So – it’s done. Chapter Nine of To the Upper Air is finished, and I have it on good authority that it does not need to be edited, tweaked, poked, or otherwise changed. I complain a lot, but I had fun writing it, so here it is! I’m putting most of it under a cut because it ran quite absurdly long.
Disclaimer: No Mirandas were harmed in the making of this chapter. You lot know me enough by now to know that I love the character too much to seriously mess with her too much.
As always, here is the fic on Ao3. I’ll be updating there shortly. Previous parts of this can be found on Tumblr here:
flintsredhair.tumblr.com/tagged/To_The_Upper_Air
Chapter Nine: Adjustment and Ambush
He was being watched.
James became conscious of it halfway through breakfast – the brown eyes that were following his every movement, watching as he flicked between one page and the next, assessing, planning –
He lowered the book in his hands, shooting Miranda a quizzical expression from across the table.
“Did you need something?” he asked, and Miranda’s mouth quirked upward, her hand playing with the corner of her napkin, her eyes glittering with mirth.
“You always did look quite dashing in a waistcoat,” she mused, her eyes traveling up and down his form as he sat, clad in waistcoat and shirt sleeves, drinking a cup of coffee at the breakfast table. “I had almost forgotten how very appealing it looked on you.”
James raised one eyebrow, lowering the book entirely, marking his place with a thin ribbon.
“You haven’t forgotten a thing,” he accused. “I’ve heard you complaining about the buttons. Several times.”
She scrunched her nose, the expression almost playful.
“Hush,” she answered. “That was something else entirely.”
“Yes – specifically, a case of the whole forest being eclipsed by a few trees,” Thomas interjected. “She’s quite right, you know – there are too many buttons on that particular ensemble.” His lover had just entered the breakfast room, his blond hair sticking up in all directions, wearing shirt and breeches but not much else, and James shot him a look of fond exasperation.
“There are just enough to keep the two of you in check,” he answered, tongue firmly in cheek. “I’d never stay decent for more than five minutes if there weren’t so many of them.”
Miranda smiled, and James turned back to her, the smile on his own face growing at the sight of hers. Miranda’s mood was a work in progress, still tenuous, but it had grown steadily better since Alfred’s death, and James anticipated it would continue to improve with time and distance from London. They were both, he thought with something approaching pride, getting better.
“What occasion are we celebrating?” she asked, gesturing to the captain’s coat and the hat that lay on the table next to him, ready to be donned on his way out of the house. It was, he thought, rather as if she were reading his mind, but then she had always had a way of doing that.
“I have some preparations to be made aboard ship,” James answered. “Manifests to be gone over, inspections to be completed, that sort of thing. It’s likely to take all day, but -” He trailed off, and Thomas finished for him.
“At the end of it, we’ll be ready to leave London. Off to New Providence at last.” James nodded, and Miranda regarded him with a careful eye.
“Has the Admiral approved the plans?” she asked, and James nodded.
“At a distance, yes.”
She did not answer, but the silence was palpable.
“I intend to speak to him before we leave,” James defended.
“Of course,” she demurred, and Thomas frowned.
“You still haven’t spoken with him?”
James shook his head, and Thomas frowned.
“James – it’s been two weeks. Don’t you think -?”
“I know,” James groaned. “I know. I just – what the hell do I say?”
It was the sole fly in the ointment, as far as James was concerned. The two weeks since Alfred’s death had been busy – taken up with funeral arrangements, mourning rituals, the disposal of Alfred’s property, and their own preparations to leave for Nassau. Still – it had been a good two weeks, especially for James himself.
He had finally granted himself permission to relax.
It was an odd thing, really. Thomas and Miranda were alive. That alone should have been enough to convince him. He was loved, and safe – home, finally, after eleven years and therein lay the rub. He had no idea how to be himself again, and the last month and a half had only emphasized the fact that he was woefully out of his depth. It had been eleven years – over a decade since he had last spoken to any of the people that he had interacted with on a daily basis. Over a decade since he had done the most basic of things that were expected for a gentleman of his social standing – tied his own neck cloth, found his way through London – eleven bloody years since he had tied his hair back in a queue. Over a decade gone since he had last looked in the mirror and truly seen James McGraw.
Not, of course, that he did currently.
“I can’t do it.” He stood, staring at the mirror in despair, an astonished expression on his face, his hair spilling around his shoulders, with Thomas standing, one arm wrapped around his middle, and the other raised to his mouth, covering it with his hand, grinning like mad, his shoulders shaking with mirth. “Thomas – for fuck’s sake -” He turned, ribbon in hand, and his lover’s eyes widened, caught in his laughter. “It’s not fucking funny!” James insisted, and Thomas smoothed the hand over his mouth, making an attempt to shelve his merriment with it.
“Of course not,” he murmured, eyes still dancing. “Would you like me to tie it for you?”
“No,” James growled. “I’ll do it myself. I -” He made another attempt, and this time the ribbon dropped to the ground, mocking him as it sat by his foot, and he stared at it. “I don’t suppose you’d let me cut it off again?” he asked weakly, and Thomas shook his head.
“Not a chance,” he answered. He bent to pick up the ribbon, and then straightened. “You’re overthinking it,” he advised. “Surely your hands remember the motion if the rest of you does not?” He handed the ribbon back to James, who took a deep breath. He was right – of course he was right. He turned back to the mirror, closing his eyes. He had done this a thousand times – more than that. He could do it again. He raised his hands, and when he opened his eyes again, his hair had been pulled back neatly, the ribbon wrapped around it double the way he had always done, and tied off with a bow that, while a little lopsided, was definitely not the horrifyingly off-kilter thing he had been fighting with for the past fifteen minutes.
“There,” Thomas had said quietly, raising a hand to tug at one side. “Done. You haven’t forgotten as much as you think you have. Now, where did you say you were off to? Drills at the naval yard?”
He felt a frisson of horror run through him. Drills. Fuck, shit, damn it, and bugger – he had forgotten the reason he was fussing with the queue in the first place.
“Thomas,” James said, his voice plaintive.
“Yes, James?”
“I don’t remember the bloody drills.”
Slowly but surely, though, things were coming back to him. Small things, mostly – things he had taken utterly for granted until he had woken eleven years out of his time and realized that he had forgotten them. The smell of Miranda’s favorite perfume and Thomas’ favorite soap. The sound of carriages moving over cobblestones, and the name of the barkeep at his favorite tavern. His own preferences in wine and in food, both of which he had forgotten out of simple necessity in Nassau. Conversations, too, were becoming easier now that he was no longer left to guess at what had been said when last he had spoken with most of his acquaintances, and he’d finally, finally stopped getting lost in London itself (just, of course, in time to leave it once more). It was, he thought, rather as if he had opened a drawer of old clothing and mementos and found himself wondering why he had packed away half its contents in the first place.
Speaking of clothing, he had finally settled back into his. It had been a struggle, at first. The boots had been familiar enough, if somewhat uncomfortably new. The shirt, likewise, had been a familiar commodity, but the coat – the coat and the damn neck cloth – had felt for all the world like strangulation devices. He had spent the past month and a half fidgeting, both in his clothing and in general – waiting, he had realized, for the moment it would all go wrong – that he would have to become Captain Flint once more. Waiting for the stroke of fate that would end this dream and send them all back to where they had begun, miserable and alone.
Miranda had been right. It was a realization he had come to the night that he had confessed his fears to Thomas – the same night that he had last spoken with Admiral Hennessey. He had not wanted to admit it, either in Nassau or here, but she had pinpointed his problem some time before, and, as usual, he had only himself to blame for denying what she had said. Monster, they had called him, vile and profane, and some part of him had believed them – had heard the words hurled at him and taken them as confirmation of a truth he had long feared. He had been fighting, not for Thomas or for Nassau, but to prove England wrong – to prove them all wrong about him, about Thomas, about the viability of their plans. To make them sorry for calling him a monster, and now –
Now the promise of having that word taken back lay in front of him, and he was too damned terrified to reach out and take it. For all of his recent bravery – and it was that, he was not so completely oblivious as to not understand just how much courage it had taken to bring him to this point – he was absolutely paralyzed at this, and the result was the current fit of doubt that he was struggling through. He had not contacted Admiral Hennessey – had not wanted to, and yet at the same time he wanted to so badly it was all but driving him mad with it.
“James -” Thomas started, and then sighed. “It’s your decision, of course.” He scrubbed a hand over his hair, looking with distaste at the wig that one of the servants had brought to him. “I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to losing track of that wretched thing for good,” he muttered. “I don’t suppose you’d agree to switch for the day? My wig for your hat?” James smiled, and shook his head.
“Not in this lifetime,” he answered, and Thomas brightened.
“You mean we’ve done it before? Do tell!”
James shook his head again, laughing now, and reached for his coat, pulling it on and giving it a tug to straighten it.
“I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He finished pulling on his gloves and rolled his eyes as Thomas handed him the hat that he had still not managed to lose. The damnable thing was determined to stay with him, he had found, whether by Thomas’ efforts or the servants’, and he had given up truly trying to leave it behind the week before, when he had finally forgotten it aboard his ship only to have one of the ship’s boys deliver it to him at the lodging house the very next day.
“There’s no chance of having you back before dinner, I suppose?” Miranda asked, and James shook his head ruefully.
“Not likely,” he answered. “It’s amazing what the Navy is willing to consider a matter for the captain’s attention,” he said derisively. It was the truth. Aboard the Walrus, whatever problem the men had discovered would have been handled, Mr. DeGroot apprised of the situation, and they would have continued on as normal until they reached the nearest port, with James being told of the problem immediately only if there was a chance it could affect the ship’s ability to maneuver in a fight. It was a functional difference between sailing a pirate ship and commanding a ship of the line attached to the British fleet, and James could not say he was entirely fond of the change. Idly, he wondered if there were any possibility of recruiting DeGroot when they reached Nassau, provided the man proved willing to take the pardon. He missed the other man’s solid, sensible nature and, if he was honest, he missed the look DeGroot would get on his face every time James did something particularly insane with the ship. It had been a game of sorts – how red could DeGroot’s face become before a real strategy had to be suggested? Gates had caught him at it once or twice – it had been one of the things that had caused the man to warm to him as a friend, as a matter of fact, rather than just his quartermaster. He made a mental note to introduce Thomas to Gates if the opportunity ever arose, and looked around him, making sure he had not missed anything. Satisfied that he had not, he turned back to his lovers.
“I’ll send word if I’m going to be late,” he told them both. “Don’t wait up.” With that, he left the room, heading for the door and from it the port.
******************************************
Flint was not in prison.
In fact, James Flint was nowhere in evidence, as Silver had discovered when he reached the Hamilton household. Questions regarding him had been met with confused faces from the servants, and Silver abruptly realized that he would not have been known under that name – not here, not now. He left the house feeling simultaneously irritated at himself and burning alive with curiosity.
At least, he thought as he ate, he was no longer bored. As expected, the readdition of Flint into his calculations had provided a day’s entertainment, even if it left much to be desired in satisfaction. If Flint was not Flint – was in fact still James McGraw – then what was he like? Where was he? And, just as importantly – who was Thomas Hamilton? Silver had not given much (or, in all truth, any) consideration to the matter since his abrupt awakening, but he suddenly realized that he had an unprecedented chance. He could, in fact, finally answer some of the questions that had been burning at the back of his mind since Flint’s confession the night before the battle. He had spoken of an English lord who had apparently been so very, nauseatingly good as to change everything about Flint simply by the mere fact of his presence. From what Silver had gathered, someone had taken measures to ensure that Lord Hamilton would remain safe from his father in this time, and he abruptly wondered whether it had been Thomas himself. He could not deny the urge to meet the man himself – to finally see what it was about him that had driven Flint mad with grief at his loss. Had he even met James yet?
He was still mulling the possibilities when he left the tavern, considering his next moves. It was drawing on toward evening, he realized with surprise. When he’d begun his walk about town, it had been just shy of noon, and now the streets had grown shadowed, the sun having finally finished setting behind the buildings. He frowned, considering his route back to his lodgings. If he skirted around the next set of buildings, he could take a shortcut, but –
The sound of fighting reached his ears not long before he rounded the corner, and he stood, one eyebrow raised as he watched the fight. It looked, he thought, as though a group of toughs had, for some insane reason, elected to take on a naval officer. The man’s bright buttons shone in the fading light, and John clucked his tongue. Any idiot that would go wandering around these streets so close to dark wearing that –
Red hair flashed in the light, and Silver’s heart skipped a beat. His eyes narrowed, and he looked closer. No. He could not possibly be this lucky – or this unfortunate, depending on how he looked at it.
“Flint?”
*****************************************************
The attack, when it came, was almost a joke.
He could hardly complain. Indeed, he found himself almost laughing at the sheer stupidity of it all. His opponents were poorly outfitted, ill-coordinated, and didn’t have so much sense as to even wear masks. Still – this, James thought, was what he got for walking instead of being sensible.
It was past nightfall, as he’d expected. The business of his new ship had kept him past what most people would have called a reasonable hour and what the Navy referred to as heading into dogs’ watches. If he had had any sense, he would have stayed aboard for the night and sent word, but he had wanted to surprise Thomas and Miranda by coming home. He had elected to walk to the nearest tavern for dinner before catching a hackney – a fact which he was now regretting. It would have been infinitely more difficult for this bunch of cutthroats if he had simply taken Thomas’ carriage this morning and set a time to be picked up. He had contemplated it, but reasoned that it would be pushing the limits for him to arrive at the dock in a private carriage bearing a coat of arms that was quite obviously not his own, practically proclaiming his status as part of the family by doing so first thing in the morning. They were still in London, after all. Such blatant displays would have to wait until they reached Nassau, although he knew that Thomas was looking forward to them immensely. Now, though, he was regretting the decision as he faced off against a man that had all the marks of a trained fighter, from the way he held himself to the grip on his sword. The man grinned, and James cursed himself for a fool once again. Being James McGraw had its advantages, certainly – many of them, but this was definitely not one. No one would ever have tried this with Captain Flint, nor would they have been fucking smirking at him. The thought rankled, irritation coursing through him, and something darker following in its wake. He could –
He took a deep breath, tamping down the rage that was building within him. No. Let them think him afraid. Let them think him weak. He was not out to build a reputation – not here, not now, not ever again. He was not that man.
“Who hired you?” he asked. He didn’t really expect an answer, but you never knew – sometimes men really were that stupid, and it was worth a try.
“Doesn’t matter,” the man answered, and James raised an eyebrow. Interesting. So they had, in fact, been hired and hadn’t just decided to take him on out of stupidity and greed. He had no further time to contemplate the meaning of that, though, before he was dodging the other man’s first blow, moving to the side in a flurry of coat tails.
There were too many of them. It was not surprising – in fact, it was just about fucking typical, but some foolish part of him had hoped that these days were behind him – that he could stop waking up in the morning with the aches and pains he’d earned in these kinds of dog fights. Thomas, he thought, was not going to be pleased, although he’d be less irritated than concerned, as would Miranda, and he made a mental note to attempt not to bleed on her floor this time. That was, of course, if he managed to make it back to them. He darted in closer, attempting a blow against one of the bastard’s sides, and was rebuffed, only just dodging the slash that one of them aimed at his face. He did not, however, dodge the fist that one of them aimed at his back, and it landed with a solid thump. He gasped, stumbling for a second, and barely dodged the next blow, returning one of his own. The pain lanced through him, and he gritted his teeth, seeing the one that had landed the blow smirking at him. He was not, he repeated silently to himself, going to let loose on these men. He had, up until this point, been holding back. The two men groaning on the ground could attest to that – he had injured them, certainly, but they would live to tell the tale if he was any judge. The longer the fight wore on, though, the harder he had to fight to tamp down the anger that coursed through him at the whole situation. He was tired – so very tired of having to fight just to go home, and the bastards circling him were evidence that the knot of worry that James had been carrying around since Alfred’s death had not been unwarranted. Someone wanted him dead – worse, someone intended to use his death against his lovers, and the thought sent a fresh wave of rage running through him, only just barely held in check. He did not have time for this. He wanted – needed – to end this. He needed to go back to the Hamiltons’ mansion and check on Thomas and Miranda immediately, and these men stood squarely in his way. He glanced up the alley, and saw a third figure standing, silent, apparently just watching the fight. A sentry, then, or a runner meant to inform their employer if all did not go to plan.
“Ah ah,” one of the men said. “No running, Captain.” The tone of his voice grated on James’ nerves, and he struck at the man, forcing him to dance away. “You’re not going anywhere,” the other man taunted, and James fought against the urge to release the roiling, violent thing that was building inside him. James McGraw was not a murderer. He was not – A second blow landed on one knee, and James swore. That had fucking hurt, and the pain tore through the final barrier he had been clinging to with his fingernails. Fuck this, fuck them, and fuck playing nice. He limped backwards, assessing the damage done. The joint hurt, certainly, but he could still stand on it – could still fight, and he grinned dangerously.
“You should have hit harder,” he rasped. “Come on. Try it again.”
************************************************************
Silver could see the moment the fight changed. He could feel the shift in the air, could smell it, almost.
“Oh shit,” he muttered, stepping forward. “Flint -”
It was too late. The smell of blood hit the air in the next instant, drawn from the arm of the man closest to the naval officer and his sword. The men in the alleyway, he thought with a hint of pity, did not stand a chance. They had been expecting a tamed falcon – a hunting bird, trained to the lead and the jesses. What they had gotten –
What they had gotten was a tiger, and he could not quite help the admiration that welled up in him at the sight before him. The man was still up against two of them. By all rights, he should have bitten the dust five minutes ago, and yet, somehow, against all expectations he was winning. That, more than anything else, spoke to Silver’s inkling that the man before him was James Flint, brought back to London and his own past just as Silver had been. The way he fought –
He could not have said what happened next. Later, when he tried to recall, all that would come was the memory of a grunt and Flint falling, his head hitting the ground with a sickening thud just as Silver’s heart began to race, anger and fear burning through him. He was moving forward before he knew it, intercepting one of the men as he began to kick at Flint’s torso. There was a scream as Silver gripped the man’s arm and twisted, and the rest was a blur that ended with Silver standing over the body of the bastard that had landed the blow, breathing hard, the sound of the running footsteps of the lone survivor fading into the distance. He was, he realized, quite entirely unharmed, and he took a moment to be thankful that whatever homicidal rage had come over him had not led him to do something truly stupid in the name of the man now lying on the ground some distance away, alarmingly still. It was not until Silver reached him, his fingers feeling somewhat shakily for a pulse and finding one within seconds, that he realized something else.
Two out of the three men on the ground were still breathing. One groaned, one knee plainly twisted. The other was bleeding but neither unconscious or in any danger of bleeding out, if Silver was to judge. It was an anomaly, he realized with a frown. The Flint he had known did not leave survivors – most especially among those who had wronged him in some way, such as ganging up on him in a dark alley and attempting to kill him. He gave the naval officer lying on the ground a second look, frowning now. If he had just made a name for himself in London and murdered a man over someone other than Flint, he was going to be truly, monumentally pissed.
“Christ,” he muttered, looking over the officer’s bloodied form. Now that he was closer, he could clearly see red hair where the light from the nearby lantern fell on it, highlighting what little of it was not covered in blood or shadow. Still – the features were not familiar at first glance. The sensitive mouth that was visible in the dim lantern light, for one thing, was foreign, as was the long hair and the carefully shaven chin, and Silver felt a spark of disappointment at the realization. Still – the man had fought like a damn demon. That was worthy of a certain amount of recognition, and maybe the basic decency of making sure he was alright. He leaned over the man, eyes going over him looking for serious injuries and finding none, save the head wound.
“Well, you’re not Flint, but you sure as fuck fight like him. That’s not a compliment, by the way. He was always shit with a sword.”
As if hearing him, the officer groaned.
“With my luck, you’ll turn out to be him yet and be none too pleased about that comment,” John muttered. He could see the other man’s eyes fluttering slowly and he reached out a tentative hand.
“Hey,” he started, and then the man’s eyes opened wide all in one moment. He rolled onto one side, and John moved out of the way just in time to avoid being retched upon. He stood, waiting patiently, and then knelt at the officer’s side again when the heaving subsided, replaced instead by wet-sounding coughs.
“F-fuck,” the man muttered. He curled in on himself, somehow managing not to get his hair in the sick, and gave another short moan, clutching at his stomach with one arm. “Fuck,” he repeated, and John could not help but agree.
“You’re a mess, friend,” he said. “I don’t know what your quarrel was with these gents, but -”
“S-Silver?”
The question stopped him dead in his tracks, and he looked at the man again – truly looked, this time, a sinking feeling starting in his stomach. That voice – He looked the man up and down again, looking for some sign he had missed. It could not be, and yet – the officer’s eyes were open, now, and staring straight at Silver. His green, wrenchingly familiar eyes.
“Fuck, I was joking!” he exclaimed, almost pleading with the universe. He looked back at the man curled up on the ground, seeing now the familiar cheekbones and eyebrows, picturing them accompanied by a ginger beard and twisty mustache. “Flint?”
His former captain shook his head, his eyes closing again as he took a deep breath.
“No,” he gritted out. “It’s – fuck -” He shook his head as if attempting to clear it, and then attempted to hold back another bout of sickness, his face going rather green around the edges. Silver sighed. Answers were plainly going to have to wait – a fact which was emphasized by the approaching sound of voices in the street. He stood, almost surprised at the ease with which he could do so.
“Nevermind,” he answered. “You need to get out of here – we both do. Can you stand?”
Flint (Not Flint? He had denied the name, but he had known Silver. Who the fuck was the man lying on the ground in front of him?) nodded minutely, pressing one hand against the ground, and levered himself to his feet slowly. He wobbled slightly, and Silver took it from there, wrapping one of his captain’s arms around his own shoulders and allowing him to lean heavily.
“Where are you staying?” he asked.
“West End,” Flint whispered. “Albemarle Street.”
John grimaced.
“Jesus,” he muttered. “Well, we’re not going that far, not like this. Come on. And don’t you dare throw up on me.”
********************************************
“Miranda – James said not to wait.”
She turned, her lips pressed together in an unhappy frown.
“He said he would return,” she insisted. “I have known him for ten years. I have seen him go through every difficulty that life has to offer, and I know he would not elect to spend the night aboard the ship without sending word. Thomas – he is in trouble.”
Her husband frowned, coming forward to join her by the window again.
“You’re certain?”
She nodded, pulling her shawl closer to her. The sun had set an hour past, and she stared out the window, watching the fog roll in off the Thames, feeling a chill run down her spine that had nothing to do with the change in the weather.
“Yes. I can’t explain it. I know it’s irrational – silly, even, but -” She turned to Thomas, seeking his eyes with hers. “I have a terrible feeling about tonight,” she finished quietly, and he placed his hands on either of her shoulders, squeezing gently.
“You’re not being silly. If you’re truly worried, then we’ll go after him.” He turned. “Davies – please have the carriage brought ‘round. Lady Hamilton and I will be going to the docks.”
“Thank you,” she murmured quietly, and he nodded.
“You know,” he said after a moment, “I’ve always liked foggy nights. That’s strange, I know, but when I was a boy Will and Robert used to creep into my room on nights like this one and we would tell one another absolutely appalling stories. I’m surprised any of us made it to adulthood unscathed, given what we thought was lurking out on the moors.”
And I am quite certain that anything lurking on the moors was preferable to what was lurking inside the house, Miranda thought, but did not give it voice. Alfred was dead, and yet she could not quite escape the feeling that had come over her tonight – a feeling of impending dread that would not be shaken.
It was little wonder, she thought irritably. After years of disappointments, of plans gone wrong – could she truly blame herself if she was a little apprehensive now? No, she reassured herself. She was not being irrational, or overly cautious. If anything were to happen to James now –
“The carriage is ready, milord. My lady.” Davies’ voice sounded from behind them, and Thomas nodded.
“Thank you,” he murmured, and Davies bowed and retreated. “Come,” he said. “We’ll go and find James together and offer him a ride home.”
*******************************************************
“You know,” Thomas said, “I’m looking forward to seeing Nassau for the first time. The way that you and James have described it, it sounds like a cross between one of the worse streets in the East End and the Garden of Eden itself.”
Miranda snorted. “Hardly that,” she murmured, and grimaced as the carriage went over yet another bump. The roads to the docks, she found, were badly in need of repair, and she suddenly found herself glad that there were precious few carriages in Nassau. She said as much to him, and he raised an eyebrow.
“Truly? Does everyone walk everywhere?”
“For the most part,” Miranda answered. “I had a horse and cart, but I lived in the interior where there was need for one. James had a horse – he named her -” She stopped, making a sudden face. “You know, I can’t recall what the poor thing’s name was. I’m sure James had a name for her, but -”
The carriage slowed to a halt, and Thomas frowned, looking out the window.
“We haven’t arrived yet,” he observed, and stuck his head out of the window, motioning to their driver. “Why are we stopping?”
“Your pardon, my lord. There seems to be a commotion in the street ahead. Something about a fight gone wrong.”
Miranda felt her blood freeze in her veins, and she looked at Thomas, whose frown had abruptly turned to a look of unbridled fear.
“James,” he murmured, and then he was standing, exiting the carriage without a further thought.
****************************************
The crowd gathered in the street was startlingly large.
Lantern light illumined a circle in the center of the gathered assemblage, and the sounds of their hushed conversations broke the strange silence created by the fog that surrounded them. There were men, women, and children all milling about, and for a moment Thomas stood at the edge of it, wondering how on Earth he was ever going to get to the center.
“What’s happened?” He could hear someone else, another disgruntled voice, and he turned, hoping to hear the answer.
“There’s been a murder!” The person who answered sounded obscenely cheerful, and Thomas felt his stomach clench. He had no proof that James had anything to do with this. It was not as though no one were ever murdered in this district – it was London, after all, and close to the docks. The fact remained, though, that this was the way that James would have come after clearing up matters on his ship, perhaps in hopes of catching a hackney to bring him the rest of the way home. It was a ridiculous fear, born of tension and Miranda’s conviction that things were going too smoothly and yet he could not simply dismiss her concerns. She was right, he knew. She had been right the night that his father had died, and right before, in that other life that haunted her still. Something was wrong, and this –
“Who – who died?” he managed to ask, heart in his throat, and the bystander he was speaking with shrugged.
“No idea, I’m afraid,” the man said. “Looks as though there was a fight and the poor victim got the worst of it. A robbery, perhaps?”
Thomas nodded his thanks and moved away. He had to see – had to know what had occurred. It took him several moments to shoulder his way through the crowd, aided by his height and the urgency of his movements. When at last he reached the center of the circle, he stopped, closing his eyes for a moment, and then opening them, afraid of what he would see.
It was not James. He let out a sigh, feeling vaguely guilty at his own reaction to the sight before him. Someone lay dead – that much was not in question. Blood soaked the ground, filling the air with the coppery tang of it, puddles of it lying around the body of a man who looked to have been about half a foot shorter than Thomas. He was still clutching an unsheathed sword, and from the look on his face, he had not died a happy man but a frightened one. If James had been here –
He had not. Of course he had not. Thomas receded back into the crowd, comforting himself with the thought that his lover was no doubt back at Albemarle Street by now, wondering where on Earth they had –
Gone. He stared at the ground, suddenly transfixed, his eyes resting on the discarded hat that lay, unnoticed, nearby, rolled into a gutter some ten feet from the rest of the milling crowd. The man on the ground had been wearing one – an old, battered thing more grey than black, but the one by Thomas’ feet was still the jet black of a newer hat, its edges scuffed from having been kicked, and inside it –
Thomas knelt to pick up the hat, his fingers trembling as they picked out two strands of red hair that still clung to the lining, shed, no doubt, by their owner, and Thomas was suddenly sickeningly aware that James’ hair was, in fact, this exact color – one shared by a vanishingly small portion of London’s population, few of whom could have afforded a hat of this kind, one that Thomas distinctly recalled picking up and placing on his lover’s head a hundred times over the past month. James had been here – had been part of the fight that had ended with a man dead. Had he emerged unharmed, or was he now lying dead, bled out somewhere nearby? Or had he been taken captive, to be used as a pawn in a game that Thomas was not yet aware he was a part of? James was – was –
“My lord! My lord!”
The shout came to him from out of the crowd, and he turned, the sick feeling in his stomach only increasing. His driver came stumbling through the fog, and he caught the man, noting as if in a daze his pale face and shaking hands.
“Hobbs – Hobbs, what is it?”
“My lord – Lady Hamilton -”
The sick feeling was quickly turning from terror into outright horror, the blood freezing in his veins and a chill racing down his spine.
“What about her?” The man shook his head, and Thomas shook him in turn. “What about her?” he all but shouted.
“G-gone,” the man stuttered. “Taken. I’m sorry – I’m sorry -”
He released Hobbs. His hands, he found, had suddenly gone numb, his eyes seeking the empty carriage, noting the open door hanging as if it had been wrenched from its hinges.
“Who -?” he started, and Hobbs pointed.
“They – they left a note -”
It took him four steps – four agonizing steps to reach the carriage, and he reached inside to extract the note, written on thick, crisp paper, that lay on the seat inside, neatly placed at the center, and sealed.
“They – they swore they would hurt me if she made a fuss,” Hobbs sobbed. “I’m sorry, my lord -”
“It wasn’t your fault,” Thomas murmured, his thumb stroking over the lion crossed by a single bar embossed on the seal. “It wasn’t your fault.”
Meg's Mumbles 