The Bone Garden: A Novel

— She's cleverer than she looks, — said Eben.

— Let's hope so. — The man started down a hallway. — This way, Mr. Tate. We'll see what she can tell us. —

Eben took her arm, his firm grip leaving no doubt that she would go where he directed her. They followed the man into a room where she saw roughly made furniture and a floor scarred by gouges. The shelves were lined with tattered ledgers, the pages yellowed from disuse. In the hearth were only cold ashes. The room did not match the man, whose tailored coat and air of prosperity were better suited to one of the fine homes on Beacon Hill.

Eben pushed her into a chair. It took only one dark look from him to get his message across: You will sit there. You will not move.

The older man set the lamp down on a desk, stirring up a puff of dust. — You've been in hiding, Miss Connolly, — he said. — Why? —

— What makes you think I've been hiding? —

— Why else would you call yourself Rose Morrison? That is, I believe, the false name you gave to Mr. Smibart when he hired you as a seamstress. —

She shot a glare at Eben. — I didn't wish to encounter my brother-in-law again. —

— That's why you changed your name? It had nothing to do with this? — The Englishman reached into his pocket and pulled out something that gleamed in the lamplight. It was Aurnia's necklace. — I believe you pawned this several weeks ago. Something that did not belong to you. —

She stared at him in silence.

— So you did steal it. —

She could not let that charge go unanswered. — Aurnia gave it to me! —

— And you so blithely rid yourself of it? —

— She deserved a decent burial. I had no other way to pay for it. —

The Englishman glanced at Eben. — You didn't tell me that. She had a good reason to pawn it. —

— It still wasn't hers, — said Eben.

— And it sounds like it wasn't yours, either, Mr. Tate. — The man looked at Rose. — Did your sister ever tell you where she got this necklace? —

— I used to think it was Eben. But he's too cheap. —

The Englishman ignored Eben's glower and kept his focus on Rose. — So she never told you where she got it? — he asked.

— Why does it matter? — she shot back.

— This is a valuable piece of jewelry, Miss Connolly. Only someone of means could have afforded it. —

— Now you'll claim Aurnia stole it. You're with the Night Watch, aren't you? —

— No. —

— Who are you? —

Eben gave her a hard slap on the shoulder. — Show some respect! —

— For a man who won't even tell me his name? —

For her impudence, Eben raised his hand to deliver another blow, but the Englishman cut in: — There's no need for violence, Mr. Tate! —

— But you see what kind of girl she is! That's what I've had to put up with. —

The Englishman moved toward Rose, his gaze boring into her face. — I'm not with the local authorities, if that's any reassurance. —

— Then why do you ask me these questions? —

— I work for a client who shall remain nameless. I'm charged with the gathering of information. Information that, I'm afraid, only you can provide. —

She gave a disbelieving laugh. — I'm a seamstress, sir. Ask me about buttons or bows, and I'll have an answer for you. Other than that, I don't see how I can help. —

— But you can help me. You're the only one. — He moved in so close she could smell sweet tobacco on his breath. — Where is your sister's child? Where is the baby? —

— He doesn't deserve her. — She glanced at Eben. — What sort of father signs away the rights to his own daughter? —

— Just tell me where she is. —

— She's safe and she's fed. That's all he needs to know. Instead o' paying a pretty penny for a fancy lawyer, he could've bought his girl milk and a warm crib. —

— Is that what you think? That I'm in Mr. Tate's employ? —

— Aren't you? —

The Englishman gave a startled laugh. — Heavens, no! — he said, and she saw the angry flush of Eben's face. — I work for someone else, Miss Connolly. Someone who wants very much to know where the child is. — He brought his face even closer, and she drew away, her back pressing into the chair. — Where is the baby? —

Rose sat silent, suddenly thinking of that day in St. Augustine's cemetery, when Aurnia's grave had yawned at her feet. Mary Robinson had appeared like a ghost from the mist, her face pale and taut, her gaze ceaselessly scanning the graveyard. There are people inquiring about the child. Keep her hidden. Keep her safe.

— Miss Connolly? —

She felt her own pulse throbbing in her neck as his gaze bore even deeper. She remained silent.

To her relief, he straightened and wandered to the other end of the room, where he casually ran a finger across a bookshelf and looked at the dust he'd picked up. — Mr. Tate tells me you're a clever girl. Is that true? —

— I wouldn't know, sir. —

— I think you're entirely too modest. — He turned and looked at her. — What a shame that a girl with your intelligence is forced to live so close to the edge. Your shoes look as if they're falling apart. And that cloak? when was it last washed? Surely, you deserve better. —

— So do many others. —

— Ah, but you are the one being offered an opportunity here. —

— Opportunity? —

— A thousand dollars. If you bring me the child. —

She was stunned. That much money could buy a room in a fine lodging house with hot meals every night. New clothes and a warm coat, not this cloak with its tattered hem. All the tempting luxuries she could only dream about.

All I have to do is surrender Meggie.

— I can't help you, — she said.

Eben's blow came so quickly that the other man had no time to intervene. The impact made Rose's head snap sideways and she cringed in the chair, her cheek throbbing.

— That was not necessary, Mr. Tate! —

— You see how she is, though? —

— You can get more cooperation with a carrot than with a stick. —

— Well, she just turned down the carrot. —

Rose lifted her head and stared at Eben with undisguised hatred. No matter what they offered her, be it a thousand or ten thousand dollars, she would never give away her own flesh and blood.

The Englishman now stood before her, eyeing her face, where a bruise was surely starting to form. She didn't fear a blow from him; this man, she guessed, was far more accustomed to using words and cash as his tools of persuasion, and left the violence to other men.

— Let's try again, — he said to Rose.

— Or you'll have him hit me again? —

— I do apologize for that. — He looked at Eben. — Leave the room. —

— But I know her better than anyone! I can tell you when she's? —

— Leave the room. —

Eben shot Rose a poisonous look, then walked out, slamming the door behind him.