Page 69 of The Last Necromancer
"Then she went and exiled herself to Paris," the general said. "Blasted woman."
"How did she know about me?" I asked. "It seems that Frankenstein had been searching for me, and she found out enough clues to point him in the right direction. How?"
"We don't know," Fitzroy said. "Nor do we know how Frankenstein learned of your existence. It's only clear that he failed to reanimate his monstrous creation on his own and realized he needed a necromancer to perform the deed. I think he's been seeking you ever since, corresponding with his friend, Mrs. Calthorn, in Paris. The first I learned about a necromancer is from her letter. It became a race to find you before he did."
I almost blurted out that I was glad he'd got to me first, but bit my tongue. For some reason, I didn't want Gillingham to hear my gratitude. I didn't want any of them to hear it. Not even Fitzroy. I didn't even like admitting it to myself.
"Mrs. Calthorn's information was out of date," Lady Harcourt said. "You haven't lived with your father since you were thirteen."
"He's not my father." I picked up my teacup and concentrated on not looking at anyone, even though I could feel their gazes on me. "I'm adopted, or so he informed me this morning."
"Adopted!" General Eastbrooke sat forward. One of the lords gasped as Lady Harcourt's hand touched my arm. "Then who is your real father?"
"I don't know."
"Did Holloway know? Did you question him, Lincoln?"
"No," Fitzroy said.
"Why not?" Gillingham snapped. "My God, man, this is of utmost importance! If the girl inherited her ability, we need to know who he is."
"Or she," Lady Harcourt added. "Lincoln, I agree with Lord Gillingham. You need to question Mr. Holloway."
"He won't tell us anything," Fitzroy said. "Questioning him will only produce lies or total silence. His state of mind is delicate, his fear absolute."
"It's unlikely he knows anyway," Lord Marchbank said. "Orphanages don't give out that information to the adopting parents."
"We won't know if Fitzroy doesn't ask." Gillingham slammed the foot of his walking stick on the floor. "To hell with the fellow's state of mind. I don't care if your questions turn him into a blathering idiot, unable to function in society. It's an oversight on your part, Fitzroy."
"Not an oversight," Fitzroy said in a voice so quiet that Gillingham's swallow was audible. "It was a deliberate decision."
"One that I protest."
"You can protest all you like. It changes nothing."
"I command you to ask him!"
Fitzroy stood, very slowly, his hands curled into fists. Gillingham lifted his chin as Fitzroy stepped closer. "You don't command me."
"I bloody well do. We all do. You work for us, Fitzroy."
"I work for England. I can also stop working for England."
Gillingham snorted. "You were born to do this, Fitzroy. It's your entire life. You won't leave."
Several moments passed, in which I expected Fitzroy to either deny it or punch Gillingham in the nose. He did neither. "If you disagree with my decision, you're welcome to question the vicar yourself."
Gillingham's gaze slid away and his hands increased their rapid rubbing over the head of his stick.
"Don't wish to get your hands dirty, I see," Fitzroy said.
Gillingham's fingers flared then closed around the knob again. He pointed his stick at me. "I wager her real parents were sewer rats, just like her. Breeding always reveals itself in the end, you know. Bad blood breeds only more bad."
Fitzroy's knuckles turned white.
"I'm famished," I said quickly, rising. "Unless I'm needed, I think I'll find something to eat in the kitchen."
Seth set down his tea. "I'll escort you. Gus?"
