“I’d like to hear all the details from you one more time, if you don’t mind,” Detective Atwood said over his shoulder a few minutes later.
His careful tone jarred me from my thoughts, and I stiffened. “All right.” I spent the next bit of the ride filling him in on everything I remembered, careful to frame it like the story I’d practiced in the steamcab.
“I should be honest with you,” he said once I finished.
“Oh? About what?” Things would be a lot easier if I could be honest with him too.
Detective Atwood was silent for a long moment as we drove alongside the Steele River. The flickering gas lamps cast a soft glow over the nightscape and reflected off the river. In a few weeks, all the leaves would fall from the trees and paint the river’s surface red, orange, and yellow.
I studied the fog rolling in from the Steele River that cut through town. It turned the city into looming edifices and darting shadows, and my heart rate kicked up. Somewhere out there was the murderer. Goose bumps prickled across my skin as the cold wind whipped against me, and I fought to resist the allure of Detective Atwood’s body heat.
“I was trying to respect your privacy since you seemed to want to stay anonymous,”—his broad shoulders raised and fell in a shrug—“but I feel it’s only fair for you to know that I recognized you the moment your hood fell off.”
My cheeks heated in response, and I ducked my head, though he couldn’t see me. “You did?” All of my embarrassing subterfuge for nothing.
“Why did you hide your identity?”
“My father wouldn’t be pleased if he knew I was here.” It was hard to know what he’d be more displeased about—that I was with another man when I was now engaged to be married or that the other man was a Blue Cape.
I smiled at the thought even though I still didn’t want him to find out, but then it morphed into a frown. Was Detective Atwood just humoring me because of my last name? “Is that why you listened? You couldn’t afford to ignore an Annandale?” I asked as we sped under another taller, more ornate bridge near the Epoch Clock. It curved across the sky, lit with the blue glow of aether lamps to make it visible for airships.
“I listened because even though you were lacking many crucial details for a case, you were also insistent and oddly specific,” he said. “It seemed worth investigating.”
Some of the tension in my shoulders dissolved. “Oh.”
“But now that I know the truth,” he said, “does that...change...how much you know about the case?”
He thought I was being vague to protect my identity? In a way, I guess I was. “Not really.”
“If we’re sharing the truth,” he said, “then I might as well admit that I was at your engagement party tonight.”
My eyes widened. That explained his attire. I couldn’t imagine Papá inviting any Blue Capes as guests, so he must have been part of the security duty assigned to the party. They always brought in extra protection when multiple high-ranking politicians gathered in one place.
But talking about my engagement party was the last thing I wanted to do right now considering I’d snuck away from both Desmarc and Papá to come here. I pressed my lips together, hoping that if I didn’t ask any more questions, he wouldn’t either.
Detective Atwood turned down a street to take us to the First Chime, and we rode the next quarter of an hour in silence. A labyrinth of walkways, suspension bridges, and catwalks crisscrossed overhead, providing passages from one factory to another. Unlike the Upper Chimes, the air here was thick with the scent of steam and coal and the sound of clanking gears and whirring machinery from the towering smokestacks.
Steam escaped the pipes snaking along the building next to us with a hiss, filling the street with a humid white mist. I ducked my head, wishing I had my goggles to protect my eyes.
Somewhere behind us, the Epoch Clock chimed twenty-three times.
I tightened my grip on Detective Atwood and bit my lip. If I didn’t get home soon, Papá would realize I wasn’t there.
“We’re here,” Detective Atwood said, drawing me from my worrisome thoughts as he parked. As the green glow died, the hoverboard lowered to the ground with a quiet clatter.
I stepped off and bumped into a low bench. “The fog is going to make things difficult.” I rubbed my aching shin with another muttered curse. It appeared to be the same slipshod kind of bench I’d seen when I’d Slipped, which meant we were on the right track. Hopefully.
“I know where we’re going.” Dead leaves crunched underfoot as he prowled forward.
I followed his broad-shouldered form through the fog while my heartbeat thudded in my ears. The writhing fog looked too much like the smoke in my Slips, and my heartbeat sounded too much like the panicked thump of the bracelet as I’d watched the woman die.
Going to the scene had seemed like a fine idea originally. But now that I was at the place the murderer had been, with the fog limiting visibility, my pulse echoed in my ears and my breath froze in my lungs. At least Detective Atwood’s presence provided a modicum of comfort. He would protect me.
And if it came down to it, I had my knives. While I’d never understood Papá’s insistence that I learn how to use them after Mamá’s death—it wasn’t like learning to defend myself would keep me from getting sick like she had—I had to admit that right then I was grateful for his paranoia. Not that I’d ever tell Papá that.
“It should be around here.” Detective Atwood crossed the street and stopped in front of a pub, then looked around. Despite his casual tone, his gaze darted from side to side and his hand was never far from the saber at his side.
I trailed behind him quietly. I’d seen nothing of this area when I’d Slipped.
We followed the street, then turned down a narrow alley filled with rusted pipes and shanties haphazardly built from mismatched bricks, wood, and iron. The fog thickened and roiled, and my hand fell to the sheath on my leg. The districts closest to the river had it worst at night.
“Are you sure you know—”
“Here.” Detective Atwood knelt, the bottom half of his body partially disappearing in the fog, and traced a small design on a bench. “This is the bench with the clock face etched into it.”
“How did you know that?” I wasn’t sure why, but I whispered.
“Because my friend was the one who did it a long time ago.” He stood and surveyed the area, putting his back to me.
I glanced at the gear once more, then looked around, fighting off a tremor. We were standing where the murderer had been. The old buildings lining the street loomed tall and imposing, their windows dark and foreboding. A stiff wind blew through the area, bringing the Steele’s musky smell and a hollow mournful sound as it rustled along the patchwork tin roofs overhead. It cleared some of the fog temporarily, and the brief reprieve revealed a glimpse of a woman’s still form.
I sucked in a breath and gripped Detective Atwood’s arm.