“A detective, then.” Ott shrugged. “Cain’t deny you’ll be well good at it. We might have a chance to call on your sniffing skills here in Marylebone now and then.”
“I’d be glad to return and help,” he said.
“Where’ll you be doing your sniffing?” Ott asked.
“All over London. Maybe beyond, now and then.” He liked the idea. He saw what crime did to people, and moving into the role of constable detective meant he could do a heap more good than he was now chasing thieves over walls and such.
And, for himself, having all of London open to him for sniffing out clues and mysteries meant he might finally manage to solve the one mystery that had driven him toward the Detective Department in the first place: the disappearance of the only family member he’d ever had.
“M Division’s had their hands full of late, what with the Kincaids active again.”
The Kincaids were London’s most notorious family of grave robbers, though they didn’t restrict their crimes to the no-longer-living. They hailed from Southwark—overseen by the Metropolitan Police’s M Division—but they plied their various trades all over London. Fitz, himself, had reported evidence of their presence in Marylebone.
They were working alongside one so feared that even the police cowered at the mere mention of the violent criminal. Anyone with a whisper of sense was terrified of the Mastiff.
Cruelty to children. Exploitation of vulnerable women. Cardsharking. Blackmail. Arson. Grave robbery. Murder.
The Mastiff was guilty of it all—both the doing and the planning. All the Metropolitan Police knew that their top-tier enemy was, without a doubt, guilty of even more than they knew. And mixed into it all was something or someone called the Tempest.
What the Force needed was a detective clever enough, tenacious enough, and eager to find the answers, no matter how dangerous.
They had one now.
Fitz was specifically being transferred to the Detective Branch at Scotland Yard to track down criminals in hiding and dismantle their networks.
The door to the station house opened, pulling Fitz’s eyes in that direction. In walked a woman he knew immediately: Móirín Donnelly. She was proud, confident, and spitting daggers as usual when her eyes settled on him. She was also, without question, the most strikingly beautiful woman he’d ever known. Her fierceness added intrigue to her allure. He, who prided himself on maintaining his focus and resolve, never could seem to keep his attention away from her whenever their paths crossed.
But she’d never before crossed his path here.
“If you’ve no one you’re hopin’ to annoy at the minute, I’d be appreciative of a bit o’ your time, Parky.”
Whether Sergeant Ott was too shocked or too amused at the odd greeting, it mattered little. Móirín Donnelly enjoyed causing Fitz difficulty when she could, but she weren’t one to do drastic things without a reason. If she’d come to Marylebone in the dead of night looking for him, something terrible was likely to have happened.
Or it was about to.
The Queen
and the Knave
by Mr. King
Installment I
in which a brave Queen plans a Celebration but instead faces a grave Danger!
Long ago and far away, the proud and prosperous kingdom of Amesby lost its beloved king. With broken hearts, they passed their period of national mourning, with no one so sorrowful as his only child. The kingdom was now under her rule: the very young, very grief-stricken Queen Eleanor. Though she had been raised to one day ascend to her father’s throne, she did not feel herself at all prepared to do so at merely twenty years of age.
Fate, in its oft-cruel sense of timing, set before her the task of hosting the once-a-decade Unification Ceremony, in which the country’s ruling barons gathered at the royal palace to declare their loyalty to the kingdom and confidence in its monarch, who in turn pledged to hear the counsel of the barons and listen to the needs of the people.
Eleanor had been queen but a month! A month in which she had grown less sure of herself, not more. A month in which she had made more missteps than she felt herself able to ever forget or overcome.
Failure to complete the Unification Ceremony would send her kingdom into chaos and warfare.
Thus, summons were sent to all corners of the kingdom by way of the fastest messengers available. All the barons in the land—and there were a great many—were required to make their way to the royal palace. There would be a week of gatherings, contests of skill and strength, the ceremony itself, and, at the end, a grand ball.
All was predetermined. All was required.
In the afternoon of the day of the barons’ arrivals, which the queen was required to not be present for—a tradition held over from the days when the monarch was often at odds with the barons—Her Majesty took to walking about her private garden, the only part of the palace, beyond her personal quarters, where no one was permitted to be but herself.
Oh, Father! she silently bemoaned. I am not equal to this. I am not the leader or diplomat you were.
Should the worst happen and the Unification Ceremony not be completed properly, her father’s kingdom would fracture. Should that fracture widen and deepen, peace would be lost, and countless people would suffer. Horrifyingly many would die.
It was too much for her inexperienced shoulders to bear. But what choice did she have?
Her feet took her past the sentry box where a guardsman stood, keeping the monarch’s private garden private. She knew this sentry. His father had also been a guardsman—the Captain of the Guard, in fact—and Eleanor had come to know Reynard Atteberry when they were both children. They had played together. They’d once even been friends, a rare thing for a princess. She was too often kept separated and isolated, and that meant she was often lonely.
“Good morning, Reynard,” she said as she reached his post. “Thank you for watching over the garden.”
“My pleasure, Your Majesty.” He spoke without taking his eyes off the path beyond the gate he guarded, watching for anyone approaching. He had a duty to fulfill, after all. Duty always came before friendship, even before happiness at times.
Duty.
Always.
Eleanor continued onward, beginning a second circuit of her only place of solace. If she could find a bit of peace, she might feel less disheartened.
She’d only just stepped beyond the shadow of the sentry box when a new shadow fell across her path.
Amesby was home to a great many barons with a history of warring with one another and a peace brokered between them every ten years. But the kingdom was also home to those who possessed magic but not the right temperament for utilizing it without causing pain and suffering.