The Mysterious Case of Mr. Strangeway (The St. Croix Chronicles) by Karina Cooper Page B

“Very well.”
    “You will let me go?”
    “No.”
    Like magic, the exasperation was back, etched in aggrieved lines around his whisker-bracketed mouth.
    “But,” I continued, smiling because I could not help the little thrill of satisfaction his reaction gave me, “I will help you.”
    What emotions warred in his face shuttered. “No.”
    “You lack the choice,” I assured him, ignoring him as he folded his arms over his chest like some forbidding father. “I will go with you, and we shall cover more territory together than if I were working against you, don’t you think?”
    A tic in his jaw, just under his eye, told me I’d scored a hit he didn’t like. “It’s not safe.”
    “Yes, which is why you should not go alone.” I paused, frowning. “Where is Mr. Smoot?”
    “ Captain Smoot,” he replied, stressing the title I’d refused to afford, “is at Chattersham’s home. I have it on good authority that the man himself has been delivered an invite to the Menagerie this very night.” Clever, clever Hawke. I admired that much. “Smoot will be searching for evidence at Chattersham’s home, while I attend to this mill.”
    I nodded, as if this were perfectly reasonable, and ignored the stress he placed upon the individual goal. “Then it is you and I. Shall we?”
    “How many times—”
    “You go knowing that I am beside you,” I said, thrusting out my jaw and folding my arms over my chest, “or you go knowing that I will not be far behind you. The choice is yours, sir.”
    He wasted no more time arguing. Instead, as he turned the helmet over in his hands, he muttered, “Bloody difficult females. Saints preserve me from the lot.” It went on like this, his voice changing as he pulled the helmet tight over his head. Suddenly, I was looking not at Mr. Strangeway, but a faceless, expressionless mask whose very arrangement afforded more intimidation than Strangeway’s own visage.
    He tapped the side of the bucket-like covering. “If you’re so bloody-minded about this, you ought to consider protection of a kind,” he told me.
    “Perhaps I should.” I would, inspired by this man, but it would take me some time to work out what would become my collecting corset. “First, let us concentrate on our task at hand.”
    “I shall go in via the door,” he told me. “You, find a window.”
    I could not argue with that. Clad as he was, it was simply good thinking that placed him square in view, while allowing me to circle about and come in undetected.
    “If there’s none?” I asked, like him studying the dark and silent factory.
    “Then wait for a time and follow, but only once you are certain that there is no one to watch the door.” He unhooked a small lantern from his belt, no bigger than the size of my cupped hands. A match glowed white hot as he struck it. He lit the lantern quickly, held it out. “Take this.”
    My respect for Mr. Strangeway climbed a notch. Having heard my determination, he was willing to afford me the opportunity to play my role, rather than force me into a damsel’s distress. I smiled, a toothy thing that must have shown a bit too much of my anticipation, and accepted the offering.
    An armored hand settled on my head, holding me in place. “Do not attempt anything rash,” he told me sternly. “I refuse to leave a single lass behind, do you hear me?”
    I would be untruthful if I said that a small part of my heart didn’t go out to the earnest Mr. Strangeway in that moment. For that reason, softened by his concern, I agreed. “I shall be cautious as a mouse.” A hungry one, with no fear, and fearsome teeth.
    He nodded, let me go, and strode for the wide wooden door.
    Taking my cue, I scurried back along the courtyard wall, circling the broken bits of rubble, rotting wood, and untended tools left scattered about. I needed to find a window or alternate door, and fast. I could not leave him alone for too long.
    As I tested each blackened window, a part of me