“Months, at least.” Móirín could see the truth clearly. “Nolan’s not called this room home for a long time.”
Fletcher met her gaze. “Then where has he been calling home?”
Móirín sheathed her knife. “’Tis a question we need an answer to.”
“I suspect we ain’t gonna like the answer we get.”
“More likely than not, we’ll full hate it.”
Móirín picked up her lantern and crossed to the bed. The dust on the floor and bed was thick and undisturbed. Nolan hadn’t moved his bed in ages. That was a helpful thing. The wall behind it hid one of many secret passages in this house, but Nolan hadn’t tucked himself in there when he’d flown.
“How much of the ol’ place have you searched?” Fletcher asked.
“All of it. He ain’t here.” She looked to Fletcher. “Did you send out your urchins?”
“Oi. Any Dreadfuls who weren’t here tonight will know the lay of things in no time.” Fletcher looked out for the street urchins of London, having been one himself and knowing the nightmare they often lived. “The Dreadfuls are being told to keep themselves as safe as they can and await instructions from you.”
“I’ll send instructions?”
“The Dread Master’ll send instructions.” Fletcher dipped his head. “I stand by what I said earlier: they need you now, Móirín. They need the confidence that comes from knowing who’s leading us.”
“And who’s to say knowing ’tis me hiding behind the fearsome mask won’t make them feel less safe?” She led the way out of the room.
“Because they know you—Móirín Donnelly—and not a one of them wouldn’t trust you to lead them through purgatory itself and back.”
“And if that’s precisely where this path is leading us?” They climbed the servants’ stairs, landing themselves on the ground level and the corridor leading back to the entryway.
“We’ve set ourselves up for a fight with the devil for years now,” Fletcher said. “I’d’ve been shocked if we hadn’t eventually found ourselves there.”
They stopped in the entryway, dark except for her lantern. Shadows danced and mocked and hinted at things not seen, things meant to be noticed but hidden from view. This house held a great many secrets, many of which the Dreadfuls didn’t know about, not even Fletcher.
Móirín wasn’t entirely unlike the house. She knew the burden of secrets, knew the dangers that came with them.
The Tempest had killed before, and she’d do so again. Móirín hadn’t a doubt in the world that the Dread Master was high on the Tempest’s list of people she’d enjoy snuffing out. Keeping her identity a secret wasn’t a matter of mere self-preservation. If the Dreadfuls didn’t know the identity of their leader, and if the Tempest knew that information couldn’t be tortured out of them, they would be safer. And that mattered to Móirín. It had always mattered.
“I’ll send word around to all the Dreadfuls,” she said. “But this secret needs keeping a touch longer. It’ll keep the Dreadfuls safer, and it’ll safeguard my network of informants. They only know me through this mask, and it’s crucial it stays that way.”
He nodded. “I’ll trust you on this, Móirín. But I’ll also warn you. This ain’t the time for one of your stubborn stands. With the DPS scattered and the Tempest claiming victory, this ain’t a war that can be won alone.”
“I don’t intend to be alone, just anonymous.” She nodded to the front door. “Lock it up, Fletcher. No one’ll be coming through that blue door any time soon.”
He pulled a heavy iron key from his waistcoat pocket. “Cain’t say I like doing this, knowing it might mean it never opens again—not to the DPS, leastwise.”
“There’re other doors,” she said. “Other ways in.”
“Why do I get the feeling you’re being poetic and not just literal?” he said dryly.
“I ain’t a poet.”
“Most think you ain’t a writer at all, but we both know that ain’t true.” He slid the key into the lock and turned. The bolt slung into place with a thud that felt far too final.
Móirín pushed forward the topic at hand to distract herself. “Members of the DPS have to write penny dreadfuls,” she reminded him. “Couldn’t’ve run a society I wasn’t eligible to join, now could I?”
“We also all thought a person had to be male to join.” He shot her a look as they walked toward the back of the house. Her lantern continued being their only source of light, but they knew their way around, she even better than he. “That put me in a bit of a bind with my Elizabeth, though she found a way around that, clever as she is.”
“Clever enough that none of us knew she was the famous ‘Mr. King’ for quite a long time.” Móirín’s footsteps were slow and steady, but her mind raced ahead. “Make certain she closes down her school, and the two of you stash yourselves in my safe house on Riding House. The Tempest knows you’re the acting head of this organization, which makes you a target. The Tempest also knows Elizabeth is Mr. King. I don’t doubt she’d use that to blackmail Elizabeth.”
“The school’s already being emptied,” Fletcher assured her.
“Have Barnabus and Gemma relocate to the Riding House safe house as well,” she added. Those two were already in hiding, but having them in the same location as Fletcher and Elizabeth would simplify things.
“I will,” he said.
“When you reach the back of headquarters,” Móirín said, “take the hidden passageway from the cloakroom rather than the door. It’ll be safer.”
“And how do you mean to get out?”
“A secret passage behind the pub.”
His brow hooked upward. “There’s a secret passage behind the pub?”
“I chose this place for a reason,” she said. “It’s served us well. And if we don’t all get murdered in our attempt to bring down the Tempest, it’ll do so again.”
“‘If we don’t get murdered . . . ’ You never were one for mincing words.”
Móirín motioned him down the servants’ stairs once more. “You and Elizabeth get yourselves situated. I’ll meet you at Riding House once I’ve seen to another bit of business.”
“And what’s that?”