A shadow crossed Fowler’s face, and he nodded almost imperceptibly. “Perhaps.”
Hester folded her hands in her lap. “What happened tonight?”
“I was in a bar in Chelsea. Your man Hoverly arrived with a group of men I recognised as rebel sympathisers and requested a private room. My interest was piqued, so I followed them to listen in.” He glanced knowingly at Ilsa, who scowled. “But things had already turned… bloody.”
“So you failed to hear any of their conversation?” said Eliot.
Fowler glared at him opaquely. “My interest was piqued by a scream,” he clarified. “I was engaged before that, too far away to hear anything.”
“Ah.” Eliot smiled his cruellest smile. “Remind me, what’s your vice? Cards, isn’t it?”
“Eliot,” growled Hester.
For a brief flash, Eliot had got a reaction from the Wraith – a sting of surprise; the most weakness Ilsa had ever seen in him – but then Fowler schooled his features into impassivity. Ilsa marvelled that the captain could have anything in common with Bill Blume, but in that single moment, she knew unequivocally that he did. That was why his attention had snagged on the wrestling at the street party that night in Camden. It wasn’t the fighting; it was the money changing hands.
“So you just decided to be a hero?” said Eliot, changing tack. Definitely a love rivalry, thought Ilsa with a sting.
Fowler gazed levelly back at him. “I decided to help a fellow man in need when it was in my power to do so.”
“So much for ruthlessness,” said Eliot, adding: “it’s a wonder the Order are as feared as they are.”
“Ruthlessness is not the same as strength, Quillon. You of all people should know that.” Eliot ground his teeth, and even Hester opened her mouth, but Fowler did not answer to either of them, and he pressed on. “It’s our strength the rest of you fear, and we didn’t cultivate it by undiscerningly slaying our way across the city. Mercy can be strength too.”
“I’m sorry, was that mercy or money?”
“Eliot, enough,” snapped Hester. Fowler hadn’t deigned to rise to the taunt, and simply smiled. “That’s quite some speech coming from a paid assassin,” Hester said to him.
He crossed his arms over his broad chest and gestured to Ilsa with a nod. “Paid rescuer too.”
“And who paid you to rescue Aelius?” said Ilsa.
He was quiet as he studied her. “It’s my night off.”
Hester caught her eye, and Ilsa nodded. It was the core of decency she had suspected the captain had, despite Eliot’s misgivings. Hester sighed, and obviously decided to trust her.
“I take it you’ve heard the rumours?” she asked the captain.
“I make it my job to hear.”
“Then I suppose it won’t hurt if I tell you they’re true. Gedeon Ravenswood is missing. The apprentice Seer of the Docklands is with him. And we need to find them both, along with twelve of our wolves, without any more delay.”
There was silence. Fowler’s brow knotted as he studied Hester. “Your cousin has been missing for nearly two months. Can I ask why the sudden urgency?”
“No, you can’t,” said Hester. “Do you want the job or not?”
“Why me? Because I’m here?”
“Because my cousin trusts you, and because you found her in three days when we failed to for seventeen years. I want you to do the same for her brother.”
Fowler considered each of them, his gaze lingering on Eliot, who had once again withdrawn several paces from the rest of the group. Eventually, he rolled his shoulders and said, “I’ll need to know everything.”
34
With a blow-by-blow of Gedeon’s movements as far as Ilsa knew them, and a manifest of the missing wolves, Fowler disappeared into the dawn with a promise of sending word on his progress soon.
Soon.
It was all they could get from him.
But every minute that they didn’t hear from Cadell Fowler felt like an hour, and “soon” became an eternity. When a messenger arrived from the Heart, with a note saying Lucius would “think about” Hester’s request – precisely the kind of non-news they had all feared – Ilsa was about ready to snap.
She was restlessly wandering the corridors, playing cards in hand, when she came across Oren in the meeting room.
Perhaps out of habit, he was in his usual seat. He had pulled the chair out and was facing the window, but didn’t seem to be looking at anything in particular. Rather, he gazed into space, lost in thought and oblivious to her standing there.
She closed the door with a sharp click and Oren started.
“Hello,” said Ilsa.
“Hello.” Compulsively, he took out his glasses and started to polish them. After an awkward pause he added, “I expect this seat at the end is yours now.”
For a moment, Ilsa thought he meant Gedeon’s chair, but he was gesturing to the other end of the table; not the head, but equally set apart.
She sat, but she wasn’t sure what to say, and Oren continued to stare out the window. It was a minute or more before he broke the silence.
“I was told that Captain Fowler bound your wrists with Changeling leather when he found you,” he said. His tone was conversational but his face was taut and his fingers played with his shirtsleeves. “You didn’t mention it.”
“I made him do it twice, actually.” Oren blinked in bemusement, so Ilsa demonstrated her deftness with a disappearing card. She tried to sound light-hearted, but her voice came out weak when she added, “I ain’t easy to keep tied up these days.”
For a moment, Oren just stared, his expression unreadable. Then he nodded, just once, and began rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. “In that case, I am especially sorry that he bound you.”
Oren’s skin changed, and the markings he revealed made Ilsa’s blood run cold. Cords of scarring ran around both wrists. He rotated his forearms so she could see all of it and then, just as quickly, hid it all again. “As you know, Changeling leather is fairly soft, but tie it tight enough for long
