The Timeseer's Gambit (The Faraday Files Book 2) (9 page)

But Chris shook his head. All his anger was gone now. He missed it, a bit. It had been so nice. People to blame. “
They
were right,” he admitted. “If I hadn’t pushed, I would feel better, I think.” He chuckled grimly. “I asked for it, begged for it, but I would have preferred…” He left off. How could he tell a woman to whom truth meant everything: I would have preferred ignorance.

She heard it anyway. But while he could see that she didn’t understand, neither did she lay into him as she once would have. “You’re even going to take being right away from me, Christopher?” she asked, sighing. “Ah, well.”

He picked up his spoon. He set it back down. “Why would he do that?” he asked quietly, not looking up at her. He shouldn’t bring these things up, not to Olivia. Not to the one person who understood pain and loss the
least
. “I needed him, Olivia. I needed him more than I’d ever needed anyone and he just… left me?” He shook his head. “Why?”

Olivia said nothing. He was sure he knew why. She’d made comments, here and there. About how suicides were the worst, most cowardly, most pathetic people no longer walking the earth. Rage swept him like a tide―she’d said that while she
knew
about Fernand―but it washed through him and out, leaving him bereft of its red hot comfort. He didn’t even know what he felt about all of this, himself. How could he judge
her
perspective? The fact that she was holding her tongue for his comfort was remarkable in itself. He blinked away tears, staring down at his slowly congealing soup. He really should eat.

“If he’d just gone another day,” he said, unthinking, “I’d be with Rosemary right now instead of―” He stopped. Too late.

He sensed Olivia tense. “Instead of sitting here with me?” She tried to sound casual, but each word was fired like a dart.

Chris looked up at her. “I miss her every single day,” he said, heartsick.

Olivia looked away from his gaze, uncomfortable. “Yes, well,” she said. Really, her restraint was admirable. But he couldn’t let it go.

“Can’t you give me two weeks?” he begged. “After this, after learning about Fernand, can’t you give me time to go and see her?”

“It’s not wise,” Olivia said. Her eyes were sharp as little chips of ice, and she was stubbornly chewing and munching away in defiance of his lack of appetite. “You talk on the mirror with her three times a week. Three times! Isn’t that enough to know she’s perfectly fine in my mother’s care?”

“I
miss
her,” Chris repeated, and he did. Gods, did he ever. He missed her hugs, her big blue eyes, the way that she’d bald-facedly manipulate him into whatever she wanted. She was so clever and pretty and perfect, his sister, and there was a piece missing the size of the whole pie without her.

“Chris. Please. If you’re followed to Summergrove, what then?”

“I―” He tried very hard to find an answer, and none was coming to mind. He thought of Rosemary―and of Rachel Albany, the way her face took on soft contours when she let her hair down and smiled. There was something comforting and… and safe, thinking about Miss Albany. But she was far away, they both were, and Olivia was right. There were human wolves in every corner looking for a line to his sister. Would he lead them right to her because he missed her?

“I’m right.” Olivia could never leave it be.

She wasn’t the only one who’d grown up a bit. His instinct was to snap at her, to stubbornly refuse to confirm what he’d been about to say himself. But he shook his head. “Yes,” he agreed. “You usually are.”

“You really should eat your soup,” she said. He couldn’t help but smile a bit at the mothering tone she took. He glanced up at her and she raised her chin in defiance of his amusement. “Or you can starve, that’s fine.”

He picked up his spoon and dipped it in. The top had a film, but underneath, it seemed well enough. She nodded in satisfaction as he brought the spoon to his mouth. The smooth, creamy broth was delicious.

“Are you done being angry with me, then?” she asked.

He sighed. “Yes.” Because there was no point in continuing. He’d told her she was right. There was certainly no heading back from there. All three of them had done nothing but try and protect him, which was more than he’d expected from any of them. “Did… did you do any investigation?” he asked. That week had been a blur to him. After finding Fernand dead, he’d needed to arrange for Rosemary’s transport, hide it, contract Miss Albany’s expanded services―he refused to deposit his sister entirely into the care of complete strangers. He’d been aware that Olivia had affairs to see to in the matter of his dear friend’s death, and he’d intentionally stayed away from them, despite his misplaced suspicions. It had been too raw. Now…

“It was quite cut and dry,” Olivia said apologetically.

Chris gave her a sad smile. “Yes, but you’re thorough,” he said. “We knew who the killer was two seconds into the Featherstone case, and you still spent a week making sure you had all the details.”

Olivia smiled back. “Well,” she said, and he knew he’d convinced her to reveal a bit of her process, “I did speak to his nephew, who inherited his estate. And his solicitor, who he’d spoken to the night before on the mirror.” She sighed, then. “And you won’t want to hear it, Chris, but they both said he didn’t seem himself. That he seemed withdrawn, sad, strange.”

“You didn’t press further?” Chris knew he was pressing, himself, but Olivia was the only chance he had to have all his “whys” answered.

She shook her head. “Here’s the truth, Christopher,” she said, and he knew what she would say before she said it. “I’m thorough because I need to understand things. They bother me when I don’t. But the truth is, I know the moment a suicide crosses my desk, every single time, that I’ll
never
understand. As far as I’m concerned, life is always better than death, and someone who makes themselves dead…”

Chris turned his face from her. He didn’t argue, because right now, he felt the same. But if he agreed, he knew he’d regret it, later. He drank his tea in silence, and Olivia seemed grateful for it.

“So,” she said, after long enough that the undercurrent of their conversation changed. “What sort of spiritbinder would want to kill priests? Maidens and Youths, specifically.”

Chris set down his teacup. “I feel,” he said, “that I should stress how little I actually know about that world.” Something whirred and clicked in his mind and he interrupted what was doubtless a teasing, dismissive reply from Olivia, “That said…”

“Oh? Are you useful after all?”

“There might be a link.” He remembered the name he’d seen in the papers, how it had caught his eye when he’d passed the newsie trying to hawk the paper on the street. “Georgiana Edison.”

“One of the dead Maidens.”

Chris nodded. “I… knew her. Her father was Edward Edison, leader of the Floating Castle project. His sylph was the one that all the others were bound to. The cornerstone of the net.”

“I saw that in the headline,” Olivia said, tapping one of her hard biscuits against her chin. “Is her family still involved in the spiritbinding community?”

Chris ducked his head. “I honestly don’t know,” he replied. “It’s been six years since I last saw Georgie.”

Olivia raised her eyebrows. “
Georgie
?”

“We were… friends.” Chris sighed. “As much as a girl and a boy can be at thirteen.”

A little smile, arch and toothy, pulled at Olivia’s mouth. “Oh, I don’t know,” she said, singsong. “It’s been a long time for me, of course, but as I recall, a girl and boy that age can be
quite
friends.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Chris insisted. He flushed. It wasn’t… exactly like that, anyway. He could remember Georgie pulling him into the servant’s staircase, giggling. He’d followed because that had been what he was good at, following. He remembered her tiny, soft hands on his shoulders, her breath on his face as she’d pulled him close.
“Christopher
,” she’d whispered and he’d realized what was happening and pulled away, shocked. He’d fled the stairs like they were haunted, and Georgie had glared at him for a week after. “I was a late bloomer,” he continued awkwardly, realizing that Olivia hadn’t stopped staring as the heat had risen in his face. He’d regretted not taking advantage of Georgie’s curiosity not long after, but the opportunity had been gone. “And then after the Castle, Rosie and I weren’t good enough for the Edisons.”

“Then there
were
some remaining Edisons,” Olivia extrapolated. “Ones with clout?”

Chris searched his memory. So much of what had happened directly after the Castle was a blur to him. But he could pick out some details. “Her mother,” he said. “Theresa Edison.” He remembered her being imperious and domineering. Julia had tried her best to keep Missus Edison entertained, but the woman had thought poorly of his mother. “She was deathly ill the night of the Castle. She wasn’t a spiritbinder, but the Edisons had money, and children. Three, but Georgie was the oldest. My age. Missus Edison assumed that her children would be ‘binders, and the family would bounce back easily.”

“But Georgiana wasn’t a spiritbinder. In fact, she was a priestess,” Olivia mused. “Interesting. I wonder what Theresa Edison thought of her firstborn child failing categorization, being useless, talentless, sent off to the Three and Three to make something of her life… could that be enough to make an image-conscious traditionalist lose her mind?”

“Missus Edison wasn’t a spiritbinder,” Chris reminded her.

Olivia waved him off. “Don’t be smart. I’m just musing. It’s a start.” She popped the rest of her biscuit into her mouth and had the good sense to chew and swallow it fully before turning a toothy grin onto Chris. “My first serial,” she reminded him. “Goodness, you can’t imagine how excited I am!”

He took it at face value. They were long past the point where being offended and shocked by Olivia’s bloodthirsty behaviour did either of them any good at all. He chewed his sandwich while Olivia went on.

“It’s different, you know. Very strange! Normally, there’s this constant clock, ticking the seconds. Every tick is one step closer to all the evidence going cold. This is different. It’s already cold, and this isn’t something that’s
happened
, it’s something that’s
happening
.” She hummed. “But there
is
a clock, still.” She mused. “A clock ticking down to when it happens again…”

Chris hadn’t thought of that. His sandwich turned to ash in his mouth. “Will it?” he asked.

“Oh, yes,” Olivia said, grinning. “Oh, yes, it most certainly will.” She looked at his half-finished lunch, visibly compared it with her own plate, and then stood up. Her chair scraped. “Well, let’s go,” she said.

Chris gave her a look. “I’m not finished.”

“It’s hardly
my
fault that you went on strike.” Olivia sniffed.

Chris sighed. Well, fine. He wasn’t especially hungry, anyway. “Do you think they’re ready by now?” he asked, pushing back his chair and standing.

Olivia moved beside him, looping her arm with his. He barely thought about how familiar it felt. “If not,” she said, “we can always take the opportunity to look around a little more.” She started off at a walk, pulling him after her. “And Chris?”

“Mnn?”

“I take it that you were sour-faced and snappish with William, as well?”

“Ah,” Chris flushed, remembering the way he’d acted, turning Will out of his house, saying he didn’t want to see him. The wounded look in his only real friend’s eyes. He avoided Olivia’s prying gaze. “I…” No use denying it. “Yes,” he said. “I suppose I was.”

“Well,” Olivia said, patting his hand. “You’d best apologize to the boy posthaste. It’s probably eating him from the inside out. He likes you, you know.”

“I know.”

“No,” Olivia said and gave him a look. “He likes you, Christopher.”

Chris could only look at her for a moment before his eyes slipped away. His mind skirted the knowledge she was trying to impress on him. “Right,” he said. “Of course. We’re friends.”

And she sighed.

hris had privately doubted that an hour was enough time to gather three separate church families from across Darrington. The Crones and Elders tended to be very old, indeed, which did not lend itself to quick travel. But when he and Olivia strode into the sanctuary of the Heart Church, they were met by an unfamiliar old woman in Crone’s robes, holding an armful of files against her chest. She was small and wrinkled like a raisin, but she had a kind sort of face. She smiled at them, and when she met Chris’s eyes, he could tell she’d been crying. “Good afternoon, Miss Faraday, Mister Buckley,” she said, ducking her white-haired head respectfully. Chris made the sign of the Three and Three. Olivia didn’t, studying her closely.