The Merchant and the Rogue by Sarah M. Eden

Brogan watched, helplessly, as Vera paced the shop, worry deepening the lines on her ash-smeared face. The fire at the barbershop was out, finally, but even the combined efforts of nearly everyone on the street hadn’t been enough to save the building. Heaven knew they’d tried. He’d told himself as he’d frantically tossed bucket after bucket on the flames that they’d manage it somehow. Watching the building collapse, gutted from the inside, he’d felt that failure acutely. Overton’s family would likely never recover.

Vera was understandably shaken, and Brogan didn’t know how to help. He’d told himself the night before, when Fletcher had brought him the letter from the Dread Master, that it’d be for the best to keep a distance from Vera Sorokina—an emotional one, leastwise. That decision had held for all of a few hours. He was, once again, feeling drawn to her, pulled in.

Brogan stepped into the path of her pacing. She stopped and looked at him. He offered what he hoped was a reassuring expression, inviting her to share what was on her mind.

After a moment, she sighed. Her shoulders rose and fell. “He didn’t pay.”

Brogan nodded. “Most businesses can’t afford fire insurance.”

“Not that. The protection money. He didn’t pay it. When the man came to collect, Mr. Overton told him he didn’t have it, that he couldn’t pay.”

Brogan watched her more closely. “And what has that to do with this fire?”

“The man said that he ought to reconsider on account of it being easy for a life to go up in flames.”

Saints above. “’Twasn’t an observation, then, but a threat.”

“I’m beginning to think we haven’t been paying for security, after all.”

Lands, it certainly didn’t seem that way. “Have you spoken with your neighbors about this?”

“What would I even say?” She spread her hands and shrugged. “I don’t know how to help. It wouldn’t do a lick of good to meet with them if I haven’t any hope to offer.”

’Twas one of the things he’d come to admire most about Vera. She never wanted to cause people pain. She had a good heart and a compassionate nature. But he also knew from first-hand experience that spending one’s days trying to help everyone with every problem they had was exhausting.

“We can spin this question about our brains. And if you haven’t yet told your da about it, I think you ought to. And if you’ve no objections, I’d suggest we pull m’sister into the question as well. Móirín is one of the cleverest people I know.”

She clasped her hands together. Her eyes pulled wide. “I would finally get to meet your famous sister?”

“What do you mean ‘famous’?” He was never more nervous about Móirín’s welfare than when someone indicated they knew her.

“Only that you’ve mentioned her a few times, and I can tell that you two are close. I’d very much like to meet her.”

That was a relief.

“Why don’t you and your da come to my flat? The two of you could stay there tonight. It’ll give you a bit of distance from the ash and smoke. I think you’ll rest better away from here. And you and I and Móirín—and your da, if you decide—can see what we can sort out about all this. You’ve created unity among your neighbors already. If you could decide on a path forward, I think they’ll take it with you.”

Vera rubbed at her forehead, weariness filling every inch of her posture. “I’m not a leader of uprisings, Ganor. I’m not a general strategizing in battle. I’m nothing but a shop girl.”

He closed the distance between them and set his hands on her arms. His pulse picked up a bit. “Vera.”

She didn’t look up at him. Her head hung. Her shoulders bent, heavy and burdened.

“Being a shop girl doesn’t make someone ‘nothing.’ And I watched you during your meeting with your neighbors. You’re a leader and a general whether or not you think you are.”

She shook her head. “That was when we thought this was merely a mystery. Now we know it’s a threat. The consequences of failing are far bigger.”

“Come spend the evening with my sister and me,” he suggested again. “Your mind needs time to wrap around this change. Once it’s not so new, it’ll feel less overwhelming.”

“You’ve a lot of faith in me,” she said.

“And I think you’ve more faith in yourself than you realize in this moment.”

Her shoulders rose and fell with a deep breath. When she spoke again, she sounded more composed. “I cain’t promise my papa will take you up on your offer.”

“I vow not to be offended.”

A little smile touched her lips. “And your sister?”

“She’ll at least vow not to toss anyone out of the flat.”

That brought her eyes up to him, surprise in her gray eyes.

He laughed. “That’ll make a lot more sense once you’ve met Móirín.”

“You make me wonder if I even want to.” She didn’t sound in earnest. Vera, it seemed, had come to know him well enough to realize he was jesting.

“Trust me, love. You do.”

Looking lighter than she had all day, Vera stepped back. “I’ll ask Papa. Either way, give me a moment and I’ll be ready to jaunt.”

Left by himself in the shop, Brogan took a moment to do some pacing of his own. He was certainly not “keeping his distance,” but who could blame him? Vera had passed a horrific day. She’d learned she and her father and her neighbors were in danger. She was tired and likely afraid. He couldn’t just abandon her.

And, he couldn’t abandon this difficulty simply because he was also investigating another one. The DPS regularly tackled multiple troubles at once. Of course, the DPS had the benefit of more than one person shouldering the load.

He, alone, was tackling the investigation of Mr. Sorokin’s potential connection with the ambassador, but he was in a supporting role in the mystery Vera was sorting. He was far more comfortable as the aide-de-camp than the commander.

Some people were heroes. Some people were . . . him.

Vera returned after a few minutes. Alone. She carried a small valise in her hand.

“Your da?” he asked.

“Ain’t coming.” She spoke swift and firm, clearly unwilling to elaborate. He wouldn’t press for more. “You’re certain your sister won’t mind me arriving unannounced?”

“She really won’t. I should warn you, though, she’ll tease you mercilessly. It’s what she does.”

Vera didn’t look the least bit uneasy about that. “Between the urchins who drop by and a certain cheeky Irishman, I think I’ve learned well how to endure a bit of teasing.”

“Well then.” Brogan held out his arm for her.

She hooked her arm through his, and together they walked out of the shop. Brogan hailed a hansom cab, and they rode all the way to Sackville Street. Just as they had the evening before, they conversed easily on any number of topics. Though he was certain her mind was still spinning on the question of the Protector and the fire, they didn’t discuss any of that. He’d let her bring it up when she was ready.

He could see as they stepped inside the flat that she was nervous. “I swear to you, m’sister won’t mind at all. In fact, I’d be very much surprised if she doesn’t try to convince you to stay longer than just one night. She’s fond of company.”

And, fortunately for Brogan, she also had a keen memory and a quick mind. He was depending on Móirín to remember that he was using a false name and call him “Ganor” when he introduced her to Vera. Of course, that meant he was requiring yet another person to lie to Vera. If she didn’t already believe writers were deceptive by nature, she would the moment she realized his dishonesty.

What a muck he was treading through.

Móirín emerged from the kitchen, likely having heard them come in.

“This is my sister, Móirín. Móirín, this is Vera Sorokina.”

Móirín’s grin was welcoming, which set Brogan’s mind at ease, but it was also filled with ample mischief.

“Zdrastvuyte, Miss Sorokina,” Móirín said. “Ochen’ priyanto.”

“You speak Russian?”

Móirín dipped her head. “Only a little.”

Móirín spoke another language, and he’d had no idea.

Vera looked to him. “You didn’t tell me that.”

Brogan held his hands up in a show of innocence. “I didn’t know.” He turned to Móirín. “Why did you never tell me you spoke Russian?”

“You never asked, Ganor.”

Ganor. She’d remembered. Thank the heavens.

Móirín eyed Vera’s bag. “Are you movin’ in?”

“For the night,” Brogan said. “There was a fire across the street from the shop, and it weren’t an accident.”

“Saints alive,” Móirín muttered. “Of course, you’ll stay here. Arson, was it?”

Vera nodded. “Among other things.”

“I have stew on the stove.” Móirín motioned them back toward the kitchen. “Come, sit and fill your belly, then tell me what’s been happening.”

Brogan put an arm around Vera’s shoulder and gave her a quick, friendly squeeze. “We’ll get to the bottom of it, I’m certain we will.”

She leaned into his one-armed embrace, tucking herself up against him. “I hope so.”

He likely ought to have dropped his arm away. He ought to have reclaimed as much of the space between them as he could. She might very well prove to be part of the trouble he was investigating. But he found, walking side-by-side, with his arm around her, he hadn’t the strength to pull away.

“You’ve a tangled knot there, Vera.” Móirín had listened closely as Vera explained the situation on Old Compton Street. “How do you mean to untie it?”

“I haven’t the first idea,” Vera said.

“I take leave to doubt that.”

Brogan hoped his sister’s directness wouldn’t push Vera away. Móirín was also funny and personable. And she was sometimes terrifying. He never knew how people would react to her.

“I don’t have a good idea,” Vera corrected.

“So tell us your middling idea.” Móirín laughed a bit, and it seemed to help.

Vera’s posture relaxed. “Before the fire, I asked my neighbors to think back on the days their notes have been delivered and twig who was there.”

“‘Twig’ is London for ‘sort out,’” Brogan said for his sister’s benefit.

“I know,” she said.

“How is it you know that?”

“Perhaps I’m smarter than you are,” Móirín said with a grin.

“He was smart enough to warn me you’d be a merciless tease,” Vera said.

“A regular genius, he is.” Móirín offered the dry agreement before returning to the topic at hand. “Have any of your neighbors thought of anyone knocking about on the days the notes were delivered?”

“I’ve not collected their lists,” she said. “And I’m not sure it’d be of much help now. I suggested the strategy when we thought we were trying to identify a benefactor not an oppressor.”

“You don’t think knowing who’s behind this would make a difference?” Brogan asked.

“I don’t think we can stop whoever’s behind it no matter if we know who he is.”

“Secrecy is power, Vera,” Móirín said. “It adds potency to any weapon and danger to any scheme. Unmasking your villain shrinks the threat into something definable.”

“Secrecy is power,” Vera repeated on a sigh. “It’s also a burden.”

“You carry a few of those burdens, do you?” Móirín asked.

“More than a few,” was the answer.

Móirín met Brogan’s eye with a look of empathy. They had a lot of secrets as well.

Brogan reached over and took Vera’s hand. She threaded her fingers through his. Oh, how easily he could let himself start dreaming of this connection between them growing more permanent.

“What if I cain’t twig a solution?” Vera addressed the question to him.

“Meet with your neighbors again,” he said. “There’s no reason you have to face this alone.”

“You’ll help?” she pressed.

He raised their hands to his lips and gently kissed her fingers. “Of course.”

In the next instant he caught Móirín’s extremely curious and amused gaze. She’d never let him explain this away enough to avoid that “merciless teasing” he’d warned Vera of.

He could tell his sister that there was nothing overly fond in the gesture or that he felt nothing particular for Vera. But it wouldn’t’ve done a bit of good. He’d done a lot of lying to her in the years since he’d joined the DPS, but that was one falsehood she’d see through in an instant.