The Lion Lies Waiting Page 13

  “I don’t know if I should be doing this,” he breathed as Oliver kissed his neck.

  “Oh, you definitely shouldn’t,” Oliver said with a wink. “But that’s what makes it so much fun.”

  Duncan laughed and gave himself over to the pleasure of the moment, for in truth, what did he have to lose? Didn’t he recently say he longed to be held and kissed? Comforted and desired? Perhaps it was exactly what he needed.

  For the rest of the afternoon, no masks were made and for once Duncan forgot his worries.

  BEING SO CLOSE to the solstice, it was dusk when Duncan left Oliver’s shop. He wrapped himself in his coat, still warm from the fireplace, and sauntered back in the direction of the town square. Unlike before, he found he didn’t care about the stares from the people on the street. He didn’t care about the hushed exchanges as he passed by. He’d been so worried the people here would remember him, and of what they’d say, but none of it mattered just then.

  He wondered if Edwin would be glad to see his affections directed towards Oliver, especially if it meant spending less time with Robin? He had no proof Edwin was jealous of his closeness with Robin, or that he didn’t entirely trust them together; all Duncan knew was how he’d feel if his and Edwin’s positions were reversed. In a way, he was glad to have the chance to prove to Edwin he was over Robin. To show he was ready, willing and able to move on with someone new—an urge which was in itself a rarity for him. It wasn’t often he felt the need to prove himself to anyone, but he valued Edwin’s opinion and his companionship. Was it fair to use Oliver in that way, as a token, an offering to his friendship with Edwin? A display of intent? Was it part of the reason he spent the afternoon with him? He didn’t know for certain.

  He hoped to see Oliver again, though he wasn’t sure how or when. Oliver was captivating and talented in many ways, but was he enough to make Duncan forget his hatred for Port Knot? He found it hard to imagine Oliver relocating to Blashy Cove to be with him so if they wanted to make a go of it, he’d have to make certain sacrifices. He wondered if they could at least have their handfasting at the Moth & Moon. He laughed then at how silly he was being, at how easily he’d let his mind run away with fanciful notions. But it had been a while since any man had made him feel the way he did just then, so where was the harm in wallowing in the sensation, just for a bit? He knew what it was—a bit of fun to keep warm on a cold day, a pleasant memory to associate with the place, but couldn’t he just for once let himself hope it might blossom into something more? Would it really be so bad?

  On the boat trip over, he’d been so worried he’d spend the whole time looking over his shoulder, but right then that’s exactly what he should have been doing. He didn’t see who threw the burlap sack over his head, or who whacked him across the skull, but as he blacked out, Duncan cursed the man who had brought him back to Blackrabbit Island and swore he’d never do a favour for anyone ever again.

  Chapter Fourteen

  EVA’S ARGUMENT WITH a little red-faced man was keeping her warm in the chilly evening air. She had just launched into a tirade questioning everything from his ability to do his job to the genus of his father when another much larger man approached them at the end of the pier.

  “Oh, Mr. Shipp, good evening,” she said. “What brings you to the harbour?”

  “I came to check on Bucca, what with all the thieves and vandals about, and I ’eard shoutin’. Is there somethin’ wrong?”

  “I am trying to take a boat to the prison and this…fine fellow…is being most obstinate.”

  “I told you, Lady Wolfe-Chase, all the boats are moored for the evening, and I’m off home,” the man said.

  “I can take you out there,” Mr. Shipp said.

  Eva turned to his little red fishing boat rocking about on the waves below.

  “Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly—” she began.

  “It’s fine. I insist!”

  He launched himself down the stone steps of the pier and into Bucca’s Call, his face instantly lighting up as he made preparations to cast off. Eva did not want to continue arguing with the man before her, nor did she want to insult Mr. Shipp, putting him in a decidedly exclusive category of people. She picked up the hems of her skirts and fur-lined travelling cloak and manoeuvred herself into the craft. The anxious dock worker, clearly grateful to be let off the hook, untied the mooring line and scurried away.

  Eva sat facing Mr. Shipp, travelling backwards. She was uncomfortable at first, deathly afraid either the boat would hit a wave and tip her out, or the sea water would slosh over the sides and drench her. But as they went, she became more and more impressed with the skill he displayed. On land, he was so inelegant, so ham-fisted and incongruous, and she could finally see why—his home was the sea. It was where he belonged. It was where the oafish lump of a man made sense. He’d told her time and again to call him by his first name, but it never felt quite right to her. Mr. Shipp was his name, his title, and his entire being.

  “Well then, this is the ‘other property’ Baxbary Mudge mentioned,” he said.

  Eva turned to face the granite monstrosity shrouded in the mist, like the peak of a man-made mountain. The prison was situated on a small islet, only a short distance from the town, close enough for its bells to be heard. Small fires burned in braziers on its walls, casting a hazy orange glow. She could just make out two guards standing by the pier.

  “The prison my father built,” she replied.

  “Your family seems to ’ave made quite a mark on this town.”

  “My family made this town, Mr. Shipp. Before the Chases arrived, it wasn’t even known as Port Knot. It was Stone Fall back then, on account of the cliffs surrounding it. My grandmother, Allyne, was the first to see the potential of the place. She stunned her competitors when she announced she was moving her company from Devonshire to here. They couldn’t begin to imagine why anyone would leave the mainland for such a place. She could have chosen any of the islands, but she picked Blackrabbit. She built the manor house to resemble the one she’d grown up in, built the shipyards, the piers, and developed the docklands. In just twenty years, she took a tiny fishing village and turned it into a thriving town. She’s a heroine of mine.”

  Robin furrowed his brow. “Huh. This is what Blashy Cove might ’ave been like, then, if she’d chosen to settle there instead.”

  “I suppose so. Your life could have turned out quite differently, Mr. Shipp.”

  “I can’t even imagine what it would ’ave been like, growin’ up ’ere. Did she set up the council, then? Your grandmother, I mean?”

  “Oh no, the council was here long before the Chases were. Masks and all. They were originally the elders of the village or some such. Wise women. Witches, I suppose we’d call them now. They advised the people, made decisions on the right way to run the village, and conducted religious ceremonies, back when such things were still done.”

  Robin whistled with surprise. “It really ’as been around a long time, then. My dad, in all ’is travels, ’e only ever encountered an ’andful o’ tribes who still ’ad religion, and only then it were because they were so remote, so cut off from the rest o’ the world they missed the Illumination completely.”

  Eva smirked. Misconceptions about the Illumination were rife in small communities like the one in Blashy Cove. The idea of all religion disappearing more or less overnight, like a candle being extinguished, was popular but silly, of course. The people of Merryapple weren’t fortunate enough to have been exposed to the same standards of education as she. In reality, it had taken generations for the worshipping of supernatural gods to die. The demise of the Roman religion in the years following the collapse of their empire had been the torch to light the fires of revolution throughout the hearts of man. Word spread through trade routes, shipping lanes, along the Silk Road, but eventually, everyone came to see what life could be without religion, what life could be if they believed in each other instead.

  “When the money started rolling in, the
council grew a lot more powerful and positions on it a lot more valuable. Suddenly, being wise and experienced mattered a good deal less than being wealthy and influential. My grandmother was made Swan as a reward for everything she had done for the town. I believe it was then she commissioned the clock tower in the town square—to mark the dawn of a new era. Although she’s the one who suggested they let men join the council, so she clearly wasn’t all that wise.”

  She smiled at Mr. Shipp, who chuckled in the deep, throaty way which always made her think he was just a little bit touched in the head. When they reached the prison’s jetty, he threw a mooring line to one of the guards who tied it to an iron bitt. Then he leaped onto the shore and offered his hand to Eva to help her disembark. She thanked him.

  “Let’s get this over with,” Robin said with a determined tug of his cap.

  “You needn’t accompany me, Mr. Shipp,” Eva said in the shadow of the ominous grey edifice. “I will be perfectly safe. And I would prefer to do this alone.”

  “Well, if you’re sure…” Robin said, utterly failing to mask his relief.

  She introduced herself at the gate and was allowed to pass. She met with a gaoler, an unkempt man of about thirty with more fingers than teeth and stuffed into a stained tunic. He handed her a nosegay. Well, not so much handed as thrust at her face without warning. She flinched before taking the little cone of fresh flowers from him.

  “Whatever is this for?”

  “You’ll see. Ma’am.”

  Once inside the gaol proper, she picked her way carefully along a slabbed walkway, lifting the ends of her skirts up a touch to avoid the puddles of what she hoped was water. Outside, the prison bells rang and the next batch of inmates were brought outside for their one hour of fresh air a day. The curved ceiling of the passageway narrowed in places. The slovenly gaoler was well used to the topography of the prison, and as they went along, he casually pointed out with one hand the places where she’d need to duck to avoid banging her head. With his other hand, he performed a personal tour of his various clogged bodily orifices, picking, scratching or shaking loose whatever he could.

  The stone walls were slick and damp, and each breath was like a fight for air. She squinted in the dim light and quickly discovered the flowers were needed to mask the appalling smell of the place, so putrid she thought it capable of physically choking her. She held the nosegay to her face, but it did little to mask the ferocious stench.

  Every other cell was occupied. She passed by a dishevelled old woman with scarred eyes who wept tearlessly. A large, thewy man with a long white beard scratching onto the stone walls dozens and dozens of small, curving images—anchors wrapped in sea serpents, ropes around masts. A number of prisoners watched her quietly, but intently, while others jeered. A handful of them rocked slowly back and forth or banged on walls. Still more didn’t move at all but simply stared off into the distance.

  “These people, they’re not all criminals, are they?” Eva asked.

  “Who, this lot? No, not all.”

  “Then why are they here?”

  “People lose the run of themselves from time to time, get a bit too angry, upsetting their families, their neighbours. They need time to cool off, so we put ’em in here. Sometimes they stay for a night, sometimes a bit longer. Sometimes a lot longer, actually. Then there are the ones who can’t take care of themselves. Got no family, or they’re too much for the family to cope with. They end up here, too.”

  “And how does that help?”

  “Stops them from hurting anyone, I suppose,” the gaoler shrugged. “Or from hurting themselves.”

  “Why here?”

  “The hospital isn’t big enough to keep them safe for any real length of time. And, well, a prison must have prisoners,” the gaoler said, clearly bewildered at having to state such an obvious point.

  “Must it?” Eva said, her tone shifting.

  “Be an awful waste of space, otherwise. Magpie would likely swoop in and build something else here if it weren’t being used. An arcade, a market, or the like. What would happen to me then, eh?” He chuckled a little, but it was a nervous laugh. “Be out of a job, I would.”

  “What are you doing to help them in the long term?”

  The gaoler just blinked.

  “Has anyone tried talking to them? To find out why they are behaving as they do? To try to ease their minds? To try to heal them?

  “Talk? People don’t get better by talkin’, miss! Um, I mean, Lady, Lady Chase, uh, Wolfe-Chase, if you don’t mind me sayin’ so. Anyway, they ain’t sick, not really. There ain’t nothin’ wrong with ’em, is there? It’s not like a broken leg or a cold, is it? Most of ’em, well, they’re either mad or just bad to the core. Or both. Some people just are, aren’t they? They ain’t broken no laws, as such, but they’re a danger to themselves and others.”

  “They need care, not punishment,” Eva said, her disgust turning to anger. She advanced on the gaoler, and under her burning gaze, he suddenly began to look agitated.

  “They ain’t bein’ punished, they’re just bein’ kept out of harm’s way, ma’am,” he said as beads of sweat began forming on his brow.

  “Truly? Being locked up in this squalor isn’t punishment, is it not? They are free to leave whenever they like, are they?”

  She was right on top of him, staring him eye to eye.

  “Well, no, not exactly…” He gulped.

  “No, I didn’t think so,” Eva said. “I have seen enough.”

  She turned and made for the exit.

  “Hang on, I’ll show you the way out.”

  “No need,” she called back. “I know where I’m going.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  AFTER ROBIN AND Eva had sailed back to port, Eva declared she needed a walk to clear her head. Robin offered to escort her to her carriage, citing the dangers lurking in the town at night, but she politely declined.

  “There’s nothing in this town more frightening than a Chase,” she had said, and so Robin returned to the Lion Lies Waiting where he found Edwin sitting at the bar. Before making his presence known, he lingered at the top of the stairwell, watching his partner, his beau, his lover. Were they in love? Neither had confessed to it. After the pain of separating from Duncan, Robin was holding back, stopping himself from falling too deeply, but he knew it was just a matter of time. His heart swelled when Edwin was near. From where he stood, Robin could just see the straight line of his nose and his dimpled chin, his steadily-growing belly straining a little against the linen of his shirt. How Robin loved to watch him bake his breads and cakes, see his sinewy hands kneading dough with the effortlessness of a lifetime’s practise. Those same skilled hands were wrapped around a short whiskey glass which Edwin lifted to his lips and drained in one go. He repeated with another.

  “Steady on, Edwin. Slow it down a bit,” Robin said, descending the steps into the library bar. He settled himself onto an uncomfortable seat.

  “I don’t need you to mother me, Robin,” Edwin snapped.

  The remark landed like a slap and Robin sat like a chastised puppy, his head sinking low into his chest.

  “Sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that,” Edwin said, laying his hand on Robin’s. “It’s just Mum, she’s gotten me…rattled. What about Rowan and Hob?”

  “They’re ’ome, they’re fine.”

  Robin considered telling Edwin about their encounter with Vince but thought he’d wait until Edwin was in a better mood. He looked around the dingy little bar. The grubby little windows didn’t offer much in the way of a view, but from where he sat, he could see up through to the main door of the inn and the sign hanging outside. A wooden lion’s head faced outwards, paws in front and eyes closed, as if sleeping. Every now and then the animal would unexpectedly spring to life, with eyes blazing, teeth bared and claws raised. It would happen abruptly, often frightening those who passed underneath. The clever clockwork mechanism within the sign triggered the action at random. The sign, with its faded go
ld lettering, was faded and chipped and had seen better days, like the rest of the place and the people who drank in it.

  “The Lion Lies Waitin’,” Robin murmured. “What a peculiar soundin’ name.”

  “It’s from an old rhyme,” Edwin said. “See?”

  He pointed up to the framed pictures hanging on the wall, above the meagre selection of whiskeys on offer. One was a cartoon by a chap named Rowlandson who had come to the island from the mainland for a short time. It had been printed in some newspaper or other and depicted the council chamber of Port Knot filled with plump, pale, strangely erotic figures of men and women, all of whom were wearing animal masks and rutting like beasts on the table, the floor and against the walls. One of them was having his pockets picked by a gull while he was otherwise engaged. It was clear Mr. Rowlandson had not left with a good impression of the island.

  Next to it was a parchment with a few lines written on it. Robin squinted a bit and began to slowly read, his lips mouthing the words as he went. He could feel Edwin’s gaze on him as he picked his way through it. Robin had never been much of a reader. Earlier in the year, he’d become determined to better himself and had taken to reading the collection of his father’s books he’d found in his attic. He’d gotten better, but not much. Edwin cleared his throat and recited the little poem aloud:

  “The lion lies dead!

  See the rivers it bled!

  My kin dance with hearts elating.

  Yet the scourge of my pride,

  means from them I will hide,

  that in truth,

  the lion lies waiting.”

  “Funny sort o’ rhyme,” Robin said.

  “Funny sort of place,” Edwin replied.

  Sitting on a shelf beneath the verse were two old copper lanterns, both lit with red candles and shinier than anything else in the place. Unlike the others in the room, they were clearly just for decoration. Robin deduced they must be Mrs. Firebrace’s, as the custom of coloured-glass lanterns at Midwinter wasn’t common to Blackrabbit, but the tradition was only one lantern per person.