Page 30 of Hawk & Sparrow

The book merely gave a half-hearted turn of the page.

Ida turned to Vesper. “Are you sure you have the name right?”

“Positive.”

The librarian crossed her arms. “If his name doesn’t appear in the Book of Vital Records, it can only mean that there are no records of a Francis Gladwell to show.”

Vesper frowned. If there was no record of Francis Gladwell, then who had the man she’d met at the exhibition really been? Her mind began to race.

“Vesper?”

Vesper looked up at the sound of Ida’s voice. The librarian was now looking at her with new concern. “Are you all right, dear?”

“Yes, sorry. I’m fine.” Vesper reshouldered her bag. “This has been really helpful, Ida. Thank you, I should get going.”

The air had grown cooler by the time Vesper left the library. She surveyed the usually busy street, surprised to find it quiet and vacant. A thick fog had descended, casting everything around her in an opaque, silvery haze, and she couldn’t fight the nagging sense that someone was watching her. It was the same way she’d felt Friday night in the maze. Slowly, a shape formed.

A group of young men were sitting on the curb across the street—all dressed in black, all with hands in their pockets. She didn’t need to see the tattoos under their coats to know who they had to be.

Thally Rousers.

Usually, the gangs of this city were nocturnal, scarcely seen in daytime. But here they were, at least six of them, all sitting on the curb and staring at her as though looking for something, waiting for something. She remembered Chief Stettner’s words from two days before.

My men caught some Rousers lurking around late last night. Mostly kids, but they can still be dangerous in groups.

Vesper reshouldered her satchel, holding on tight to its strap as she resumed walking. None of the Rousers moved, but as she made her way down the street, she couldn’t shake the feeling that their eyes stayed on her back.

ELEVEN

MONDAY, 7TH OF NOVEMBER—10:13 A.M.

Vesper had only been eight when she’d learned how to look for the tells of an approaching winter.

At nineteen, she knew what it meant when frost began collecting in the corners of shop windows; what was coming when the nights grew long and the mornings became reluctant, like a grudging child pulled from bed. Now she stared out the window of a fine blue coach, watching winter slowly sink its teeth into Basalton with a dull but familiar sense of dread. The autumn leaves falling from the trees should have been beautiful, but they only reminded her that everything around her was dying. She sighed.

“You all right there, Evans?”

Vesper’s eyes shot open, and she tore her gaze from the window. Maximilian was sitting across from her in the coach, eyeing her with a curious expression.

“I’m fine. Why?”

“You seem … tense.”

Vesper crossed her arms. “I might be a little less so if I believed you were taking our investigation seriously.”

Maximilian took a bite of his muffin and chewed. “I am taking it seriously,” he said. “I’m just not as alarmed by your most recent development as you clearly are.”

Vesper threw up her hands. “So you mean to tell me that you don’t find it concerning that there is no record of Francis Gladwell in three different publications where he almost certainly should be?”

“We can probably deduce that the man who called himself Francis Gladwell lied about his identity,” Maximilian conceded. “But that’s explained easily enough: He might have come from a family of more modest means and been embarrassed. Trust me, he wouldn’t be the first man in high society to lie about his pedigree.”

“If Francis lied about his name and his family, he could have been lying about other things,” said Vesper. “I’m telling you, there’s something there.”

“All right,” said Maximilian. “So if Francis was faking his background the whole time, why didn’t anyone else catch him?”

“It wouldn’t have been hard,” said Vesper. “Mr. Gladwell told everyone that his family was from the other side of the country. It’s unlikely that many members of Basalton’s elite would ever bother to verify his story. High society people rely heavily on word of mouth and reputation, so Francis didn’t actually need to convince everyone that he was who he said he was; he only had to convince a few people and let them do the work of spreading the word for him.” Vesper paused. “It was actually quite clever of him.”

“Except for one thing,” said Maximilian. “Francis might have been able to lie about his background, but he absolutely lived the life of a high society gentleman. He visited the Basalton Men’s Club regularly, attended every high society event in a bespoke suit, and regularly dined at the city’s poshest restaurants. Where did he get the money to pay for all of that?”