Liam’s fist hit so hard, he felt like his whole arm would shatter. He sucked in a quick breath, pushing the pain aside so he could jab with his other fist. One, two—three, four. His heart was racing, muscles on fire, and the tree was still standing, solid as ever. He took a step to the side, to try another angle, and his foot slipped on the half-melted ice. He started to fall, reaching out for his crutches, but all he accomplished was to send them toppling down, too.
He landed in the snow, on his back, even more of his body crying out for mercy. The sun shone through the water beading on the finer branches along the tree, creating a kind of dazzling kaleidoscope above him—or maybe he’d just hit his head. He did that a lot lately.
“We have ample bedding indoors,” said Ada, pulling on her gloves on her way to the carriage. “If you’re that tired…”
He grinned at her. “Just taking a little break.”
“Hmm,” she said, with a raised eyebrow, and left him to it.
It took him some time to roll to his side without hurting his still-splinted leg, and even longer to get to the crutches to push himself upright. The punching had been strenuous, but what really got him was walking—he was winded just moving short distances. He held onto the tree for a few moments more before making his way over to the house.
The stairs finished off whatever stamina he had left—he got inside feeling like he really needed the ample bedding Ada had been talking about. He kicked off his boots and stumbled his way down the hallway to the kitchen, where Béatrice was busy working at the counter.
“Tea?” he asked, pausing at the doorway.
“Help yourself,” she said, not looking up from her papers.
He grimaced. It wasn’t what he’d meant, but by the tone of her voice, he knew better than to push it. He limped over to the stove and checked the kettle—full enough. Ada had two sets of teacups around the house: the nice ones, for her, and the metal ones, for Liam. He had developed a bad habit of breaking the things that could be broken.
He leaned over, reaching past Béatrice to get one of the metal cups from the shelves—and she caught hold of his hand, twisting it around.
“Liam,” she scolded, pulling at the bindings around his knuckles, which were soaked with blood. “What did we say about fighting trees?”
“Watch the left hook?” he offered, and she scowled at him.
“You’re meant to be training, not self-immolating. It’s bad enough your leg needs to heal. We can’t have you breaking your hands, too.”
He tried to reach past her anyway, but she refused to let him. She turned him around, setting him down at the table, and unwrapped his hands. The skin was bruised and bleeding, swollen almost to the point where he couldn’t move his fingers. She grumbled to herself in French and left him for a moment while she filled a basin with water and fetched a washcloth.
“Ada’s gone again?” he asked, while she worked.
“Bowen,” she said. “Gossip hour.”
“I know she says it’s a burden,” said Liam, “but I’m fairly certain she enjoys it.”
Béatrice stopped what she was doing to deliver him a glare. “Bowen knows her father, Liam. Every time she goes there, she risks…” She blew out her cheeks. “She doesn’t enjoy it. Not even a little. But with plans like these, one must move in small increments over time. Too much too fast, and the shape of it will become too clear.” She sat down next to Liam, taking his hand in hers. “Or you might end up breaking something important.”
She dipped his hand in the water, letting it soak first.
“Are you calling me important?” he asked with a grin.
She stared at him, dead-faced. “Your hands are important.”
He laughed, then winced as she wiped his wounds clean with the cloth. “What are you working on?” he asked, nodding toward the papers on the counter. “The bakery?”
“The escape route,” she said.
“You’re over-thinking things,” he said. “You can’t predict how and when—”
She pushed down on his knuckles a little harder and he hissed in pain. “When it happens,” she said patiently, “and everything is going wrong at once, you will be glad I planned it all out ahead of time.”
He let her take his other hand. “So which door will he come in? The front?” he asked, like he was teasing her, but also genuinely curious to hear her theories.
She recognized the sass, and ignored it. “The back,” she said. “But the front will be guarded.”
“Ah, smart,” said Liam. “But what if he just sets the whole place on fire like the—” He saw the look in her eyes and blanched. “Oh Hell, Béatrice, I’m sorry. I didn’t—”
“It’s fine,” she said, letting go of his hand and starting to back up—but he caught her hands in his and held them tight.
“You still having nightmares?” he asked quietly.
She shook her head, slightly. “You?”
He met her eyes, and was surprised to see there were no tears this time. The moment lasted longer than either of them expected, and when they both pulled away, like they’d done something illicit, sitting in each other’s company for the thousandth time since that night Maggie had left them to put the pieces back together.
“I should go and…” he said, starting to stand.
“Yes, my plans won’t plan themselves, so—”
She stood, straightening her dress just as he put too much pressure on his bad leg, and stumbled forward. She caught him, arms wrapped around to keep him from falling—
—and their faces met, cheek to cheek.
Liam turned his head slightly, and she did, too. The question had been there, hanging between them, for weeks. The tension every time she came close, every time he walked into the room and she stood a little straighter, every time their eyes met at dinner. And in the dozen heartbeats it took Liam to find his nerve, that tension built and built and built until it was undeniable, and there was only one thing to do.
“Béa—”
She kissed him.
It took a second for the shock to wear off, and then he kissed her back, pulling her closer, breathing her in as her hands moved around his body for something more than medical necessity and he—
“Wait,” he said, pulling back, her mouth searching for his, hungrily. “Wait…” he repeated, though he really wasn’t sure he wanted to. “Is this wise?
“Since when are you wise?” she asked, tugging at the front of his shirt to open it.
“No, I mean…you took care of me when I was injured, so maybe we’re confusing those feelings with—”
She kissed him again, wrapping her arms around his neck, and pulled herself even closer. His hands floated off her back for a moment unsure what to do.
“Are you confused?” she whispered, eyes staring deeply into his.
Their mouths met again, and his hands found their purpose.
Liam checked Béatrice’s bruised eye again. He seemed pained by the sight of it, fingers hovering near, but not touching, like he thought it might sting him. “You’re sure you’re alright?” he whispered into her ear.
She nodded. She patted his hand, kissed his cheek. “Well enough,” she said.
Liam glanced over at Sophie, who was huddled in the corner. She hadn’t slept at all, and now, nearing noon, she seemed like an undead wretch, staring out at the rain, hollow eyes the only thing about her that moved at all anymore.
“And her?” he whispered.
“I’ll handle it,” Béatrice replied, even quieter.
Liam seemed painfully unsure. “How much does this ruin your plan?”
She glared at him. “I’ll adapt.”
He saw the venom in her expression, and backed away carefully, taking his leave out into the rain. The door closed behind him, and Béatrice heard him clunk down the steps in his leather-soled shoes.
Neither she nor Sophie said anything for a few minutes. They listened to the pelting on the windows, the shudder as the wind blew past, and the low rumble of thunder somewhere off in the distance. The storms in Bytown were intense and treacherous, but only if they hit just right. If not, all you got were rumours of deluge, and the bone-dry dustiness returned within a day.
“How will you handle me?” asked Sophie, in French, voice more a croak than a sound.
Béatrice shifted in her seat so she could face the girl. “How long were you in the bakery?”
“I didn’t know anyone lived—”
“That’s not what I asked,” said Béatrice, not unkindly, but with no room to give.
Sophie, eyes still locked on the window, sniffled a little. “My father stood watch by the door, that whole night,” she said. “Had a kitchen knife in his hand. Held so tight his knuckles turned white.”
She demonstrated the pose, hand and arm tensed so tight it was like they might snap apart from the pressure.
“I didn’t…I didn’t understand why, at first. I thought he was afraid those two…the two…they…”” She shook a shuddering breath. “That they might come back to finish what they…”
Béatrice felt a dizzying pity for the girl. Not just because she’d survived, but because her life would forever be darkened by the shadow of the memory of that night. Even when she forgot the details—if she could be that lucky—she would still remember the terror. And she would never truly be at peace.
“Then I realized,” she said. “He wasn’t afraid of them. He was afraid of the others. That as long as I lived under his roof, he would never be able to put down that knife. So I left. I didn’t tell anyone I was going. I just ran until I found a building that seemed empty enough that I…”
She looked Béatrice right in the eyes. “Who are you?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter,” said Sophie. “You…he…you saved me. Why??
“You needed saving,” said Béatrice. “Isn’t that enough?”
“No,” said Sophie, certainty building. “There are no saints in Bytown. Why did you save me?”
Béatrice could see the look in the girl’s eyes—she was hunting for more than just a simple explanation. She was trying to find the unpleasant truth that made everything make sense. The unsavoury secret that turned Liam from a hero to a villain, because villains were all she knew anymore.
If she gave a trite answer, Sophie might give up asking, but she wouldn’t be convinced. And that would be a problem, because once this was all done, everyone involved had to pretend it had never happened. The plan only worked if there was no one to focus on its structure. If Sophie smelled a lie, she would go looking for answers some day, and those answers would unravel the whole thing, and put them all in danger.
Béatrice needed an answer that felt too awful to be a lie. An answer that tasted like the truth.
“He lost someone,” she said. “Do you remember the fire, in the winter?”
“The Irish?” asked Sophie.
Béatrice nodded. “Someone…special to him. She was killed. Caught up in…” She shook her head like it was too much to explain, and it was. “She died, and he blames himself.”
“Did he cause it?” asked Sophie.
“No.”
“Did they argue?”
“No,” said Beatrice, and then cut off the next question with: “Grief doesn’t care about what makes sense. He still thinks he could have saved her if he’d just been stronger, been smarter, been faster…”
Sophie looked at her with pure innocent hopefulness in her eyes. “Could he have?”
“No. Some people are beyond saving.”
The rain kept coming down, but Sophie turned away from the window. “He saved me because I remind him—”
“He didn’t save you. He wasn’t there to save anyone. He was there to hurt them.”
“Those two—”
“Any two,” said Béatrice. “Anyone. Himself, maybe.”
“Because he still loves her,” said Sophie, and Béatrice flinched, said nothing. Sophie noticed it, and frowned. “And you love him.”
“It’s…”
“I’m thankful he was there,” said Sophie. “Truly, I am. But part of me wishes…” She was struggling with the words, with the emotions behind the words. “Part of me wishes he hadn’t saved me. Because no matter the reason, he only really saved me partway. And now I have to figure out how to live with what’s left.”
The words stung, because they were too true. Béatrice wanted to assure her that it would be alright, that soon Aylen and Shiners wouldn’t be a threat to her, that life would get back to normal just as soon as they finished their plan. But all those sentiments were too full of things that Sophie couldn’t know, so instead Béatrice said:
“He won’t let anyone hurt you.”
Sophie gestured toward her own eye. “Like he did with you?”
The door opened again and Liam came in, soaking wet, but with a growing smile on his face. “Good news,” he said. “The rain’s letting up. Should be safe to try—”
Béatrice shot him a warning glare: no specifics in front of the girl! Liam corrected himself awkwardly: “Should be safe to go out again tonight.”
Sophie stared at him with confusion and worry. “Aren’t you afraid?”
Liam wasn’t exactly sure what she was referring to, but was smart enough not to show it, at least. He shrugged. “Some things are more important than fear.”
“You should get some rest,” said Béatrice, standing up. “We all should. It’s been a long night and—”
“Mr Kelly!” said Ada, coming down the stairs with a deep frown on her face. “Wipe your feet before stepping on my rugs, if you please!”
Liam winced, started pulling off his shoes. “Sorry. I forgot.”
“Just look at the mess you’ve made. It will take forever to clean that—” Her face changed in an instant: concern. “Oh no.”
Béatrice hurried over. “What’s wrong?” she asked, joining Ada next to Liam, who was just as confused as ever.
Ada pointed at the muddy footprints on the rug by the door. “His shoes,” she said.
Béatrice didn’t understand. “What about—”
“No heel. Soft sole. Not a soldier’s boot.” She pointed at the shoe in Liam’s hand. “It will still be muddy enough that footprints will be made, and if they don’t match the button…”
“Aylen will know something’s wrong,” Béatrice hissed under her breath.
“We have to postpone,” said Ada, bitterly.. “Again. I just pray the circumstances will hold long enough to—”
“No,” said Liam, certainty building. “No, we’re delaying any more. It has to be tonight.”
Béatrice knew Ada was right, and Liam’s stubbornness would just make things worse. “It can’t be tonight,” she said. “We’ll find another—”
“Don’t worry,” he said, pulling his shoe back on. “I have an idea.”