Page 46 of A Murder on London Bridge
“Milady…” Her voice was a whisper, a ghost of itself.
There—at the far end of the single room, slumped against the wall. Her gown was torn, her hair tangled, and her arms bound cruelly behind her. Blood marked her mouth and temple. When she lifted her head, one eye was nearly swollen shut.
Whoever had done this to her, I swore they would pay. I took one step forward before I heard the scrape of a boot behind me.
And in that instant, I knew. The boy had led me into a trap—exactly where they wanted me to be.
I turned, every nerve alert.
He stepped from the shadows—a tall man in a dark coat, the edges of it ash-dusted. His cravat was loosened, as though civility itself had melted in the heat. Only his eyes remained cool.
Parquier.
“Lady Halloran.” The name rolled from his tongue as if it amused him. “How good of you to come.”
I tasted smoke and iron. “You have no business with my maid. Let her go.”
He gave a small, elegant shrug. “Ah, unfortunately, she knows too much. Same as Lady Margaret.”
“You murdered her.”
“The girl had the misfortune to see what she should not. And you, I think, have read what you should not.” His glance flicked toward my empty hands. “Where is it? The journal.”
So that was it. The book. Different from the one that brought me to this time and place, but still—a book with secrets.
Before I could say anything, the boy shifted, uneasy.
Catching the motion, Parquier smiled faintly. “You have been paid, have you not? You may go.” The boy fled without a word, the door slamming behind him.
I forced myself not to flinch. “You’ll gain nothing by harming us. The Queen is safe. Whatever you meant to do, it's finished.”
“Finished?” He laughed softly, a sound with no mirth. “Nothing is finished, my lady. The fire has given us new beginnings. Some men will burn, others will rise from the ashes.” He took a step closer, the boards creaking beneath his boots. “You could rise with me. Give me the journal and walk away alive.”
Anne moaned faintly. The tremor of her shoulders, the blood streaming down her face, worried me. If she didn't get help soon, she might not survive. I couldn't allow that to happen.
I drew myself up, though my heart was pounding hard enough to bruise my ribs. “You mistake me for a woman who bargains with traitors.”
“Not traitors,” he said smoothly. “Visionaries.”
“Then your vision is hell itself.”
His smile thinned. “Enough! Search her!” he barked to someone who’d slithered into the room behind me.
Before I could turn, heavy arms pinned my wrists and bound them with rough leather. The man who held me reeked of sweat, dirt, and sour ale; his breath was a hot, animal thing against my neck.
Turning me as if I were a parcel, he raked through my skirts, shoved his fingers into hidden folds, and prodded theseams of my bodice. My face burned—not from the fire but from humiliation and fury. When his fumbling hands came away empty, he spat as though at a dog.
“She hasn’t got it,” he grunted, his voice thick with disgust. “The bitch hides nothing.”
Before Hollingsworth and I had left Whitehall, I’d secreted my pocket’s contents in the chapel.
Another of Parquier’s men—a smaller fellow with a piggish mouth—stepped forward and struck me across the cheek. Pain flared hot and white, and the taste of copper filled my mouth. I swayed but did not cry out.
“Tell him!” the brute hissed in my ear. “Tell him where it is, and you might keep your life.”
I lifted my chin, blood and spit at the corner of my mouth, and met Parquier’s cold, narrow gaze. “You will gain nothing by killing us,” I said, though my voice felt small.
He gave a short, mirthless laugh. “But I will—unless you cooperate.” His mouth curved in slow amusement. “Tell me where you’ve hidden Margaret’s journal.”
