laboratory door. When he scrambled to answer it, Mina had to laugh.
So there was a bit of squeamishness, too.
He returned a moment later, his eyes averted away from the body. “That was the night secretary. The superintendent awaits you in her office.”
Where Mina would deliver her report. She set her saw blade against the man’s forehead and noticed the color drain from her assistant’s face again. “I’ll be with her shortly. Newberry?”
“Yes, sir?”
“I need you to fetch more ice.”
The constable backed toward the door, quick as a shot. “Right away, inspector.”
Mina removed her blood-spattered apron before leaving the laboratory. She donned her armor over her dress again, fastening the buckles as she trotted down the narrow creaking stairs to the second floor, emerging into a dim hallway. Her fingers were slower than her feet. She paused outside of Hale’s office to finish buckling the armor, and glanced to her left, where a paneled casement window overlooked the Thames . . . and farther down the river, almost obscured by smoke, the Horde’s tower.
Her breath hitched and her fingers stumbled. Even after nine years, a glimpse of the tower’s silhouette caused a painful twist in her chest—followed by fierce pleasure when that half-seen shadow condensed into its jagged, crumbling shape. The Iron Duke’s explosives had been a fist that shattered a giant’s teeth, and now the tower leaned brokenly next to the Thames, now and again spitting another stone to the river’s north bank. Bounders often suggested tearing it down and building a monument to victory in its place—and for several months following the revolution, Mina would have gladly ripped out each stone with her bare hands. But now, the sight of the ruins themselves felt like a victory over fear and the Horde’s control, and she would rather see the crumbling blocks than a monument.
The king’s regency council must have thought the same. So far, they’d let the ruins stand. Perhaps Edward’s heir would demolish the tower when he came of age and took the council’s place as regent. Like Mina’s brother Andrew, the prince had only been five years old when the Horde’s radio signal had abruptly ended. To someone so young, the Horde’s occupation and the sudden, unexpected freedom was more of a story than a memory. When he took the throne, perhaps he’d rather see a plaque repeating that tale than the reality of the broken tower.
Perhaps by then, Mina would be ready to accept a glossy monument in its place.
She clicked the last buckle home and glanced away from the tower, across the river. The haze over Southwark glowed faintly orange, lit from below by the remains of the fire that had blazed through the rookeries.
Those poor bastards. No one would have welcomed a return of the Horde’s tower, but not everyone could bear the onslaught of emotion that freedom had brought. Pleasure, hatred, and fear no longer skimmed along the surface—and neither did pain. When the depth of feeling became unbearable, many buggers sought oblivion in the dens, uncaring that they’d exchanged one slave master for another when they traded the Horde for an opium pipe. No one yet knew how many of those pipelayers had died in the fires. Even if they’d been aware their room was ablaze, they’d probably been too disoriented to make their way outside. Mina hoped they hadn’t felt anything when they’d burned—and that those who survived would shed their addiction and learn to cope. Pain and strong emotions were inescapable, but they could just . . . try not to feel them.
That was what Mina did. She assumed that was what most buggers who’d been raised under the Horde did.
And at this moment, she needed to push away her pity and focus. Mina turned from the window and rapped on Hale’s door. When the superintendent’s response came, Mina straightened her shoulders and tried to forget that she wore an absurdity of a dress with tiny yellow
So there was a bit of squeamishness, too.
He returned a moment later, his eyes averted away from the body. “That was the night secretary. The superintendent awaits you in her office.”
Where Mina would deliver her report. She set her saw blade against the man’s forehead and noticed the color drain from her assistant’s face again. “I’ll be with her shortly. Newberry?”
“Yes, sir?”
“I need you to fetch more ice.”
The constable backed toward the door, quick as a shot. “Right away, inspector.”
Mina removed her blood-spattered apron before leaving the laboratory. She donned her armor over her dress again, fastening the buckles as she trotted down the narrow creaking stairs to the second floor, emerging into a dim hallway. Her fingers were slower than her feet. She paused outside of Hale’s office to finish buckling the armor, and glanced to her left, where a paneled casement window overlooked the Thames . . . and farther down the river, almost obscured by smoke, the Horde’s tower.
Her breath hitched and her fingers stumbled. Even after nine years, a glimpse of the tower’s silhouette caused a painful twist in her chest—followed by fierce pleasure when that half-seen shadow condensed into its jagged, crumbling shape. The Iron Duke’s explosives had been a fist that shattered a giant’s teeth, and now the tower leaned brokenly next to the Thames, now and again spitting another stone to the river’s north bank. Bounders often suggested tearing it down and building a monument to victory in its place—and for several months following the revolution, Mina would have gladly ripped out each stone with her bare hands. But now, the sight of the ruins themselves felt like a victory over fear and the Horde’s control, and she would rather see the crumbling blocks than a monument.
The king’s regency council must have thought the same. So far, they’d let the ruins stand. Perhaps Edward’s heir would demolish the tower when he came of age and took the council’s place as regent. Like Mina’s brother Andrew, the prince had only been five years old when the Horde’s radio signal had abruptly ended. To someone so young, the Horde’s occupation and the sudden, unexpected freedom was more of a story than a memory. When he took the throne, perhaps he’d rather see a plaque repeating that tale than the reality of the broken tower.
Perhaps by then, Mina would be ready to accept a glossy monument in its place.
She clicked the last buckle home and glanced away from the tower, across the river. The haze over Southwark glowed faintly orange, lit from below by the remains of the fire that had blazed through the rookeries.
Those poor bastards. No one would have welcomed a return of the Horde’s tower, but not everyone could bear the onslaught of emotion that freedom had brought. Pleasure, hatred, and fear no longer skimmed along the surface—and neither did pain. When the depth of feeling became unbearable, many buggers sought oblivion in the dens, uncaring that they’d exchanged one slave master for another when they traded the Horde for an opium pipe. No one yet knew how many of those pipelayers had died in the fires. Even if they’d been aware their room was ablaze, they’d probably been too disoriented to make their way outside. Mina hoped they hadn’t felt anything when they’d burned—and that those who survived would shed their addiction and learn to cope. Pain and strong emotions were inescapable, but they could just . . . try not to feel them.
That was what Mina did. She assumed that was what most buggers who’d been raised under the Horde did.
And at this moment, she needed to push away her pity and focus. Mina turned from the window and rapped on Hale’s door. When the superintendent’s response came, Mina straightened her shoulders and tried to forget that she wore an absurdity of a dress with tiny yellow
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