Patrick saw the faces of those men, bearing down upon her on the pier.
“I traded Margarite’s tunnel for a chance at safety,” she said, eyes cinched shut, tears washing her face. “And if it brings you any comfort, Pat, you should know I didn’t find any. I wasn’t brought back to the city. Tanner ignored my scribbles, and now he’s dead.” The shadows beneath her eyes seemed to extend. “I was ousted, shunned as a deserter. The archives here won’t have me—I’ve already tried. I’m sitting in swank gambling dens now, using the last scraps of the idium left in me to ink cards into aces for money.” She looked as hollow as any factory worker. “I promise you, Pat,” she said in a voice not more than a whisper, “you could never hate me as much as I hate myself.”
There was more he could say, more wounds to carve, but that would do nothing for him. So he stood straight again, counted the passing seconds while Polly composed herself.
“You’ll help us,” he said. “And save your fuckin’ apologies for someone who believes ’em.”
She sighed, caught tears on the cuff of her sleeve. “And once I do help you,” she said, resigned, “you’ll throw me into the canals.” She’d spent enough time in Kenton Hill to know what befell traitors. And none had betrayed Patrick quite like her.
“As I said,” he lied, “whether you live or die will be up to you.”
Polly’s jaw twitched. She knew, just as Patrick did, that he couldn’t let her live after this.
“Any moment, the police will come,” Tamir murmured, fretful. “Any moment!”
“If you don’t start sayin’ somethin’ useful in your next breath, it’ll be your last,” said John to Polly, lifting a knife he’d procured from Tamir’s kitchen drawer. He buried the tip into the woodgrain, balanced it with the pad of his finger. “Rats are meant for canals, ain’t they? Just like you said. Translate the fuckin’ book, or I’ll take you swimmin’ myself.”
To her credit, Polly didn’t beg for release. It seemed to Patrick as though she was fighting herself, weighing outcomes. He understood then that she was a creature bent on survival above all else. Above the Artisans. Above the Craftsmen.
Such a person was, at the very least, predictable. They always chose the path of least resistance.
She folded now, not bothering to look at the book again. “I can read it,” she said. “But there’s something I want in return.”
And John stood, pulled the knife from the timber. In a blur of movement he was behind Polly, his forearm banded around her neck, the knife at her throat.
“If you kill me, there’s not a single other who can translate it!” Polly said, the warning slipping quickly from her lips, her voice pitching. “And there is nothing to stop me from sending a scribble right this second to the head of Morland police, or directly to the House.”
“You got a death wish, miss?” John said, his arm tightening.
“Then kill me,” Polly whispered. It didn’t sound brave. It sounded like defeat. “Lord knows there’s nothing left for me in the Trench.”
Realization struck Patrick then. “You want a way off the continent.”
She looked at him. Then, slowly, she nodded. “There’s nowhere else I can go,” she said miserably. “I’ve been turned out by the House, by my own family. I’ve betrayed the Union. Betrayed every friend I have.” Her eyes met Nina’s briefly. “I want something more than gambling dens in the brink. The ship in Hoaklin,” she said. “I’ll trade the translation for passage on that ship.”
Patrick didn’t intend to give her a damned thing. “Translate the book, and I’ll get you on that ship,” he told her. “It’s due to anchor by the end of the month. I’ll give you the location and instructions. We’ll part ways tomorrow, and I’ll rest easy knowin’ I’ll never see your face again.”
Polly swallowed, eyes pricking with tears. “I want you to take me there yourself. Ensure they allow me aboard. It will give me time to translate the entire text,” she said.
“We’re on the clock actually,” John said. “You’ll read it tonight. Skim for the important bits.”
“Verian Script is more complex than you can imagine!” Polly insisted. “Each symbol encases multiple meanings. Sometimes entire phrases. It takes time to pull them apart properly.”
“What do you mean ‘pull them apart’?” Nina asked. “Explain.”
Polly shook, the knife edge still balanced at her throat.
“Leave her be, Dad,” Patrick said to John.
Polly exhaled in a gust as John’s blade disappeared back into his shirtsleeve. Her forehead was coated in perspiration. “Was there a cypher text with the book? A sort of… glossary?” This question, she directed to Theo.
Theo frowned. “No, none that I know of.”
Polly frowned. “My grandfather had a book of glyph cyphers. I—I can try and translate it from memory, but it’s been years. I haven’t practiced.”
Patrick rubbed frustration from his eyes. “Dig deep, then, Pol, or that steamer is sailin’ off without you.”
She sighed, chin wobbling slightly. “I’ll need paper,” she said.
