father’s list died with them. And… well. The matter with the good doctor is most unfortunate, Christopher. I feel that quite sincerely, and you
know
I’m not a sentimental woman, but the absolute certainty of the conviction makes it… irrelevant, in a way. Can you understand that? I did what I could, but it was so far above me,
beyond
me, that I don’t even feel badly for failing.”

Chris clenched his jaw. “Do you feel badly that a good man is about to die for a crime he didn’t commit? A crime that
nobody
may have committed?”

Olivia looked him in the eye. There was a challenge there, and a bit of hurt. “No,” she said. “I don’t.”

Did he hate her for that? They stared at one another in the dim interior, and Chris sighed and looked away. No. No, the opportunity to hate Olivia Faraday had come and then gone a long time ago. She’d done her best, for him. She was only capable of what she was capable of. What more could he ask?