“That’s a bit dramatic, don’t you think?” you ask, pulling off a nonchalant shrug despite the rampant squirming in your stomach. “The pain comes and goes.”

“Every word of your story is a lie,” he spits. “Admit it!”

You smirk at him in the mirror, quickly washing your hands and reaching for a towel. “I will if you will.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“You’re an intelligent man, aren’t you, Molvander?” You dry your hands, watching him carefully for signs that he might attack. “You figure it out.”

His right hand flexes into a fist, then releases. “It is immaterial. Once everybody knows—”

You turn to face him. “Knows what? What are you going to do? Reveal my unmarred leg in a ballroom?”

“If I have to.”

“And you’re certain it’s unmarred, are you?”

He smooths a hand over the lapels of his jacket. “You know your frivolous cousin fancies himself a detective. Shouldn’t he have figured you out by now?”

You laugh, jolting a little when you finally hear Uriel’s voice telling you what to say. “He’d have a terrible job proving anything.”

“You’re not bothered that I know your secret?” the man asks.

“You don’t know anything,” you say. “Just like I know nothing of your poor, unfortunate wives.”

He moves closer, and you try not to flinch. “What have you heard?”

“It’s not what I’ve heard that matters, Molvander.” You grip the edge of the marble counter behind you, wishing you’d brought a weapon of some kind, even if it was just the Fabergé egg you spotted sitting on the library mantelpiece as you walked by. “Tongues are wagging in the vicinity of the pretty heiress. Do you know what she told me on the terrace?”

The man’s breath stalls in his throat. “Nothing I’d be interested in, I’m sure.”

“By all means, be sure, but don’t make any bets on it. You might have got away with it in the eyes of the law, but nothing will stop the rumours from spreading like ink in water, reaching every ear in Mayfair.” You lean back and fold your arms. “It’s impressive really… how you managed to avoid investigation. With so many suspecting—”

“Nobody suspects me,” he says, his voice wavering a little. “You’re bluffing.”

“Why would I care enough to bluff? My job here is done.” You try for a smug smile. “The heiress will be mine before the week is out, and you’ll have to find yourself some new prey to lure into a coffin.”

Molvander grabs you by the lapels. “Listen to me, you impertinent cretin. If you don’t take back whatever you said to Miss Duchesne—”

Though your pulse is spiking and your fingers shaking, you shove his hands away. “I didn’t tell her anything. She already knows. She was talking to… oh, I don’t know his name. Smug looking… blonde hair. I overheard him telling her to steer clear of you because you were fond of poison and knives.”

He pulls away, a frown on his face, as he tries to figure out who you’re talking about. “Why would anyone…” He shakes his head. “It’s just another suitor telling lies about me.”

“I don’t think so,” you say. “Oh, he was Scottish. Does that help? He was looking for you actually.”

All colour bleeds from Molvander’s face. “For me?”

“You don’t have a hope with Mademoiselle Duchesne,” you go on, like you haven’t noticed his pallor. “Not anymore.”

“Neither do you,” he spits.

You laugh, improvising while you wait for Uriel to feed you your lines. “My crimes are more impressive than yours, I promise. And unlike you, I don’t do it for the money. I have no need of Mademoiselle Duchesne’s blunt.”

“Then why are you doing it?” He runs his hands through his hair. “I need that money. I need it. What do you want with Miss Duchesne?”

“The thrill,” you tell him. “You’d be better off with someone who would never suspect you. I prefer a challenge… a woman of intelligence.”

“Ha! Intelligence?” He looks at you like you’re a fool, and you hate him more than ever. “They spend their days filling their brains with fluff and nonsense. Young ladies are so terribly dull.”

“I hate to break it to you, but you’re not exactly thrilling company yourself,” you say, for once ignoring Uriel’s suggestion and adding your own insight. Uriel laughs inside your head. “But isn’t dull better for you? You don’t want an heiress who is already suspicious, do you?”

“But you want her… for the thrill of… what do you mean, your crimes are more impressive than mine?”

“Well, for a start, I’ve had five wives…” You let that sink in for a moment. “It’s just that I made three of them disappear altogether. I’ll let you in on a secret, Molvander. It pays to have aliases. Of course, they only work well when you have the means to travel abroad, and it seems you no longer have the means for anything. What is it that makes you leak money like a bucket with a hole in it?”

“How did you do it?” he asks.

“How did I hide my other marriages? Or how did I hide the evidence?” You eye him suspiciously. “What are you asking?”

“How did you avoid Stewart?”

You frown, no acting required. “Who’s Stewart?”

“The duke. The smug, blonde-haired Scottish duke.” Molvander paces the length of the room. “The man has eyes and ears everywhere.”

You glance around, as if you’ve only just thought about being overheard. “Not in here?”

He shakes his head. “I checked it was empty when I arrived.”

“I think I do know your Scottish duke after all. Isn’t he the one with the book of wagers? The one that contains evidence of your crimes?”

“Yes!” he cries. “It’s true then… he’s been showing it around to punish me for not paying fast enough.”

“I heard he has a list of men he wants rid of to clear a debt,” you say. “You could always—”

“I already killed Eustace Rawlins and Jacob Darby at his request, and still my debt is not settled.” He grabs your shoulders. “You must help me create an alias, so I can disappear.”

You pull in a sharp breath. A definitive confession to two murders is more than you could have hoped for, even if they’re not the two murders you’re investigating. It seems you've stumbled upon the one thing Molvander desires more than money: the means to disappear. “Why would I do that?”

“If you help me, I’ll keep the truth of your crimes from Miss Duchesne,” he says, his eyes wild and desperate.

“And if I don’t, you’ll tell her? Do you think she’ll believe you?” While Uriel talks inside your head, you wish you could talk back, to ask him why he hasn’t burst into the bathroom yet. Then he speaks again, and you repeat what he said. “Can’t your father help with that? I heard he has an inside man who got rid of one witness and was instrumental in sending someone else to prison in your stead.”

“My father won’t help me anymore,” Molvander blurts. “He helped me bury Hartley’s body… had Bulger divert the investigation… but he’s washed his hands of me. Says I’m a disgrace to my mother.”

“You are that indeed,” says Uriel from behind Molvander.

The man spins around. “How did you get in here?”

You use the distraction to put some distance between yourself and Molvander.

“Do you think that matters after what I heard?” Uriel glares hard at the man, his eyes harder than you’d ever believe he was capable of. “I knew you’d killed your wives, Molvander, but Rawlins and Darby too? I expect Scotland Yard will have a great deal to say on the matter.”

Molvander laughs, but there’s no humour in it—only nervousness and desperation. “Nobody will believe you. Do you know who my father is?”

It’s Uriel’s turn to laugh. “Do you know who my brother is?”

The door to the previously empty stall at the end opens, and the Duke of Rosemont emerges, looking stony-eyed and impressive. “Do you feel better for your confession?”

Molvander’s wild eyes dart around the room, seeking escape. “You… The Home Secretary is your…” He glances from Uriel to Rosemont. “You climbed through the window?”

It seems unlikely to you. Rosemont is taller and wider than both Uriel and Bel, though perhaps not as large as Pride. It’s the first time you’ve thought about your adventure buddy all night. What if he went back to Uriel and Bel’s rooms and thought you were missing? What if he couldn’t fix the portal? What if the defective portal took Pride back to his own time and left you here?

You’re getting very noisy in there, Uriel says inside your head. I’m sure your friend will be back with you soon. Oh, and play along with my brother, Edward. There’s a good chap.

“You’re both under arrest,” says Rosemont, in a moment of irony that he won’t understand for another hundred and twenty years or so.

“I’m so disappointed in you, Edward,” Uriel says, pulling the door open behind him with one hand, and wiping away a stray, fake tear with the other.

You don’t say anything in case you laugh inappropriately. Your heart is thudding so hard and fast, it feels like it’s sitting in your throat as a dozen uniformed constables file through the door.

They spin Molvander roughly, cuffing his hands behind his back. He doesn’t even protest. They must know the score because they’re not nearly as rough with you, but the iron cuffs at your wrist are heavier than you expected, bearing down uncomfortably on your wrist bones.

When they shove you through the door, the hallway is deserted, and you can no longer hear any noise coming from the ballroom. Isabelle is waiting directly outside.

“It’s all a big misunderstanding, my dear,” Molvander cries.

Isabelle ignores him, winking at you before addressing Rosemont. “Perhaps, I should come back with you—”

“Your services are no longer required, Miss Duchesne.”

“Pompous ass,” Isabelle mutters.

“I heard that, Miss Duchesne,” Rosemont replies, without even turning to look at her.

“Her services?” Molvander yells, trying to turn around as he’s dragged along the hallway. “You work for Rosemont?”

Isabelle ignores him, clearly offended by Rosemont’s slight. Molvander calls her every unsavoury name under the sun and some new ones you’ve never heard of.

Twenty minutes later, when Rosemont is certain Molvander has forgotten all about your predicament in favour of his own, the Home Secretary escorts you back to Uriel and Bel’s, immediately reaching for the rum. “Goodness, what a night,” he says, slumping in Uriel’s vacant chair by the fire. “I shall have to get back soon. I don’t want them questioning the bastard without me.” He shakes his head. “Eustace Rawlins.”

“Who was he?” you ask, and Rosemont looks at you as if he’d forgotten you were there.

“I worked with him for a time, but I had no idea he was mixed up in Stewart’s shady dealings.”

“You had some idea, brother,” Bel says, taking his own seat and picking up the pipe he’d left on the side table earlier. “After all, we mentioned it to you several months ago.”

“Ah, but your sources are notoriously unreliable,” Rosemont counters.

“Unreliable?” Uriel squawks. “Our sources are unreliable? The absolute cheek, given your performance of late.”

Rosemont raises his hands in surrender. “My apologies. The last thing I need tonight is a headache, so please save your objections for when next we meet.” He sighs, tips the rum down his throat without even a grimace, then stands. “No rest for the wicked. Looks like I'll be arresting Superintendent Bulger before the night is out.” Before he leaves, he offers you a sombre nod. “Thank you for your assistance this evening.”

“You’re welcome.”

As soon as he’s gone, Uriel sweeps across the room. “We couldn’t have done it without your sharp mind. You are as fierce as a tiger,” he tells you. “Bold as a lion.” This is starting to sound familiar. “Swift as a—”

“Oh shut up, Uriel,” Bel snaps.

“You shut up,” Uriel counters. “You’ll wake up Mrs Merrington, then we’ll all be sorry.”

You’re not sure when sleep claimed you, but you wake on the spindly sofa, clueless as to how you managed to sleep on such an uncomfortable article of furniture. Your entire right side feels bruised, as if you spent the night on concrete. You sit up and squeeze the back of your neck, manipulating the stiffness away. The curtains are already open, and it’s a sunny day, which you realise as soon as you stand, and the window in the warehouse opposite reflects the sun directly into your eyeballs.

You glance down at the blanket puddled around your feet, smiling at the thought of Uriel tucking you in. You fold it neatly and lay it on the end of the settee. That’s when you notice you’re wearing absurd shorty pyjamas covered in crocodiles.

“Oh good, you’re awake,” Uriel says, emerging from the bedroom and coming to an immediate stop.

Bel crashes into his back. “For goodness’s sake, brother.”

Uriel doesn’t move. “What on earth are you wearing?”

“Pyjamas from the future,” you tell him.

“Is all clothing from the future this dreadful?” he asks, staring at you like he’s never seen knees before.

“It’s probably best I don’t tell you,” you say.

Bel sits in his chair. “Davy’s late with the paper.”

“Oh, where did you find the blanket?” Uriel asks.

“I thought…” You glance at Bel, whose cheeks are glowing.

“Thank you,” you say quietly.

Bel nods, then launches himself back out of the chair and disappears into the bedroom.

Uriel chuckles. “God forbid anyone should think him kind.”

“Davy’s here,” Bel calls.

Uriel rubs his hands together, then follows Bel. Someone is shouting from the street, and Uriel is shouting back.

You head to the window to see what all the commotion is about and spot a lanky boy on the pavement outside, swinging a basket on his arm. You haul the bottom pane of the window up and stick your head outside, taking a deep breath of fresh air and sunshine, immediately wishing you hadn’t because all you can smell is the river.

The boy stuffs two jars, a covered bowl, and a newspaper into the bucket Uriel lowered to the ground with rope.

“Is there something wrong with the stairs this morning?” you ask.

Uriel just laughs as he hoists the bucket up to the window ledge. “Give my regards to your mother, Davy.”

“Will do, Mr Hazard,” the boy calls back before running off.

“You should get back inside before somebody sees you,” Bel warns.

You glance down at your futuristic crocodile pyjamas. “Good point.”

Uriel is already sitting at the table by the time you close the window. “Pudding?”

“Do you ever eat proper meals?”

“Not if I can help it,” he says.

Bel sits in his usual chair, flapping his newspaper open. “Fox’s trial is coming up… next week.”

“What date?” you ask, hoping you sound casual.

Bel simply glares at you over the top of his paper.

You sit at the table, welcoming the bowl and spoon Uriel pushes your way.

“That boy can procure any fruit at any time of year,” he tells you. “He’s a magician.”

“You can get any…” You stop talking when you realise you were about to give away future spoilers.

Uriel glances over his shoulder at Bel, whose face is hidden behind the paper, then leans forward. “I’ll tell you what year it is if you tell me what year you’re from.” He grins. “I assume it’s not too far away if Cecilia is still young enough to work with your friend?”

Suddenly, your curiosity seems a little silly. Uriel doesn’t know that Cecilia won’t grow old. The past is done. There’s nothing there but memories. And lessons.

Lessons like this one.

“The future awaits you, Uriel.” You pat his hand across the table. “You don’t want me spoiling it for you. And as your brother said, when is irrelevant.”

You tuck into your peach pudding and vanilla custard, wondering if you can track down whoever made it and convince them to give you the recipe. Your mouth is still thick with it, and you’re scraping the last of the custard from the bottom of the bowl when you hear several knocks on the front door.

“Sounds like your friend is back,” Bel says from behind the newspaper.

“How can you tell?”

“He has a pattern,” Bel says, lowering the paper. “It’s the pattern of a drunk man repeatedly slamming his head against the door, but a pattern nonetheless.”

“Don’t let Mrs Merrington see you like that,” Uriel says. “Hide in the bedroom for a moment.”

You do as he says, but before Uriel even has time to close the door on Mrs Merrington’s nosey face, your clothes have changed again. You’re back to wearing what you arrived in.

Pride is waiting for you in the sitting room, looking far more like he belongs in this century than he did yesterday, though he's still wearing that horrendous belt buckle. “I’m sorry it took so long. Are you okay?”

You offer a smile. “I’m fine, promise. Did you get it fixed?”

“It’s a fraction of a degree off in longitude, but I only checked with my face. Didn’t want to risk taking my whole body through and stranding you here. I know someone who can fix it properly when we get back. I need to make a quick stop before we leave, if it’s alright with you?”

You find the pocket watch Uriel gave you hiding in your jacket pocket and wonder how it got there. You hold it out to him.

Uriel wraps your fingers around it, smiling warmly. “Keep it.”

“I don’t know what to say.” Tears prickle at your eyes. “Thank you.”

You’re a little sad to leave, but after you’ve said your goodbyes, you realise you’re eager to get back to your time. Where you can get whatever food or drink you want whenever you want. Where there is internet and exciting books, fresh air that doesn’t smell of river, and toothpaste that isn’t made of cuttlefish.

There’s a spring in your step as you cross the cobbles, born of a sense of accomplishment after last night’s victorious shenanigans.

“Where are we going?” you ask, turning the street corner, where something speedy runs into your waist.

A little girl lands butt first on the pavement, staring up at you, her bottom lip wobbling, and her big eyes filling up with tears.

“Are you alright?” you ask, leaning down to lift her to her feet.

She nods, but that lip is still wobbling.

“I’m sorry about that,” you tell her. “I should have been looking where I was going.”

“Mando says I’ll rush right into the jaws of a lion one day,” the girl says.

“Is that likely?”

She shrugs, glancing over her shoulder at a harassed looking man. “Mando says you never know with me.”

You glance up at the man, who is still a few dozen feet away. “That’s Mando, is it?”

She nods, then takes off again, leaving Mando to run after her.

“Thanks for slowing her down a bit,” the man calls as he passes you.

You laugh as Pride turns to continue on his way. “What?” you ask, when you catch his smirk.

He shakes his head, smirk still firmly in place. “Nothing.”

“You never said where we’re going.”

His expression turns grim as he says, “Graveyard.”

***

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Episode 13: Why Are You Dressed Like a Scarecrow?