The sheets on the bed were a mess, but hadn’t been slept in for some time. Béatrice came back into the room, breathless, as Ada stepped out of the closet, face stricken with worry.
“She’s not in the house,” said Béatrice. “But I swear I didn’t hear her go out, so how…”
They both turned to the wide-open window. Ada held up a finger to Béatrice—it wasn’t safe for her to be seen—and hurried there to check. Right outside the window was a short drop to the carriage bay’s roof. It would have been a bit of a stretch, but if Sophie had been determined, she could have made it without making a sound. From there, the decorative trellis would have made it easy to get to the ground.
“She ran,” she said, pulling her head back inside.
Béatrice moved to her side, careful not to be seen. “But why? Where would she go?”
“I don’t know,” said Ada, looking north toward—
She frowned. “What’s got into him?” she asked, watching one of the redcoats who’d guarded her running like a madman up the hill, off toward Lowertown. “Where is he going?”
Béatrice had the idea first; she ran back through the house, out to the bedroom at the south-east corner, and pulled open the curtains to see: “Ada!” she shouted, terror lacing her voice. “Ada!”
Down at his post, the second of the four redcoats was crumpled in a heap, a pool of blood seeping into the dirt around him. Béatrice leaned out the window, trying to see off to the right, but she couldn’t spot the other guards. Why couldn’t she spot the other guards?
“Béatrice,” said Ada, at the door, like she was in a daze. “B-Béatrice…”
“One of the guards is dead,” said Béatrice, trying to see out to the left.
“Three of them,” said Ada, vacantly. “Three of them are dead.” Béatrice turned to her, eyes wide, realizing what was happening. “We have to hide. We have to hide now!”
Liam moved as fast as he could through the alleyways spreading out from the Crowley house, but it was a mess from the moment he stepped outside. He was used to moving under cover of darkness, and somehow the sun in the sky made things look different enough that he kept making wrong turns, ending up in dead ends and having to turn back and try again.
Worse still, there were soldiers everywhere. Béatrice had warned him this would happen—and if he’d listened to her, he would be safely locked away inside Ada’s house—but he hadn’t appreciated just how many redcoats would be swarming the streets. It made moving incredibly difficult, especially with his leg aching the way it did.
He cut through someone’s yard, avoiding eye contact as they glared at him through their window. They were afraid he was going to bring trouble to their doorstep, and given his recent history, they weren’t wrong to worry.
He got to the edge of Rideau Street, as far east as he could be without being exposed. It was a quick dash across, then straight on to Ada’s. The biggest trick would be the “quick” part. He smacked his leg with a fist, trying to loosen the muscle.
“Alright,” he said to himself. “You can do this.”
He checked to be sure there were no soldiers in the vicinity to see him, and then took a bracing breath and sprinted as best he could into the open.
“You there! Stop!” came a voice from off to his right, but he ignored them and kept moving.
“Someone stop that man!” shouted another voice, and Liam forced himself to limp even faster. He was almost into the brambles across the street. Just a little farther and he would be—
Someone tackled him, hard. He hit the ground so hard his shoulder cracked, and suddenly he was pinned on his stomach, boot on his head, holding him in place.
“Where do you think you’re off to?” said the soldier who’d got him. “There’s a curfew in effect, you know.”
Liam tried to pull back his English accent, hoping he might be able to confuse them just enough to leave him be. But when he spoke, he knew in an instant he’d done it wrong, and sounded more Irish than ever: “Apologies, sir,” he said. “I’m just on my way home, down south. Nothing to…”
Someone kicked him in the side, and he bit back a cry as he was wrenched to his feet, held tight by both arms. The soldier who’d tackled him gave him a menacing grin. “Breaking curfew and lying to a duly appointed officer, hmm? You’re in for a very rough day indeed, my friend.”
“But I’m just—”
He was hit across the face so hard he saw stars.
“No one breaks curfew, boyo. No one.”
The soldiers dragged an Irishman away, and though the street seemed clear enough, Montferrand didn’t move from his hiding spot. He pointed out across the way, down south, and whispered to Sophie: “That way? You’re sure?”
She nodded. “Down a hill, all alone. You can’t miss it.”
He set a hand on her shoulder, smiled warmly. “You’ve done well, my dear. François will get you somewhere safe now.”
“But—” she said.
“Your part is done,” he said. “Where we go next, you do not want to come. Trust me.”
She only had an inkling of what he meant by that, but she knew better than to ask more. François gave her a polite bow and led her back north, giving Montferrand a wink for good luck as he left.
Another man in a blue shirt emerged from the alley nearby, checking all around like he was certain he was about to be caught. He hurried up to Montferrand. “I think your message came in wrong,” he whispered. “You said you’ve found the one who killed the Shiners?”
Montferrand nodded, eyes still locked on the street, looking for a way across. “That’s right.”
“Is this really the best time to be throwing a parade?” joked the blue-shirted man, and Montferrand shot him a warning look.
“We’re going to arrest him,” he said. “And turn him over to the English.”
The man frowned. “To the English?”
“Bowen says we cannot be trusted to manage our own affairs, and he’s not wrong. If we want to keep our freedoms, we need to act like we deserve them.” He pointed south, off to where Sophie had come from. “If we bring this vigilante to justice—without bloodshed—he might even do better than that. We might get to control Lowertown for ourselves.”
Aylen heard the sound of shouting in the streets, and by the time he got to the door, a mob was passing the tavern, shouting angry slogans calling for the ouster of the English tyrants. The soldiers at the periphery were scrambling to stay ahead of them—but out of their way—as they marched west toward the market, where they would almost certainly be met with a storm of musket fire. It would be a bloodbath, and worse yet, he knew he would be blamed for it.
The people inside the tavern were itching to join the kin outside, and he knew he couldn’t stop them. There was only one way to keep things from spiraling out of control…
He burst out the door, running down a side street to get ahead of the mob. A pair of redcoats saw him coming and aimed their weapons, but he didn’t slow down. “I need to see Bowen!” he shouted as he approached. “Hurry, you fools! Hurry!”
Whether it was the crowd nearby, or just the force of Aylen’s personality, they did as they were told, and ran alongside as he dashed down Sussex, just seconds before the mob turned the corner a block behind him.
The soldiers at Bowen’s camp were ready, and had made a defensive line with their rifles loaded and aimed north. He could see them adjusting their sights as he approached, but he didn’t slow down one bit.
“Don’t shoot!” he called. “Stand down!”
Bowen came through the line, a bemused grin on his face. “Stand down?” he laughed. “You’re not in charge here, Aylen. I am.”
Aylen, out of breath, finally came to a stop. “I can talk them down,” he said. “Just give me a chance, and I can talk them down.”
“Talk them down from what?” asked Bowen. “Insurrection? Because despite what you may believe, Mr Aylen, taking up arms against the King is treason, whether or not you follow through.”
Aylen could hear the crowd approaching behind him, getting louder by the second. The redcoats who’d escorted him were long gone, giving him no protection, no reason for the English to hold back at all. “They’re not rebelling,” he said. “They’re just—”
“They’re animals, is what they are,” said Bowen, taking a step back, out of the line of fire. “You had your chance to tame them, sir, and you failed. Whatever happens next is not my fault, it’s—”
The hatch to the cellar was in the back of the pantry, behind a stack of crates. Béatrice stepped down carefully, trying to find her footing in the darkness, as Ada held her hand to keep her balanced.
“It’s a dirt floor,” said Ada. “A crawlspace, really. Just head to your left and you’ll be…” She trailed, off, and Béatrice turned to see why.
“What is it?” she asked. “What’s wrong?”
“The pistol. I forgot the pistol in my bedroom.”
“Leave it,” said Béatrice. “We don’t—”
“If they find us here, there’s nowhere to run,” said Ada, letting go of Béatrice’s hand. “We need it.” She started to close the hatch.
“Ada, wait!” said Béatrice, stopping it from sealing her in. “Please. Leave it.”
“I won’t be a minute,” said Ada. “Hide well. I’ll be right down.”
She closed the door on further objections.
Out through the kitchen she went, pausing every few steps to see how well she could hear Béatrice below. The truth was somewhere between “far too well” and “not at all”, which only made the pistol all the more vital.
She got down the hall, pausing one last time to be sure…but no, nothing. Béatrice must have found a good place to settle.
Ada started up the stairs, walking as quickly and quietly as she could, until—
There was a creak behind her.
She stopped, halfway up, and turned.
There, standing at the parlour door, was a ratty, blood-soaked man with a long knife in his hand. She grinned at her with rotting teeth, and flipped the knife around back-handed.
“Miss Ada, I presume?” he said, and she ran for her life.
The crowd was so loud, they were deafening, as Aylen stood between them and certain death, waving his arms to get them to stop. “Friends!” he shouted, voice going hoarse. “Friends, please!”
The mob wasn’t stopping, and the soldiers just behind him were fixing their aim, ready to let loose a first volley that would end a great many lives—including his. He heard the firing commanders shouting orders, heard a sea of clicks as their rifles prepared for the fateful pull…
“Stop!” he screamed at the Irish. “God damn you all, stop!”
The people at the front of the crowd heard him clearly, and slowed just enough that the rest of them paused, too, wondering what was going on. Their fury wasn’t gone—not at all—but they were curious what shape Aylen’s fury would take.
He had to find the right words, or this would end in disaster. He had to twist things just right. He opened his mouth to speak when he heard a voice calling out, somewhere behind him:
“Captain Bowen, sir! You have to hear this!”
Aylen turned, trying to see what was going on. A trio of soldiers were coming in from Rideau Street, dragging a man between them as they hurried into the camp. Aylen couldn’t see who it was, or what was happening. The firing squad wouldn’t let him past, so he had to take the long way around.
By the time he finally got close enough, he heard Bowen’s voice crackling with anger and concern. “If you’re lying to me, sir…” he warned.
“I’m not lying,” said a voice Aylen recognized, but it wasn’t until he got two paces closer that he could see why…
“Kelly?” he gasped, and Liam glanced over his shoulder, wincing.
Bowen’s face hardened. “Kelly? I thought the Kellys were all dead.”
“S-so did I…” said Aylen, trying to make sense of it. “How did you—”
“Captain Bowen, sir,” said Liam, loud enough to cut through the confusion. “We can do all this later. But if we don’t move fast, Ada Honeywell is dead.”
A few minutes earlier, Béatrice had heard Ada walking overhead, and starting up the stairs. Then, without warning, she’d heard Ada and someone else racing up and beyond earshot, and desperate cries from somewhere far above.
It had taken her some time to find her way back to the hatch, and to figure out how to open it from the inside. But once she got it, she climbed up and out into the pantry again, scrambling for the kitchen as fast as she could move.
She snatched a long, sharp knife off the counter as she passed, walking with focus and determination that she hoped would drown out her terror when the time came.
The house was silent, but she knew that was because everyone in it was staying still, waiting for the others to make their move. She held the knife tight, inching down the hallway on the way to the stairs.
She paced her breathing, nice and slow, trying to hear everything, sense everything, be ready for anything that—
A hand reached out from the dining room and grabbed her wrist, twisting hard until her knife fell from her hand. She tried to break free, but found herself being tossed around like a rag doll. She hit the dining room wall, knocking a painting to the floor with a loud crash.
Her arm was pinned behind her back, as her captor leaned in close.
“Hello, mademoiselle,” he said in French. “Monsieur Montferrand would like a word with you.”
Béatrice gasped, the tension breaking in an instant, because if Joseph Montferrand’s men were here, at least they wouldn’t be killed. He was a tough man, but not a murderer. So—
A thought came to her. A memory. The three dead guards outside.
She gasped, trying to shout a warning, but before she could, the Canadien let go of her hand and grunted in pain, spinning around with his club with a wild attack that crashed into the dining table—and not his intended target, Cedric Sisk.
Béatrice saw him standing there, knife dripping blood, the Canadien’s shirt soaking through fast, and her eyes shot to the stairwell. The distance between here and there, and beyond. Sisk knew what she was thinking, and grinned at her, daring her to try.
The Canadien stumbled sideways, his life fading fast, but was unwilling to die so soon. He dragged his club around, steadying himself to face off with Sisk, and spat blood onto the floor.
“You don’t scare me, you Irish bastard,” he said in French.
“Don’t know what yer on about,” said Sisk. “But whatever it is: yes I will.”
The Canadien swung hard, and Sisk ducked to the side just in time. He slashed with the knife, but missed, and got a fist to the face before he could recover. The two of them tumbled to the ground, scrambling in close quarters—
—and Béatrice ran for her life.
The attic was unfinished and next to impossible to navigate, with so many open gaps and rusted nails jutting out this way and that. What little light there was came from a crack in the siding at the far end of the space, near several years of birds’ nests littering the crossbeams below.
It had taken all Ada’s concentration to latch the door closed, to walk across the attic to the gap in the siding, trying not to fall through the ceiling below, desperate to avoid making a sound that would tell Sisk where to find her. It had been a miracle she’d made it this far, and she would not fail now.
She reached the wall and pushed at the crooked wood panels, trying to break them free. Outside, it would be a decent fall to the ground, but she knew she could survive it. She wouldn’t survive Sisk.
She braced herself and pushed on the wood with every ounce of strength she had, and heard it creaking from the pressure, starting to give way—
Something scraped against the door into the attic, across the way. She froze, holding her breath and turned to see—
She slipped. Her hands flailed, trying to catch hold of something, but it was too late. She crashed down on the crossbeams, and cried out as one of the stray nails impaled her.
The Canadiens were standing over their dead comrade’s body, his throat slit end to end, when they heard the thump from upstairs. They tightened their grips on their weapons and ran straight up the stairs, trying to see—
The first one took a knife to the chest so suddenly, he fell straight back down the stairs, knocking one of his friends clear off his feet. They both hit the floor with sickening cracks, leaving just two more to face off against the preening Sisk, looking down at them with his face coated in red, the whites of his eyes shining through like shards of pure evil.
“Come on, lads,” he said. “Let’s see who really owns this town.”
Béatrice was halfway up the trellis at the side of the carriage bay when someone caught her foot and held tight. She tried to kick free, but the grip was too firm, and she couldn’t—
“Come down from there,” said a deep voice, in French, and she looked down to see Montferrand standing there, face knotted and grim.
She shook her head at him. “My friend is in danger,” she said.
“We’re all in danger, because of you,” he said. “What were you—”
“They had to pay!” she said. “They had to pay for what they did to—”
He pulled her foot so hard, she came crashing down onto the ground beside him. The fall stunned her, but the way he’d done it hurt even more. He saw her as his enemy, and whatever pain she felt was not his concern. That was a dangerous place to be.
“You will answer for your crimes,” he said. “And with any luck, save the rest of us from suffering any more.”
“Monsieur Montferrand,” she said, getting to her knees. “Please, I have to—”
She froze at the same time he did, because the smell was unmistakable: smoke. Béatrice’s heart stopped as she turned to see the ground floor of the building ablaze, the flames growing more intense by the second.
Montferrand mouthed a prayer, rushing for the door. “Get clear!” he shouted back to Béatrice. “Whatever you do, don’t—”
But when he looked back, she was gone.
Ada could tell she was bleeding, but didn’t know how much, or how long, or how badly. Her head hurt more than she could fathom, and strangely, she thought she smelled smoke, felt heat. She blinked, trying to remember where she was and what was happening…but when she moved, the nail jabbing into his abdomen held her back, and made her scream.
“Ada!” shouted Béatrice, somewhere below. “Ada, hurry!”
Ada tried to call out, but couldn’t find the space in her lungs anymore. The nail was holding her in place, keeping her in place, even as she heard Béatrice trying to push the door open on the other side of the attic.
“Ada!” yelled Béatrice again. “Ada, you have to hurry!”
Sisk pulled the knife from another Canadien’s eye, and kicked the body down the stairs with the others. The smoke downstairs was getting heavy, and the flames creeping closer to the dead men. He could smell flesh cooking, and it made him smile. He wiped his blade on the side of his trousers—
—but then paused at the sound of thumping, somewhere nearby.
He followed the noises down the hallway, into a small bedroom, where Béatrice was standing on a chair, pounding away at the ceiling—at the trap door to the attic—like her life depended on it. She didn’t even notice him standing there until he laughed, and she froze, and almost fell from shock.
“Hello again,” he said, flipping his knife around.. “You and I have unfinished business.”
“As do we,” said a voice to his side, and a heavy fist crashed into his face and sent him flying into a wall.
Montferrand kicked Sisk’s knife away and stepped into the room with one last Canadien, blocking the exit and making the outcome all but certain. Montferrand glared at Béatrice.
“I told you to get clear,” he said.
“I know,” she said. “I’m working on it.”
Sisk shook off the dizziness he was feeling, and got back to his feet, unsteadily but still not down for the count. There was no getting past Montferrand—especially without a weapon—but it didn’t mean he couldn’t try. He had a window behind him, two enemies in front, and a nice and exposed victim to his right. All in all, not a bad state of affairs. He spat blood at the floor at the Canadiens’ feet and tipped his cap to them.
“Alright, boys. Let’s get this settled.”
He winked at the smaller man, and it set things off. The Canadien charged at him, swinging his club back to strike—
—and Sisk ducked, jabbing out so hard that when he caught the man’s lowest ribs with his knuckles, he felt them break on contact. The man tumbled sideways, straight into Sisk, who scurried aside just in time that the Canadien crashed through the window—
—and landed on his back on the ground below. The impact was so jarring, the poor fool wasn’t sure if he was alive or not, or if he could move or not. But then he heard, far above, the sounds of Montferrand fighting Sisk, and he knew he had to try.
With a terrible cry, rolled to his belly, pulled his knees up beneath him, and slowly, painfully, horribly, got to his feet. He felt two breaths from death, but he—
A pair of bullets cut through him without warning, and he swayed for a second before toppling onto his face, dead.
Out at the perimeter, near the body of a fallen redcoat, was a small army of soldiers, their rifles ready for whatever came next. Bowen checked the scene with his spyglass, jaw tensing as he settled on the dead man.
“No, that’s not right,” he said, stowing the spyglass away. “That’s a Frenchman, not Cedric Sisk. Did you lie to me, Kelly?”
Liam, still held captive by unforgiving brutes, shook his head. “No, sir. I don’t know how or…or what the Canadiens are doing, but I promise you: Ada is in danger, and unless you—”
“The building is on fire,” said Aylen, fighting to get loose from the soldiers who were holding him back. “Think, damn you! You can’t save her, even if she is still alive. Going in there is suicide.”
Bowen glared at him. “Your man Sisk is in there, too, remember.”
Aylen’s face hardened into something just shy of a scowl. “He’s not my man. Not anymore.” He pulled a hand free and pointed to the house. “All your problems are in that house. All my problems are in that house. The only things keeping Lowertown from civility are in that house!” His eyes were mad with rage. “So let it burn. Let them all burn.”
Liam couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He struggled to get free. “What? No!”
Bowen looked to Aylen and said: “I want a palace. A stone palace in the woods.”
“Lavish as the King’s,” nodded Aylen.
Bowen smiled, taking Aylen’s hand and shaking it like he was thrilled to part with his soul. Honour and decency crumbling away as they watched a houseful of people—of Ada, and Sophie, and Béatrice!—die to cement an unholy alliance.
It was too much for Liam to bear. He let out a primal scream and broke free of his captors, racing across the field toward the house.
One of the soldiers took aim, finger on his trigger, and—
Bowen pushed the gun down. “Don’t,” he said.
Aylen snarled at the interruption, as Liam disappeared inside the house. “Why the hell not?”
Bowen’s answer was calm, measured, and dispassionate. “If he dies in the flames, I can say we tried to save her.”
“And if he doesn’t?” asked Aylen. “If he makes it out alive?”
Bowen turned to his soldiers and gave his command: “Shoot anyone who sets foot outside.”