A Rose Before Dying by Amy Corwin

him—or her.”
    “Him, my lord. Very good.” Sotheby turned on
his heel. He flung open the front door and ran down the steps at a
sharp clip.
    When the door began to swing shut, Charles
gripped the brass knob and watched as the butler, coat tails
flapping, galloped down the walkway. Surprisingly, before he got
two blocks, he caught a young boy in a grimy blue jacket. They
spoke for a minute before the butler gripped the boy’s shoulder and
marched him back to Second Sons.
    “Here is the child, my lord.” Sotheby pushed
him into the hallway and then shut the front door, standing between
the boy and escape.
    The child rubbed his dirty face with an
equally besmirched hand and then turned his head and pursed his
lips as if to spit. After a glance at the marble floor, he
swallowed. “Wotcher want?”
    “My lord,” Sotheby reminded him and added a
sharp rap on his shoulder.
    “My lord,” the boy repeated grudgingly.
    Charles dug out a shilling and held it up. “A
little information. If you please.”
    His brown eyes glowed. “Yes, my lord.”
    “This package—” He held up the unwrapped box.
“Who gave it to you?”
    “A man.”
    “A man? What did he look like?”
    “Don’t know, my lord.”
    “What do you mean, you don’t know? You saw
him when he handed it to you, didn’t you?”
    “No—couldn’t.” He shook his shaggy head.
    “Why didn’t you see him?”
    “He were in a carriage, is why. Never took a
step out. Just threw the box and a shilling out’ter the window,
didn’t he? Told me to bring ‘em here.”
    “Did he? Did you at least catch a glimpse of
him? His face?”
    “No, sir. Just his sleeve, is all. Black. Had
on a hat—also black—and his collar up.”
    “His eyes? Did you notice the color of his
eyes?”
    “No, my lord” he replied with exaggerated
patience. “It were too dark to see much, wasn’t it?”
    “Dark? What do you mean, dark?”
    “Why it were last night ‘round nine or so, it
were.”
    “He gave you the box last night?”
    “Yes, my lord. Told me to deliver it this
morning. As I’ve done.”
    “Trusting soul…” Gaunt murmured. The boy
could have taken the coin and tossed the box.
    “Did he say anything else?” Charles
asked.
    “Said as how you’d give me another shilling
if I was to deliver it. This morning.” The boy cast a scornful look
at Sotheby. “He broke his word, though.”
    “You say he was in a carriage?” Gaunt
interrupted. “Did he give any direction to the driver?”
    “No, sir. He thumped the roof with his
walking stick and told the driver to go. Now as to that shilling,
my lord…”
    The image of his uncle thumping his stick on
Gaunt’s desk haunted Charles.
    A walking stick . Was his uncle
determined to incriminate himself? How could he possibly make
matters worse?
    “Did you see the stick? What did it look
like?” Charles asked.
    “Didn’t see it—just heard him thumping the
roof. Impatient sort, if you take my meaning. Now as to that
shilling…”
    Charles flipped the coin to him. “Is there
anything else you can remember? This is important.”
    “No, my lord. Right sorry, but it were dark
and there weren’t nuffin to see.”
    “Well, thank you.” Charles dug out another
shilling and tossed it to the lad as Mr. Sotheby opened the door.
“If you remember anything at all you’ll get another shilling for
reporting it to us. A name, anything.”
    “Yes, my lord.” The lad touched the brim of
the battered hat he wore. “Thank you.”
    Charles turned back to Gaunt. “I’ll keep
these roses, if you don’t mind.”
    “I—”
    “I’ll send word if I discover anything.”
Charles closed the box and strode through the front door, still
held open by the butler.
    However, at the wrought-iron gate, he
hesitated. Should he confront his uncle, or visit Miss Wellfleet,
hoping she could identify the roses? Could he prevent whatever
tragedy was brewing?
    His grip on the gate tightened.
    Should he allow Mr. Gaunt to place