Page 107 of Thief Taker

The corridor was dark, but the door opposite was beginning to move, a sliver of flickering candlelight widening at its edge. Breath held, Elias slipped out of Marlborough’s room and turned towards the stairs. He walked, didn’t run. Steady. Just an unremarkable man in a hallway. Behind him he heard the footman’s door open fully as the man stepped out into the corridor, uncertain. And then he heard Marlborough’s door swing open.

He took the stairs fast, two at a time.

Behind him and above, the footman’s voice shattered the silence of the inn. “My God… Oh my God!” And then louder, ragged, climbing towards a shout. “Help! Murder! Help!”

Elias shot through the side door, heading for the front of the inn at a dead run.

His horse was where he’d left her. He untied her fast, hands shaking, and swung up into the saddle. Above him a window went up, the footman’s voice pouring out into the night. Lights were moving behind glass on the upper floors. He turned the horse and walked her down the road, simply a traveller leaving early. Nothing to see. But once he’d rounded the corner, he dug his heels in and rode.

Cold air hit his face, his shoulder screamed in protest, and his whole body shook. Fear and exhilaration, both.

What to do next? Where to go? He didn’t know; he couldn’t think. All he could do was ride and let the cold silence his wild and racing thoughts.

Chapter 40

With three more days to wait before they sailed, Kit ventured out of the inn for the first time. There’d been no sign of pursuit so far, nobody sniffing around, and the four walls of their room had been closing in on him and his endless regret and longing.

He’d needed to get out, to stretch his legs and find something to distract himself before he went irredeemably mad. Besides, he needed provisions for the voyage; he’d left London with nothing but the shirt on his back. He needed clothes, something to keep them in, a book or two to while away the journey, writing equipment, perhaps a deck of cards—a gun. If not for here, then for when he reached America. The untamed frontier was not an easy place, but it was the freest place Kit had ever known, and it was there he intended to go.

He felt a pang, of course; he’d wanted to take Elias with him, out of this city, to a place where they could—

Shaking his head, he dislodged the regret. No point in yearning for what could never be.

So he found himself pressing through the crush of people on the Wapping waterfront—the sky a forest of masts and cranes, and all around him the raucous cries of dockers and hawkers, the thrum of a population from all corners of the world chattering in languages he couldn’t understand, their faces a dozen different shades of brown, their dress exotic. It was as if the world had come to London, and, despite the heavy cloud under which he walked, Kit’s blood stirred to be in such an exciting place.

He only wished Elias were with him, that they were journeying together.

Pushing on through the crush, nose wrinkling at the fishy seaweed smell, he drew nearer to the dockside where he’d arranged to meet Hartwell. His friend had been busy this morning too, but it was past noon now and they were to meet for a late breakfast. Keeping his purchases close—the place was rife with pickpockets—Kit waited, idly watching the ever-shifting forest of masts that clogged the Thames. Their ship, the Lady Jane, was berthed further down the Thames Pool, still loading cargo. Kit had no idea how it was managed; there were so many ships here all vying for space along the wharves. How anyone knew which ship was where was beyond him, but he supposed—

“Kit.”

He started at the sound of Hartwell’s voice but scared up a smile for his friend as he approached with a couple of paper-wrapped packages in his hands. Breakfast, Kit hoped.

“Did you get what you needed?” Hartwell said, nodding to the parcel Kit was guarding.

“Mostly.” He held out a hand for one of the packages—it was warm and heavy. A piece of hot gingerbread. “Yourself?”

Hartwell gave a scant nod and unwrapped his breakfast, tucking in. Kit followed suit and for a while they said nothing, just watched the world stream past them, little eddies of movement catching Kit’s eye now and then, before people moved on.

After a time, he realised that Hartwell’s silence was loaded, his friend’s mind elsewhere or turned inward. Either way, he wasn’t paying attention to what went on around them.

Kit nudged his arm. “Penny for your thoughts?”

“What?”

“You were miles away,” Kit said, taking another bite of gingerbread. He suspected Hartwell was thinking about his brother, about whether to seek him out on his return. Not that Kit would say as much; God knew he understood how hard it was to try and keep yourself distracted from such thoughts. “Contemplating the journey?” he said instead. It wouldn’t be an easy passage, at this time of year.

Hartwell gave a slight shrug, licked crumbs from his fingers, crumpled up the empty paper wrapping and tossed it into the sluggish river. “Not exactly.”

He didn’t miss the tension in his friend’s voice. “What’s happened?”

Hartwell’s silence was eloquent.

“Ned…” Kit grabbed his arm, stomach churning with something that might be either fear or anticipation. Perhaps both. “Is it Elias? Is he here?”

He looked about as if he might see him in the crowd. God, how he wanted to see him. And how he feared it.

“It’s not—” Hartwell sighed. “Well, in fact, you tell me.” From the pocket of his greatcoat, he pulled out a folded copy of the London Chronicle. He glanced down at it, frowning, and hesitated before handing it over.