The Deathsniffer’s Assistant (The Faraday Files Book 1) (54 page)

He swallowed. “Doctor,” he said, bobbing his head respectfully. “I…”

He was hoping the doctor would interrupt him, ask what he was doing here, and take the burden of introduction off his shoulders, but Doctor Livingstone merely sat with his thin hands folded on the table, bound by shackles, looking up at him. Waiting.

Chris sighed. He stepped forward, pulled out the chair on the opposite side of the table, and sat down. He knew what he’d come here to ask, and he knew what he hadn’t, but the two things seemed to confuse and switch around in his head, and when he opened his mouth, the wrong question came out, like he knew it would. “Did you?” he asked, and he heard with shame the ache in his voice. He closed his eyes, not wanting to meet the doctor’s. He didn’t want to see whatever was displayed there.

A pause. The other seat creaked. “If you have to ask, I don’t have an answer for you,” the doctor said quietly.

“That’s not fair,” Chris said, opening his eyes. He placed both his hands on the table, palm down, and he
did
meet the doctor’s eyes, then. “You don’t have any right to be hurt. I barely know you. We spoke only once. And―”

“Did you come here only to throw more accusations I can’t answer at me, Mister Buckley?” the doctor said. He didn’t sound angry, or even defensive. He just sounded tired. Tired and sad. “I’ve had quite enough of that in the last week, let me tell you.”

“I just…” Chris shook his head. “I just need to hear you
say
it.”

The doctor rubbed his wrist where the shackles chafed him. Chris winced and had to look away when he saw how red and raw the skin had been rubbed. This was a man meant for laboratories and lecture halls, not chains and bars. “One thousand, five hundred and seventeen people died on the night of the Floating Castle,” the doctor said quietly. “People always talk about the five hundred upper class invitees, but they never mention the three hundred on the serving and maintenance staff. And the building didn’t fall into the ocean. There were thousands of people who―”

“I know,” Chris said, sharper than intended. Gods, did he ever know.

The doctor shook his head sadly. He closed his eyes, and there was real pain on his face as he visibly considered all the bodies that night had left in its wake. “No,” he said quietly. “I didn’t, Mister Buckley. I wouldn’t. I
couldn’t
.”

Chris nodded, feeling the villain for having asked. He believed him. He couldn’t not. Try as he may to maintain some suspicion, some healthy scepticism, he couldn’t help but believe him. If nothing else, it felt good. The doctor’s chains clanked and then they sat in silence with their hands on the table between them.

“I…” Chris said eventually. He threaded his fingers together, considering how to proceed, but no elegant solution presented himself, and he ended up spreading his hands helplessly. “I really need your help,” he said, his voice a thin plea.

The doctor gave a tight smile. “I’m not really in a position to be helping anyone, Mister Buckley,” he said.

“No, I know,” Chris hurried to assure him. “I know. I―I just…my sister.” He took a deep breath, trying to gather up his scattered thoughts. “You offered to help my sister, Doctor Livingstone, and I should have just agreed right there before it was all too late, but I see now, Gods, I see you were right. She can’t stay here in Darrington. It won’t get better. It will only get worse. When she’s an
adult
, she can make a decision for herself, what to do with her abilities, but right
now
, she’s―” He raised his hand to his face and pulled off his new eyeglasses, throwing them down on the table. He pinched the bridge of his nose. He so badly wanted the doctor to interrupt and provide him with some help so he could just stop
begging
, but no assistance came and he had to continue in a thoroughly pathetic, plaintive little voice. “I’ve tried going to the police for help, but they’re understaffed and they say I don’t have a case. My sister is in danger, Doctor. It’s my job to protect her, and I can’t, and I
need
you to help me,” he pleaded.

Ringing silence, then, “Mister Buckley…” the doctor said quietly. When Chris opened his eyes, the doctor was regarding him sadly. “Mister Buckley,” he repeated, and spread his wrists as far wide as they could go. His shackles clattered. “My hands are quite literally tied.”

“There has to be someone,” Chris pressed, misery settling onto his shoulders. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be… “Someone else in your movement. If you could just give me a name and a categorization, or even an address, I could go and find them and I’m sure…”

But the doctor was shaking his head. When Chris trailed off, the doctor filled the silence, his voice low and slow. “I’ve only barely been in control of
my movement
for years, Mister Buckley,” he said. “Many years. There are so many facets and fragments and differences of ideal and opinion. The ‘reformist agenda’ is as varied as a fishwife’s grocery list. It’s been all I’ve been able to do for a very long time now to keep everyone under the same banner, because once we split off into our splinter groups, we’ve been divided, and then…” There was cavernously deep regret in the doctor’s eyes. He sighed. “I’ve been gone for almost four days now, Mister Buckley, and while it shames me to admit it, I couldn’t vouch for what side a single person with the sort of clout you need is on.”

“Miss Albany said…” Chris murmured.

“Rachel is not a reformist. She doesn’t understand the politics of the movement. She shares the views but she is not a part of the group. And her brother is the
last
person you should trust to take care of your sister. I’d put her in the hands of Hector Combs himself before I’d let Garrett Albany touch her.” The ferocity in the doctor’s voice at the last sent a shiver down Chris’s spine even as what was being said put despair into his heart.

“So what do I
do
?” he asked, and then flushed at how high his voice climbed. He buried his face in his hands. “The family fortune is bloody
gone
. It’s
gone
. I don’t―I can’t―I
need
to―” He cut himself off completely, biting back the sob of frustration that would make his humiliation complete.

“I don’t know what you need to do, Mister Buckley,” the doctor said, in a voice that was not unsympathetic. “And I
am
sorry I can’t provide the help I told you I would be able to. But you must understand…right now, I have more important things to worry about.”

“Will they get you?” Chris asked, clinging to the last shred of hope, that this charge would just blow over the doctor would be out and able to assist in days.

But, no. “Probably,” the doctor said sadly. “All the traditionalists have ever needed is me out of the picture. I don’t know what they have on me, but they’ve got the strongest and best of every categorization in Tarland working tirelessly for their goals. Whatever they’ve conjured up, I doubt a truthsniffer in the world will be able to tell it stinks.”

The door behind them opened. Chris didn’t need to turn to look to know it was William, especially when he recognized his pinched, sweet alto voice. “I’m sorry,” he said, quickly and quietly, “But you need to finish up. Hannah is sniffing about, wondering why I’ve been using her clearance. She won’t like this, not one bit.”

The doctor stood from his seat. “There’s no need to draw this out,” he said kindly. “I think we’re mostly done here, wouldn’t you agree, Mister Buckley?”

Chris took a deep breath, and then nodded. Carefully, as quickly as he was able, he slipped all the spilled pieces back into their cupboards and closed the doors firmly behind them. He slid his specs back up his nose, and he took another breath, and then one more, steadying and anchoring himself. When he climbed to his feet, he had his most polite smile on his face, and he reached out to grip the doctor’s outstretched hand in courteous familiarity. “Thank you very much for your time, Doctor Livingstone,” he said. They shook hands like old business partners. “I appreciate your efforts.”

“And I’m sorry I couldn’t help you more, Mister Buckley,” said the doctor with a sad, sad smile. “I truly am.”

When the doctor reached the far door, two officers escorted him out of the room. Chris watched him go with a pit in his stomach, not moving until William tugged at his arm, pulling him towards the door they had entered from. “It would be best if you’re not here when Hannah finds out I had him out,” he said. “I know she seems very sweet, but you
don’t
want to see her angry.”

“No, of course not,” Chris replied, allowing himself to be pulled out the door. William released his arm when they got to the hallway, and they hurried back down the long, narrow corridor until they reached the front room where he’d spent the morning sitting and waiting.

William didn’t stop there. He strode to the front doors with a confident stride, holding one open and indicating Chris should pass through ahead of him as if he was a gentleman and Chris were the lady on his arm. He continued to walk and not stop until they reached the corner near the station, where carriages pulled by palfreys, unicorns, and wing-clipped hippogryphs passed by and the roar of Darrington was all around them. Then and only then did William turn and gave him a look that was, shockingly, quite sympathetic. “He didn’t give you the answer you were hoping for,” he said.

Chris shoved his hands into his pockets. “No,” he said, not quite wanting to meet the timeseer’s eyes. “No, he didn’t.”

“That’s unfortunate,” William said. They stood awkwardly for a moment. William reached into his uniform pocket, pulled out a pocket watch, and studied its face. He winced and snapped it shut, dropping it back into his pocket. “I have work,” he said abruptly. “And bloody Hannah will want an explanation for what I was doing with our most impressive prisoner.”

“What will you tell her?” Chris asked, genuinely worried he might get the young man into trouble. After all, he’d taken this risk for his sake, and asked for nothing in return.

But William cracked a sour-looking smile and shrugged one slender shoulder. His face looked bored more than concerned. “I’ll tell her it was a grand whim of mine. I’m known for those, and they always give me what I want in the end. I’m too important to make angry. We have a system, they and I. They keep me on their tight little leash, and I make it difficult for them.” He peered up into Chris’s face for a moment, and then sighed and patted the pocket where he’d dropped the watch. “I really do have to go,” he said, and brushed past Chris, starting back towards the station.

“Wait,” Chris cried after him, half-turning. He fumbled for words to express his feelings of guilt. “I―if you’d just tell me where you think you know me from,” he said haltingly. “Then maybe…”

William shook his head and sighed irritably. “That would defeat the sodding purpose,” he muttered, and then, in a softer voice, he continued. “I’d like to see you again, Christopher. I’d like…” he turned his head to look back and beneath his thick, long lashes, there was something childishly vulnerable in those dark, luminous eyes. “I would like to see you again,” he repeated, and all the languid, pouting bitterness was gone from his voice, leaving behind only hope.

Well, it wasn’t as though Chris would be leaving Darrington. He pushed down a rush of bitterness of his own at the thought and fumbled up a courteous smile. It was all he could give. “I can see no harm in that,” he said, and William sighed and turned and walked away, leaving him on the corner with the city pouring past him in all directions.

Taking only a moment to orient himself, Chris started off for home. It would be a bit of a hike, but he couldn’t justify spending the royals on a taxicab. Olivia had been very generous, letting him have these days during the fruitless hunt for the missing faceshifter to attend to business with his sister, but not generous enough to pay him full wages. And even if she had been, if he was
ever
going to do something about Rosemary…

He smiled and nodded to another passerby, letting all his engrained courtesies do the work while his mind wandered. He thought back to what Fernand had said only a week before, which seemed quite impossible, for surely it had been an age. No more money, he’d said. Just make due until Rosemary came of age. It had seemed difficult, but reasonable, at the time. Now…

Now, everything had changed. Ever since White Clover and the observation wheel and the cloudlings,
everything
had changed. There would be no waiting until Rosemary came of age. Jackals prowled around her on all sides, and nothing he could do seemed enough to hold them at bay. Even Rosemary herself seemed to barely grasp the situation, the
danger
. They’d argued and argued and argued again since he’d come home from the hospital on Healfday morning, and he never seemed to win the arguments by anything but angrily telling her he was her legal guardian and she’d do what he said. She’s saved lives, she’d said. She’d
agreed
to accompany Combs. If she could stop elementals from ruining society, why should she wait until she was nineteen?

She made so much sense when she threw those things in his face that he completely lost his own sense of reality. She was too much like his damned father, in the end. Right now, he knew he was right. Right now, he knew even if she could feasibly prop the current order up for the rest of history, the issue wasn’t so simple. They would use her up and throw her away. They would abuse her. They would break her. They would ruin her bloody life. But one she began talking to him, so articulate and well-spoken and
so
much like his father…

At least Miss Albany made him feel sane again, afterward.

It would get worse, he told himself again, waiting for a break in traffic so he could dash across the street. It would get worse before it got better. Rosemary would grow more and more willful as she grew older and older, and Chris would lose more battles than he won. He’d become the enemy. Combs would make himself into Rosemary’s saviour. While Chris could do nothing but watch, his sweet sister would be turned inside out and poured into a dying dream, and then―