Nina hesitated. “A Mason.”
“No,” Patrick said immediately. “We’ll figure somethin’ else out.”
“She’s harmless, Patrick,” Nina said, panting under the weight of Theo. “A society outcast. And she liked us.”
Patrick rolled his eyes. He doubted there was nary a person alive who’d met Nina and not fallen for her. “It ain’t enough.”
But Nina pinched her eyes closed in frustration. There was mud smeared into her hair. A cut on her cheek, sweat glistened over her brow, and he was suddenly suffused with guilt.
“Trust me, Patrick. She couldn’t raise the alarm even if she wanted to.”
He frowned warily. “And why’s that?”
“She’s mute,” Theodore grunted, looking as though he might pass out at any moment.
“It don’t mean she can’t flounce down the street wavin’ her hands over her head,” John grunted. “She’ll turn you over the moment she recognizes you.”
“I’m not sure she’ll think much of it,” Nina muttered, her voice turning reluctant. “Mrs. Trunk isn’t… all there.”
Patrick stared at her. “She’s a lunatic?”
“Not alunatic,” Nina said indignantly. “But she’s getting on in years, and she’s a recluse. She doesn’t care much for society.”
“I imagine not,” John muttered. “Can’t fuckin’ speak, can she?”
Nina glared at him. “Have you got a better idea?”
“None,” John said, then looked to Patrick. “Gotta stop somewhere, son. The Charmer ain’t gonna last the night unless he’s seen to.”
Even as he said it, Theo’s head fell forward, his face collapsing in pain.
Patrick sighed and looked at Theo. It’d be simpler to leave him here to recover, to continue on without stopping, but one glance at Nina told him it wasn’t a question. He’d gone and saved her life, after all.
“Lead the way,” he said to Nina, taking Theo’s full weight from her. “And keep your head down.”
The walk was treacherous. Lavnonshire was littered in open market stalls and street vendors selling their haul of cod and crab. Patrick put his cap over Nina’s head and pulled it low over her brow. He closed Theo’s coat to hide the bloody bandages as they weaved down the streets, closer and closer to the ramparts. A row of shop fronts clustered perilously close to the cliffside, sewn together like a patch quilt.
Theo’s weight was starting to hinder him when, thankfully, Nina came to a stop. Her eyes trailed over a grimy door, bulging shopwindows so filled with lime and salt they were impossible to see through. The sign dangling precariously from the roof guttering saidTRUNK ANTIQUES AND ODDITIES.
There was a claustrophobia about it, even from the street. It was too narrow, too tall, the competing shops either side pulverizing it.
“Waitin’ on an invitation?” John asked Nina.
She turned on him and Patrick, eyes steeled. “No threats,” she said. “No guns.”
John clicked his tongue. “We ain’t in the habit of shootin’ old ladies, darlin’.”
When they stepped through the shop’s door, the sound of the sea was swallowed, replaced by the kind of unbearable hum Patrick only ever experienced when a hundred fathoms beneath ground. Polly let the door shut behind her, and the tinny bell rattled overhead.
Its windows were cluttered top to bottom with art, hat stands, newspapers, books, cat cages, embroidered cushions, lamps, vases, empty wine bottles, candlestick holders, rat traps, and, strangely, a miner’s pick.
There were few places to stand, all available room having been taken up by some piece of dusty furniture. Shelves crowded the walls, and even the ceiling was cluttered with hanging pots and cages and cookware. Patrick couldn’t think of a place less Artisanal if they were in Kenton Hill.
He grinned.
They each took off their hats, relaxed their shoulders with a groan. Evenif the general of the fucking Lords’ Army were to look through a window at that moment, they’d see naught but towers of junk.
“Mrs. Trunk?” Nina called out carefully, turning to pass her hips through piles of newspapers and a cello. “Hello?”
