Arthie glanced back at the guards and then at her watch. Fifteen seconds before they turned.Fourteen. Arthie stared at the door, willing it open. She tried to make herself small, to blend into the shadows cast by the awning above her. The guards were bantering now. Distracted, hopefully.
At last, the door opened to a young man in a tailcoat, and she was momentarily flung back to Spindrift as Reni welcomed patrons through its frosted doors. Her anger burned a bright and vibrant red, as bold as fresh blood. And to think, just a day ago, she hadn’t been able to figure out how she felt.
“Can I help you?” the butler asked, his dark features framed by the glowing parlor behind him. It almost hid the bewildered look in his eyes. He kept running his hands down his tailcoat, straightening invisible wrinkles.
He’s green. That could be a point in her favor.
The guards were turning back up the street.
Arthie made a show of patting at her suit jacket, then her trousers. “Can I come in?”
The butler narrowed his eyes at her. “Who are you?”
Can I come in?wasn’t precisely a trustworthy opening, she admitted. “I appear to have forgotten my calling card. Forgive me, sir. I’m here to see Willard.”
The butler blinked. “Sir Otiscan be met at his office by appointment. He doesn’t conduct business at home.”
The level of snobbery coming out of this bloke’s mouth wasn’t befitting how clearly new he was to the position.
So Arthie smiled and pulled out her pocket watch. “I do have an appointment, in fact. It was moved to the house, and it’s—oh, it’s in exactly two minutes.”
The boy’s mouth opened and closed. He pulled out a tiny pocket agenda and began rummaging through it with no clear direction. Arthie wanted a moment to enjoy his discomfort, but the guards were going to spot her.
She leaned closer, keeping her voice low. “I’ll be late.”
“Right, right,” he said, flustered. “May I have your name?”
“Arthur,” she said. The less people who knew Arthie Casimir was toiling about, the better.
The boy’s brow furrowed, but when she moved to pull out her pocket watch again, he scrambled to invite her inside just as Arthie heard one of the guards notice her. A voice rose, but she didn’t wait, she hurried through the entrance and shut the door before the butler could, giving him a tight smile in response.
“My appointment?” she asked. There was little likelihood the guards would come to the door, but Arthie didn’t want to risk it by standing here.
“Right this way,” the butler said, leading her into the house. Willard’s foyer was lavish, but decorated in a sparse way, as if he’d suddenly been thrust into wealth and didn’t quite know what to do with it. His wife stood in the back of the room and waved as Arthie passed, her cheeks rosy and eyes kind. They stopped at a door with a sign that readWILLARD OTIS, INSPECTOR.
The majority of Arthie’s books that archived secrets and blackmail had been stored in a hidden room in Spindrift. They were gone now, burned to ashes with the rest of the tearoom and bloodhouse. Still, Arthie had enough tucked away in her head that it wasn’t too wretched a loss.
The butler ushered her through the door and closed it behind her, and Arthie could at last breathe. The room was as quaint as the rest of the house, with modest furnishings and a window with laced curtains that looked as though they’d never been drawn. The inspector was in no hurry of his own, sealing off an envelope with leisure. At last, he looked up from his desk with a small smile.
Arthie almost glanced behind her, certain his kindness was misplaced. She pulled off her hat and shook out her hair before repositioning it again.
“What did I tell that boy about scheduling appointments when I’m at home?” he said by way of greeting. Then he frowned, sliding stray papers out of the way to reach a calendar. “That said, I don’t believe I have any other appointments today.”
“You don’t,” Arthie said simply.
Willard laughed. “Of course not. He’s new to the job and already well on his way to proving himself incapable. And who may you be, come like the reaper? Outside of that hair, of course.”
He spoke the words almost endearingly, like a doting grandfather, and Arthie wasn’t wholly sure how to react.
“I need a ship,” Arthie said, making herself comfortable in the chair across from his desk.
“Well, I’m afraid I’m not the office for such acquisitions.”
Arthie nodded. “I’m in need of a particular ship. One already in use by someone else. It’s my understanding that an inspector can stop a ship from leaving port and order its crew to both unload and disembark.”
Willard opened his mouth, and Arthie had the sense she was about to receive an education on how cargo inspections functioned.
“At will,” she added.
