The Deathsniffer’s Assistant (The Faraday Files Book 1) (38 page)

When he really took his life apart in his mind, in fact, the offer didn’t seem as unacceptable as it felt it should.

The doctor looked at the both of them. “Well,” he said. “What do you think?”

Chris watched Fernand steer his horse out to the road. The old man’s hair shone gold and orange in the light of the sunset, and for a moment, strong on the animal’s back, with his hair turned auburn and his shoulders back, he looked like the strong young man he hadn’t been in an age, a man Chris had never actually met.

And then he wheeled the handsome horse, turned about, and vanished into the crowd.

Chris ran a hand through his hair, squinting through the ache that threatened to split his head apart at the temples. He and Fernand had spent the last hour discussing the offer, long after Doctor Livingstone had left, and Chris felt no more clarity than he had when the man had first offered the extreme solution to all their problems.

He hadn’t expected Fernand’s open willingness to consider the option. “I’m a traditionalist man to the bone,” he’d said gruffly at the end. “I support Sir Hector Combs tirelessly because he’ll do anything he has to, to get things done, to maintain the way of life that’s made Tarland the greatest nation in the world.” His face had softened and his voice had gone quiet, then, and Chris had seen pain flickering deep in his eyes. “And I don’t want him anywhere near Miss Rosemary, young master, for all those very same reasons. I can’t tell you what to do. I don’t know, myself. But don’t you just dismiss this out of hand. Give this thought.”

As if he could do anything else. Chris rubbed at his temples with his index and middle fingers, trying to soothe away the ache to no avail. Cooperton. A small university town over three hours up along the eastern seaboard. Nothing much there other than scholars and researchers. No parties, no shops, no theatres. Nothing a young lady with as much personality and beauty and charisma as Rosemary would need growing up.

But it wasn’t as though he’d be able to afford those things for her, anyway. The idea of Rosemary having a debutante’s ball, with a personally designed gown and a hat that wasn’t years out of style was a pipe dream at best, a sad fantasy at worst. They could be safe in Cooperton. Far from Hector and Avery Combs and their ambitions, from Olivia Faraday and the darkness that followed her about like the mist hanging around her office—even far from Francis Livingstone, though it was frustratingly difficult not to trust the man.

“Mister Buckley?”

Startled, Chris looked up.

He shouldn’t have been so shocked to see Miss Albany standing at the foot of the staircase, but somehow, he’d completely forgotten about her. How she’d started all of this, the doctor’s cryptic remarks about some unpleasant brother, and how Chris had sent her to Rosemary to await her fate like a misbehaving child. His face burned at the memory of the last, but he tried to keep his expression neutral as he studied her.

Despite how their last encounter had ended, she met his gaze with her chin held high, a challenge in her eyes. The only sign that she was uncomfortable was the hand knotted into her plain grey skirts. “Mister Buckley,” she repeated, her voice low and filled to brimming with discomfort. “I would like to know whether or not I’ll be coming in tomorrow.”

She was asking if she was fired, Chris realized with a start.

And then, to his shame, he considered actually doing it. He almost opened his mouth to tell her, “No, don’t bother.” He’d find a nice, simple, uncomplicated nanny who’d do only what was required of her, who’d teach Rosemary history and geography and arithmetic without filling her head with ideas, who didn’t have any political affiliation, who dressed in stylish skirts and wore lace gloves and large hats with fake flowers and real feathers.

But he didn’t want that nanny. He didn’t want just a nanny at all.

She hadn’t even hesitated that morning when he’d asked her to take care of the situation. For all his righteous outrage, he’d just left Rosemary here, and he’d trusted Miss Albany enough to take care of her, and no matter how she’d done it, she’d come through. If he’d had the time, he would have called the police, never even thinking through the logic of what she told him. She’d risked a good, steady job in an economy that had people on the streets to take care of his sister.

If he dismissed her, he was an idiot.

“I think,” he pronounced, mulling over each word, “that I actually might owe you an apology. And a thank you.”

“If I cared about either of those, I wouldn’t have taken such a risk.” Miss Albany’s words were carefully selected and tightly delivered, but her hand slowly uncurled from her skirts, belying her relief. “I care about your sister, I care about Avery Combs not getting what he wants, and I care about this job.” She took a deep breath. “So. Am I coming in tomorrow morning?”

A rueful smile tugged at Chris’s lips. “If you can stand to,” he murmured.

“Then I’ll be on time, as usual.” She used both hands and smoothed her skirts. “Miss Rosemary was up and about today,” she reported. “That lifeknitter who’s been seeing to her, Doctor Jameson, was here just after noon, and after a brief examination, he concluded her recovery is coming along very nicely. She should be fully restored from her burn out by Godsday. She’s a little groggy right now, because I gave her a tincture, but she’s awake.” Still as self-possessed as the Queen, she glided past him.

“Miss Albany,” he said, stopping her as she went to take her shapeless coat off the rack. “Whether you care about it or not, thank you. And I’m sorry.” Ears burning, he hurried up the stairs, too embarrassed to stay and hear what she might have to say in reply.

Rosemary’s big blue eyes flickered open as he brushed black ringlets off her forehead. She owlishly peered up at him in confusion for a long moment. Her gaze sharpened and her lips spread into a wide, happy smile. “Chris!” she exclaimed. There was a thickness to her words, and her eyes could stay focused for only a moment before her lids fluttered shut again, but there was also real excitement in her voice, and he smiled to think she brightened so just seeing his face.

“I hardly recognize you, stranger,” Chris said lightly. Her hair felt as soft as gryphon down.

She didn’t open her eyes, but her smile turned into a pout. “You’re always at work,” she drawled. “I was up for hours today and you weren’t here.”

“Well,” Chris said, feeling a pang of guilt. “Olivia Faraday is a very demanding woman. She keeps me on my toes all day long.”

The pout flipped back into a smile, and Rosemary blinked up at him again for several long moments, trying to orient herself. “Did you find out who did it?” she asked with a yawn.

Even now, she was thinking about his grand mystery. He smiled. “No,” he said quietly. “Not yet.”

“So slow!”

He chuckled, and then lapsed into silence as he thought about the most recent things whirling through his mind. “Hey…tell me, Rosemary,” he said hesitantly. “Do you want to be in Darrington? Do you love it here? Would…could you be happy somewhere else?”

When Rosemary didn’t immediately respond again, Chris assumed, with a sad little twinge, that she’d fallen asleep. But then she squirmed about beneath her blankets and her eyes opened and then closed once again. “I’m happy wherever you are, silly goose.”

He smiled.

She nuzzled down into her pillow and her bedding muffled her tiny voice. “Were you…were you in my room last night, Chris?”

His heart stopped. His hand stilled in her hair.
I was,
he reminded himself.
I was.
“Yes,” he answered quietly, forcing himself to resume his stroking, to act as though nothing was wrong. “Your music box had fallen, and I told you to go back to sleep. Do you remember?”

She managed a tiny nodded, drifting off into the safe embrace of sleep. “Then that
was
you standing over me all quiet in the dark.” And his breath all went out of his lungs. “It looked like you. I’m glad…I was scared…”

Chris drifted from the room in a daze, his head pounding. He went about his evening tasks in a stupor, those words echoing in his skull until they reached a fever pitch and he made a decision.

He put the note and the knife with his finished reports for Olivia.

livia’s eyes widened and her breath quickened as her gaze darted back and forth across the note. She gripped the paper so hard it crumpled in her hand, and her lips parted slightly in shock or delight or both. “This is incredible,” she breathed.

Chris fought to keep his cool. “
This
,” he reminded her, “was beside my sister’s bed. The person who wrote this was in my home, in her room, looming over her in the dark. I brought you this because I want you to tell me how we can take care of her.”
Until we leave Darrington
.

Olivia didn’t seem to hear him. She brushed past him, eyes fixated on the page as if it held the ingredients to the Elixir of Life. “Why you?” she mused, her movements too quick to be called pacing. “Why not me? I’m the Deathsniffer. You’re just my assistant. Why would they go into
your
house, threaten
your
sister? It doesn’t make any sense!” She halted and dropped her arm to her side so quickly it looked spring-loaded. She fixed him with a look, eyebrows pulling down. “Cwenday, you said?”