He rose to his knees, scraping against the uneven cobbles. Pain radiated with every movement, throbbing along his jaw, down his shoulders, and through his back. The alley seemed impossibly narrow, and the shadows oppressive. His fingers, raw and trembling, rested against the cold stone, grounding him as he forced himself upright.
Pain throbbed with every step as he hobbled from the alley. His boots were scraping against wet cobbles, echoing unnervingly in the empty street. His mind was already racing, planning, imagining the steps to follow, calculating the urgency of every next action.
Though bruised and shaken, Owen’s heart burned with a resolve fiercer than any fear: no shadow, no whip, no act of malice would prevent him from setting things right. And there was only one place he could do that from.
***
“Aurelia …” Owen’s voice was hoarse, strained, and barely above a whisper, when the door opened.
Aurelia gasped. “Owen!”
Her hands flew to her mouth as her eyes took in him: his face bruised, blood streaking his cheek and temple, his shirt dirtied from the alley. For a moment, he felt utterly lost, as though the world had tilted and left him behind.
He staggered forward, and without a word sank into the nearest chair in the hallway, feeling his shoulders slumping. The faint tremor in his hands betrayed the shock and pain that ran through him.
Although seemingly shocked to her very core, Aurelia moved into action without hesitation.
“Send for Captain Harrow and a physician at once,” she commanded the nearest servant girl. She spoke softly, as always, but with the unmistakable edge of authority that left no room for debate. “And someone to bring tea. Quickly.”
The footman hurried away, and Aurelia turned to Clara, who had burst into the room, with her eyes wide with alarm.
“What can I do?” Clara asked breathlessly.
“Fetch water,” Aurelia told her firmly, “and some clean clothes. Be swift, Clara.”
Once they were gone, Aurelia knelt beside him. The movement was small and deliberate. The warmth of her presence brushed against him like sunlight.
“Let me see,” she murmured. Her hands were gentle but sure, tilting his head slightly to examine the blood along his temple.
Owen winced at the touch, but he did not pull away. “The alley … the man … he …” His voice faltered, and the words got stuck in his throat.
“Shh,” she said softly, pressing a cloth to his face. “You are safe now. That is all that matters.”
“I … I did not see him at first,” he admitted, wincing as she dabbed at the blood along his temple. “I thought it was merely a passerby in an alley, until … until the whip.”
“You mean he had the audacity to attack you in an alley?” Aurelia gasped, though her hands were steady. She pressed the cloth gently against his cheek. She paused then, and he knew what she was going to ask even before she did so.
“The statement,” he managed to muster. “He … took it.”
Aurelia’s breath caught, but she didn’t say anything.
“I … I tried to keep it safe,” he told her quietly. “I had it close, pressed against my heart. I could not have expected …” His words faltered, and he bowed his head, while his eyes were glinting with a mix of pain and helplessness.
Her hand paused, hovering over the cloth. “It’s … it’s alright. We can have Carter write another. It will take time, yes, but—”
“No,” Owen interrupted grimly. He clenched his hands against his knees, as though bracing himself against the truth. “Carter will not speak in person. He’s leaving Greenwich for good. Everything we’ve fought for … it’s lost.”
Her gasp of shock was almost unbearable, even through his haze of pain. Owen felt her tremble against him as she resumed tending his wounds, but he could sense the sharp ache of fear and despair that mirrored his own. The world seemed suddenlyhollow, the months of careful planning, all their hopes, slipping like sand through his fingers.
But as he felt the gentle press of her hands, a thought cut through the despair. If Langley had sent someone to strike and steal the statement, to threaten and attack him in an alley, then the man had to be frightened. He knew they were close. He knew they had something. That meant their work had mattered, even if the proof had been temporarily taken.
“It’s still not too late,” she told him, as if able to read his mind. “We can’t let it go to waste. There might still be time.”
He looked at her, the heat of blood and bruises on his face mingling with a cold sting of hope at her words. She was right. They could not surrender yet.
“Together,” he whispered, taking her hand into his.
“Yes,” she replied, pressing the cloth a little more firmly, moving with the quiet confidence of someone who would not allow him to despair. “Together. We’ll wait until the Captain arrives, and then, we’ll tell him and Clara everything. Four heads are better than one, or in our case, two.”
