Page 96 of Never a Hero

They were silent for the rest of the drive.

Eventually, the carriage drew to a stop. The windows showed only darkness and fog, but Joan had the impression of a busy street outside, of early-morning workers. The air smelled of herbal medicines and fish and brine. She guessed they were near some docks, although she couldn’t have said if they were north or south of the river.

Footsteps came around the carriage, and the door opened, revealing Tom’s ruddy face. Tom had changed clothes; he was in a rumpled dockworker’s shirt with heavy trousers and a low cap. Behind him, there was a nondescript brick building with a heavy black door. ‘We’re here,’ Tom said.

Joan tensed herself for Nick to make a move. But he just jumped out and thanked Tom with apparent sincerity.

‘Go get those injuries checked out,’ Tom told Nick. ‘There’s a doctor waiting for you.’

Nick walked on toward the building, hands in his pockets, without looking back. When he reached the door, he pulled it open without hesitation. Joan felt a shiver of unease, watching him enter.

‘He’ll be all right,’ Tom said to Joan, following her gaze. ‘We checked him out earlier too. Those bruises are superficial.’

‘Tom …’ Joan needed to tell him that Nick was dangerous. That he’d broken the Argent power.

But if she said that, what would Tom do? What would happen to Nick? Would they try to lock him up? Kill him? Nick would fight … Joan saw in her mind’s eye a massacre like the one at Holland House.

No, not yet, she decided. Nick had promised to be on their side for now. He’d keep his word. He always had before.

But afterward … After they’d stopped Eleanor …

Well, the boathouse would need to be cleared out, for one thing. And the Wyvern Inn. Joan had been so stupid to take him to monster places.

‘Joan?’ Tom said, and Joan realised that she’d been staring at nothing. ‘You should get checked out too.’

‘I’m fine,’ Joan said. She wasn’t hurt. ‘I need to talk to you.’

‘Jamie and Ruth are grabbing something to eat. Go find them, and I’ll join you. We can talk then.’

‘Tom—’

‘Eat,’ Tom said. ‘You’ll need it. I think it’ll be a long session with the prisoner.’

‘The prisoner?’ Joan said.

‘We captured Aaron Oliver when we freed you.’ Tom’s heavy jaw tightened. ‘He’s been working with her. We’re going to interrogate him until he tells us everything he knows.’

twenty-eight

The sky showed a hint of pink, and Joan felt a disoriented lurch. Was it sunset or dawn? Dawn, she reminded herself. They’d been in the carriage at night, and now morning was coming.

She ran a hand over her face. She couldn’t untangle her emotions. She’d kissed Nick, and then Eleanor had torn them apart. Again. No … Joan couldn’t blame Eleanor this time. Joan had done something unforgivable, and Nick had found out. That was the plain truth. The question was, would he keep his promise? Would he remain on their side until Eleanor was stopped?

Early as it was, the street sounded like a fish market. ‘Eels!’ a woman called out as she walked by, a heavy bucket on her head. She adjusted her thick shawl. ‘Eels! Eels! Live eels!’ The bucket shook with the fury of its contents. Farther up, another woman shouted: ‘Fish! Fish! Sweet as cream!’

The carriage had brought them to a narrow cobbled street. In Kensington, the air had smelled of horse manure and bitter smoke. Here, near the docks, that distinctive stink was joined by wafts of rotting fish and sewage, and the faint scent of something more pleasant and familiar. Something Joan couldn’t quite place …

She looked around. The shop opposite displayed dried roots and herbs in glass jars. Chinese characters were daubed on the window. ‘That’s Chinese medicine,’ she said, surprised. She recognised the faint scent then as incense—joss sticks.

Amid the cacophony, she caught a few familiar words: Hao de. Hao de. Okay. Okay. Through the gloom, she made out two men carrying wooden planks on their shoulders. They had Chinese faces and queue braids. Joan felt her mouth drop open. This really was the nineteenth century. And some part of her—the monster part that loved history—just wanted to keep walking, to explore.

‘This is the outer edge of Chinatown,’ Tom said. ‘Where the early sailors settled.’ He nodded to the west. ‘The Regent’s Canal Dock is that way.’

‘We’re back in Limehouse?’ Joan took in the black door in front of them. ‘This is the boathouse,’ she realised. The street was narrower in this time, and the roller door of the future was a wooden door here. The building itself was still the same clay-brown brick, though. Still the same height.

Joan took a deep breath as she reached for the door handle. Nick had gone in barely a minute ahead of her, but she was hit by a sudden fear of what she might find inside.

To her relief, though, there was no sign of violence when she opened the door—and no sign of Nick. A ginger cat lay stretched out just inside the doorway. Joan bent to pat it as she walked in. From a mezzanine above, someone whistled a trill—the Hathaways’ private language.

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