“Perhaps,” she said. “Though getting writs, working around Circle Law, based on supposition . . .”
“I know,” he said. He swallowed hard. He knew what he had to say, but it was so very difficult. It went against every value he had been raised with, but he knew it was right. “I have built up a store of unclaimed personal days. I will be using at least one tomorrow. I’ve already left word at the station.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“I mean . . . tomorrow . . . tomorrow I will not be in uniform or acting as an officer of the law.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Are you sure—”
“I’m certain that someone must give this deeper investigation, and given the nature of it—in Dentonhill, with fetid corruption, as well as a mage chapterhouse protected by Circle Law—then that investigation must be done outside the bounds of the law.”
“Do you need me—”
“No,” he said firmly. “Satrine, I—you have a much heavier burden of home and family, and that weight is on you. I know you cannot risk your position or your salary.”
She took that in. “And are you prepared to?”
“My position is tenuous as it is. I have examined the risk versus the benefit. I have a bit more investigation I wish to do first, for I have additional theories of connecting circumstances I wish to research, but . . . if there are children who require rescue, and they are in that house, I will take whatever punishment the city metes out to me as fair exchange.”
She nodded. “You remember, though. You need help—”
“I cannot place that—”
“If you need help, Minox,” she said firmly. “I’ll always come for you.”
He made a smile come to his lips, so she could see it. “I do miss your partnership, Satrine.”
“Get home,” she said. “Get a proper night’s sleep, and I’m going to do the same. There’s a robbery that’s not sitting right with me, going to look back into that. That’s my day tomorrow.”
“Of course,” he said. “My . . . my best to your family, Satrine. Take care of them.”
She went in and latched the door.
That would do. He’d go home now, sleep in his bed, have breakfast with his family in the morning. And tomorrow . . .
Tomorrow would bring what it would.
Antepenultimate Interlude
“COME ALONG, JARED.”
Kimber had decided to make Jared Scall—pulling him away from the precipice, saving his soul—her own dedicated project. While most of the former residents of Holver Alley had recovered from the fire, or at least moved on, Jared had sunk further and further. She couldn’t stop him from drinking—she knew if she cut him off, he would just go somewhere else. But she could temper it, and get him back on his feet and starting his day as soon as possible. That was her new strategy with him. Transform him into a man who was up with the dawn and ready to face the day.
He had made it clear he wouldn’t sit at a service at Saint Bridget’s, but he had agreed to go with Kimber and pray with her at the statue in the narthex. Going right at dawn, they were almost certain to have it to themselves.
They didn’t.
Kimber was surprised to find a Cloistress of the Blue at the foot of the saint in the narthex. But she wasn’t praying; she was curled up, asleep on the ground.
“That usually happen?” Jared grumbled out.
“First time,” Kimber said. She gently touched the cloistress on the shoulder, triggering a far more sudden and aggressive reaction than Kimber was ready for. The girl screamed, her hand shooting out to Kimber’s neck, her eyes bloodshot and wild.
“None of you will pass these doors, foul—” She blinked, her eyes focusing on Kimber. “No, sorry, sorry, what—I—” She looked around, noting Jared. “And you. You are not in service of Saint Alexis.”
“No,” Jared said. “Girl, I think you should let her go.”
Kimber wheezed out, “Please.” The girl looked back at her, and seemed to only now realize that her hand was at Kimber’s throat.
“I’m very sorry,” she said, letting go. “I don’t know—where even—was I asleep?”
“Yes,” Kimber said. “Are you all right?”
“No, I most certainly am not,” the girl said, anger rising in her voice. Her attention turned back to Jared. “And you, I—you’re not the—” Suddenly she stopped, her face going pale. Her eyes welled up with tears. “I’m so sorry. I’ve lived through so many tomorrows that should not be, and . . . I’m so sorry.”
“Sister?” Kimber asked. She was very confused and concerned. “Does Reverend Halster know you’re here?”
“Here as in this church, or here as in sleeping in the narthex? Yes, and probably not. And I—what day is it?”
“The twenty-sixth of Oscan,” Jared said.
“Twenty-sixth. Good. Good. I’m actually here. I’m actually now. Tomorrow is coming so many ways, and I must have the wisdom to guide it.” The cloistress got to her feet and brushed her habit off. “I am very sorry, I’ll leave you to your prayers. Be in grace, as Saint Alexis calls to you.”
“Saint Bridget,” Kimber said, pointing to the statue.
“Yes, I—” The cloistress stopped. “I’m sorry, I am—called, I believe. And I must act. I have much to do.” She went out of the narthex into the street square.
“Are you all right?” Jared asked Kimber, his hand gently touching her shoulder.
“Yes, just . . . just surprised. Who is that girl?”
“I’ve never seen her,” he said, looking out to the street, watching where the girl went.
Nor had Kimber. She didn’t even know there was a cloistry here at Saint Bridget’s. But she did not know all things; that was on God and the saints. “Are you ready for our prayers?”
“I am,” he said, turning back to her. “More than I’ve ever been, I think.”
That was a start. Perhaps there was salvation, even for his soul. For every soul the saints watched over.
Though as she knelt at the foot of the saint, Kimber wondered who was watching over the clearly troubled
