“I’m sorry,” Patrick said, but not in the way of condolences. This was self-blame. Failure. I watched it anchor itself to him.
“Take us to ’em, miss,” John said now. “I’d like to shake the hands of the stubborn bastards who outlasted the Lords’ fuckin’ Army.”
Edith laughed wetly at that, her breaths clouding before her.
“Put that knife away now,” John told her softly. “The fight’s come and gone.”
Edith took us to a factory, a sign above its great doors readingBLEAKER’S TEXTILES. The space inside was dense with giant iron machinery, all of it unmanned, unnaturally still, but untouched by fire. Starlings swarmed the rafters high above, escaping the cold. Settled on the floor, between the threading machines and the washers, were a series of pallets.
Men and women lay atop them, gray-faced, their injuries many. One man’s face was so bloodied it was difficult to tell if there was anything to salvage beneath.
Moving among the injured with broth, blankets, bandages, and water was an army of women. Some sported injuries of their own, like Edith, but all worked on the wounded like a living engine.
“Where are the men?” Polly asked quietly, her mouth agape.
Edith eyed her with contempt. “Gone,” she said, her gaze trailing to the man with the butchered face. “Or half gone.” She led us on. There was hardly a single person who lifted their face to look at us. Their hands were too full to care.
Edith walked with slow, weighted steps to the rear of the factory, then out a small creaking door to a ravine. Beyond it was a fast-moving river threading through the trees, eroding the snow on its banks, churning the mill wheels to no avail.
Lined on the ravine’s edge was an endless row of bodies, a hundred or more. Only their blackened feet showed. Each one was covered with a fibrous blanket, snowfall piling in the creases of their torsos and necks, care taken to offer them some dignity.
Not even the crisp winter air could completely hide the smell of death.
“We can’t bring ’em inside,” Edith said, her eyes glazed and focused on nothing, as though shutting out the sight. “They foul too quickly.”
Polly doubled over and vomited, coughing violently onto the ground.
“Lord almighty,” John uttered, and swiped the hat off his head.
Patrick simply stared, his eyes hardening, jaw ticking. Eventually he wiped a hand over his face and shifted his stare to the river, the trees beyond. “All Union members?”
Edith tracked a small swallow leaving its nest, born too late. It swooped dangerously close to the river before alighting. “We all were,” she said. “And a fat load of good it did us.” Her eyes closed and didn’t open. I wondered how long it had been since she’d rested.
Patrick stared and stared, something wretched in his expression.
“What provoked this?” Theo asked. He stood just over my shoulder. From this close, I could hear the way his voice shook, the stop-start of his breaths.
“I did,” Patrick said bluntly, his eyes trailing over the boots, the ashy toes. “We encouraged strike action in the Southeastern parishes through winter, to cut off the city.”
“And we listened,” Edith mumbled bitterly, her voice fracturing. “Like fools.”
Patrick’s hands went to his hips, as though he could hardly bear his own weight, then he rubbed his eyes once, twice, thinking.
“Polly, scribble to Donny. Tell him Trent has been attacked and ask for supplies. Food, coal, medical aid. Whatever can be spared should be spared. Call on support from Dunnitch. Make sure he knows it’s me.”
But John stepped forward, just as Polly nodded and closed her eyes. “Now just a minute, son. They’ve got enough of their own to tend to back home. Kenton took its own losses.”
Patrick barely spared him a glance. “They’ve got enough in reserve.”
“Patty—”
“Polly,” Patrick said, taking a step toward the ravine. “Send the message. Tell Donny the Morland tunnel is caved in, they’ll need to use the Sommerland line. And for the love of God, don’t leave a trace of yourself on the page.”
Polly winced but nodded.
“It will take another three days for it to come through the tunnels,” Patrick told Edith. “Someone should be waiting on the other side when it arrives. Preferably not with a carvin’ knife.”
Edith nodded. “What about the bluff?”
