Page 97 of A Treacherous Trade
Bea.
Strong and stern and… sorrowful.
“I wish you were less clever, Fiona,” she said, still seeming wan and tired, but no longer weak. What I read on her features shocked me just as much as the revelation. Not only was there resignation there, but genuine regret. Her proud shoulders slumped forward and her mouth was drawn into a hard line, as though bravely fighting the wobble in her chin. “Such a blasted pity. Ireallyadmired you.”
Admired.
Past tense.
I clung to consciousness with the claws of a raptor bird snatching at its prey.
“What did you give me?” I demanded. Or would have, if my tongue had obeyed.
Where is Amelia?I wanted to ask. Was she working alongside her, or was Croft going to have to identify both of our remains?
I couldn’t let that happen. I had to fight.
In slow motion, the knife slid from my hands as I clutched the desk in one last desperate attempt to stay upright. I didn’t want to go down. I didn’t want to bleed from my orifices and end up naked on a cold slab in a drawer.
I couldn’t die without knowing what the Ripper had to say.
ChapterTwenty-Two
Something had crawled into my mouth and subsequently died.
Or perhaps I’d licked a penny drenched in bog water. Metallic and decaying, my tongue was like sandpaper against my palate. The ground pressed hard against my back, the cold seeping through the layers of my clothing.
I needed water, something to reconstitute my mouth, my aching body and rolling stomach.
Prying weighted eyes open changed nothing. I blinked. Blinked again.
Only the scratch of my lids against dry pupils told me I’d been successful, but it remained as dark out here as when my eyes were closed. No seam of drapes or light peeking around a door.
It was as if I were in a cave with no entrance.
Or buried alive.
Amid an immediate surge of panic, my limbs flailed and caught nothing.
Not buried, then. At least not in a grave.
I lay there attempting to get my bearings, to catch and hold on to panicked breaths. What did I know? It was cold in here, but not like one would suffer out-of-doors in January, or below ground.
The air was thick with scents. I breathed them in, testing it. The metallic taste I’d initially noted was actually an aroma sharpened by chemical undertones.
Beneath me, the ground was rough, but not with earth—with fibers.
Carpets.
But not the kind one would find beneath one’s feet at home. Industrial. Wiry. Abrasive to my fingertips.
All right. I was indoors. That was something. Now I needed to explore further.
When I struggled into a sitting position, the darkness spun and I had no point of reference to cling to, so I held my head at the temples, rubbing the throb of pain, waiting, hoping it would pass.
What had Beatrice given me?
Betrayal.
