She had learnt another lesson too, and that was not to look behind her to see if she were being followed. Instead, she stopped to watch street performers, angling herself to keep an eye on the way she had come, scanning for the familiar person of the ginger-whiskered man. There was no one she recognized. Flame burst from a street clown’s mouth and the crowd oohed in delight. Giving way to someone else who wanted to watch, she melted back out of the light and continued on her way.
It grew darker along the mercantile streets where Mastrini’s and Treacher’s were located. All the shops and businesses were closed, the clerks and shopkeepers all gone home. Now there was less excitement and more fear. This was dangerous; fewer people on the streets meant more risk, as well she knew from that morning.
Her footsteps sounded loud and lonely on the wet cobblestones. The fog closed around her, distorting sounds so that she couldn’t tell where they were coming from.
Once she thought she heard something, but when she stopped she could hear nothing except the trickle of water. She extended her senses outward, closing her eyes to hear what she could, but only the distant revelry of the nighttime city came to her ears.
Treacher’s was down the next alley. Looking behind her, she gave up stealth and hurried down the sidewalk to the dark mouth of the little street. Breathing hard, her heart hammering, she leaned back against the cold wall, trying to regain her composure. The smell of sewage rose up around her, letting her know she was in the right place. Treacher’s shop was hidden in the darkness up ahead. Yvienne stepped into the alley. She kept one hand on the wet wall, scraping her palm on the rough brick. She skirted a pile of rags and debris that she hoped was neither animate nor a corpse. It didn’t reach out to grab her ankle as she passed, so she reckoned it a good sign.
Treacher’s shop with its faded sign was silent and empty. The windows were blank eyes in the darkness, the dark shutters drawn to, and she could smell paper and machine oil and ink. There was no light, but she expected none. Yvienne went to rap gently on the door, but to her surprise the door was already ajar.
She stopped, the back of her neck prickling in fear. Leave the door unlocked for her, yes. But ajar?
She put one hand inside the satchel, throwing back the flap and gripping the pistol. She pushed the door the rest of the way open and closed it behind her. The inside of the shop was pitch dark. Yvienne stepped out of the doorway, fumbling for a match from the satchel. She struck it on the brick wall of the shop and it flared, the sulfur acrid in her nostrils. She found the small lantern hanging by the door and lit it. Light bloomed. She held the lantern high over her head, its warm glow illuminating the shop.
The shop was a shambles. Papers and type were spilled everywhere, the table overturned, glass crunched underfoot. Yvienne gasped. “Mr Treacher?” she whispered. She gathered her courage and called louder, “Mr Treacher?”
There was no answer. Her heart hammering, Yvienne stepped carefully into the back room, where the destruction was even more thorough. Everything had been destroyed, and they had even taken a sledgehammer to the printing press, a thing that she, as a booklover, felt a desecration.
There was a small door at the back of the shop, from the smell of it the water closet. It was ajar, and although she couldn’t see all the way in, she could see a boot, sticking slightly over the threshold.
With shaking hands, she pulled the door the rest of the way.
Treacher was dead, his face ashen and blue, his eyes staring. She couldn’t see any wound at first, and then she detected a thin wire looped around his neck. He had been garroted so thoroughly the wire cut bloodlessly above his collar.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Panic came over her in waves and she had to set the lantern down and breathe deep.
Get out get out get out get out. She had to flee. What had she been thinking?
This was her fault. Treacher had been silenced so he couldn’t reveal the Guild’s secrets. He printed the Arabestus letter. I killed him. She stuffed her fist in her mouth so she wouldn’t burst out into sobs. I can’t just leave him here, she thought. He deserved someone who cared enough to bring his body away and mourn him, and light the ceremonial funeral torches. He had a sister and he had a grand-nephew. That boy could not find him dead when he came to work tomorrow.
But who could she tell? The constables? They were in the pocket of the Guild. And they would wonder what she was doing, lurking about Port Saint Frey at night, in boys’ clothes.
Yvienne leaned down and with a trembling hand tried to close his eyes, but he continued to stare accusingly at her. So, she took off the flannel at her neck and covered his face, saying a prayer for mercy for the dead. I hope he was already dead before they destroyed the shop, she thought. It would have broken his heart.
The sound of the front door creaking open caught her attention and she jerked to alert. She made to snuff the lantern, but stopped. It would only put her at a disadvantage, her eyes unused to sudden darkness. Instead, she moved to the side of the inner door, waiting for the other intruder to come further in. Her mouth was dry and she breathed as lightly as she could. She heard footsteps and a muffled curse as whoever it was barked his shin on the mess. She pulled her pistol out of the bag, and held it at the ready.
The inner door moved slightly, and then it
