Page 23 of The Toymaker's Son

“How so?”

His smile tucked into the corner of his mouth. “One man’s madness is another’s dream.”

He had the most bizarre perspective on the everyday, leaving me puzzling over his words as he stepped from the sidewalk and waved down a passing carriage.

One man’s madness is another’s dream. He was right. But what if a man’s dreams turned to madness? Where did that leave the man?

ChapterEleven

The carriage ridewas an exercise in awkwardness when Devere ignored any further questions, preferring instead to gaze out of the window at the passing scenery. Seeing him outside the toy store struck me as peculiar, in the same way as seeing him inside the inn had, as though he didn’t quite belong in either setting. He’d always been distant, one of the many reasons the schoolboys had beaten him. If he’d just tried to make friends, tried to engage, his school years could have been very different. But asking him to change would have altered what made him so unique.

I’d found him fascinating: the quiet boy with the beautiful eyes. He’d resisted my attempts to engage with him then too. Unfortunately, his resistance had only intrigued me more.

“What are you smiling about?” Devere asked.

“Just recalling how we met.”

He grunted and peered back out of the window. “Days I prefer to forget.”

We rode some more in silence until the carriage clattered up the last few lengths of Rochefort Manor’s sweeping driveway.

“Hmm, there’s a commotion at the house,” Devere said.

I leaned over him, shoulder to shoulder, and peered through his window. Multiple carriages waited at the foot of the mountain of steps. The house’s front door was open, and a number of uniformed police filed from inside.

Had Rochefort reported me?

Devere turned, his face suddenly close to mine. Concern stole some of the brightness from his eyes. “What happened?”

“Nothing. Nothing happened.” I sat back down. The police weren’t at the house for me. They’d have come to the inn, which I hadn’t been at.

The carriage rocked to a halt and one of the local constables made his way over, a man I recognized. Jeremy Russo. Curse Minerva and its small world. Russo and I had beenacquaintedat school—we’d been friends—but I hadn’t seen him in many years. He’d filled out but remained short. Cropped black hair framed a square face with keen, intelligent eyes.

Devere reached for the door handle. I placed my hand on his, holding him off, and he looked at me again, silently questioning.

“You cannot run from this,” he said.

I pulled my hand back. “This has nothing to do with me.”

He opened the door and stepped down. “Constable Russo.”

“Mr. Barella,” Russo said, his eyes widening in surprise. Then that gaze found me as I too stepped down from the carriage. “Blow me over, is that you, Val?” He thrust out his hand, and I shook it enthusiastically. “I got word you was back!”

“Yes, well, I’ve been meaning to speak with you, actually, regarding—”

He abruptly dropped my hand. “Mr. Anzio, we had wondered where you might be, sir. We have some questions, if you don’t mind?”

I straightened my creased jacket and hoped I didn’t look as disheveled as I’d seen in the mirror. “Questions about what?”

He glanced at Devere, looking tall beside me. “Perhaps you’d like to talk somewhere more private?”

“I don’t see why. What’s happened?” Thankfully, my bluster sounded like annoyance, not giving away the rampant fear galloping through my veins.

“Where were you last night, Mr. Anzio?” Russo asked.

Gods. Thiswasabout me. “I was er…” They’d have checked the inn already. If I told them I’d been in my room, they’d know it was a lie. What could I say? I’d spent the night running through the woods and almost died from hypothermia? If I asked for a solicitor, they’d assume I was guilty of whatever crime Rochefort had accused me of.

“Valentine was with me, Constable,” Devere said.

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