Page 39

“Right.” Markus wiped his hand across his face. “This way.” He started leading Samuel down the street, the silence between them thick and tense, when suddenly: “Can I ask why?”

Samuel hesitated—then, “Cause it’s my fault.”

Markus sucked in a harsh breath through his teeth. “Hutchinson, no. Anyone could have gotten caught up with the Guard. It doesn’t do to blame yourself like that.”

He didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Markus was far too kind, and if he only knew the truth…

Instead, he fell into a bitter, angry silence—one that his companion did not deserve, but it was better than anything else. Samuel didn’t know what would happen if he spoke, what danger he might put this man in.

“Here we are,” Markus said, coming to a stop in front of a pub that Samuel had never seen before. Though, if he was being honest, he wasn’t sure one could call it a pub. It was far too shabby for that.

“Thanks,” Samuel muttered, already reaching into his pocket. “Here—”

“No,” Markus threw his hands up in front of him. “I don’t know what happened to you, but I’d have done this for any friend. I don’t need your coppers.”

Samuel wanted to say that they hadn’t been friends, not truly, and that what he had to offer was far more than copper. But there was a resolute pride to Markus, one that Samuel remembered all too well. “I… understand. And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

For a moment it looked like he was going to ask the question that hung between them for years—the what happened? that Samuel had never been able to answer. Samuel’s slip had been so small, so natural, that to this day he didn’t think Markus even noticed it. That he had wanted to kiss him.

Yet Samuel would never know if it was true, and he could not risk it.

But Markus just clapped him on the shoulder. “Don’t be. Some things don’t work out.” He jutted his chin towards the door. “Good luck in there. From what I’ve heard, it hasn’t been pretty.”

“Great.” Samuel steeled himself and approached the door. It groaned as he started to push on it, and he blinked into the small, dimly lit room, illuminated by the candle stubs on every table, rickety wooden things that crowded the floor. A bar—if you could call it that—ran along the back, and a tired, older woman just stared at him.

Ducking his head, he stepped inside. It didn’t take him long to find Cobb, slumped against one of the tables along the wall. In front of him was an empty glass, and he was staring blankly at the whorls in the wood.

Samuel didn’t give himself a moment to doubt, knowing that his courage was a fragile thing. He crossed the room quickly, grabbing a chair from the next table, and sat down in front of his former boss. Cobb didn’t even react, he just kept staring. Up close, Samuel saw that the table was littered with broadsheets. No doubt he was scouring them for help wanted ads. If there even were any to find. Good work was harder and harder to come by with each passing year, and a firing would only make things more difficult.

The barkeep was watching him suspiciously, but she relaxed when he dropped a few coppers on the table, signaling for two more of whatever Cobb had been drinking. Most likely an ale of some sort. He knew better than to ask for tea, and, besides, one glass of it wouldn’t hurt—he didn’t have to finish it and most places watered it down so much that you had to drink all night to get even the slightest bit drunk.

The barmaid appeared at the table, dropping down the glasses and sweeping the coins away. Cobb at last looked up as Samuel nudged one of the glasses forward, his bleary eyes unfocused and sad. For a long moment he just stared, then he rubbed his hand across his face, a hand that was still stained, the skin having absorbed years of ink. “Hutchinson? What the bleeding hells are you doing here?”

“Can’t I check in on you?” Samuel asked, taking a sip of his ale. He nearly spat it back out. It was like rancid water.

“Didn’t expect you to. You’re not the type,” Cobb replied, with a sad honesty that cut at Samuel. “And if you don’t like that, don’t waste it. Give it here.”

Samuel wrapped his hand around the glass, not out of any intention to drink it, but—“How many have you had?”

“Are you my mother now?” He drained half of his glass in one pull. “Enough that one more isn’t going to kill me.”

Sighing, Samuel slid it across to him, and Cobb eagerly lined it up. “What happened, Cobb?”

“Hells if I know.” He sank back in his chair. “All I know is that a few days after… you, a notice came down from on high. No reason, no explanation. And now this.” He slammed his hand down on the table, the broadsheets fluttering, and Samuel winced.

“I’m sorry.”

“What for?” Cobb blinked at him, awareness starting to cut through his drunken haze. “Looks like we’re in the same boat now, friend.”

“Not the same, no,” Samuel said. He reached into his pocket, sorting through the options he had before him. He pulled the cufflinks out and dropped them on the table. “Here. Take these.”

Cobb just stared at them, his eyes going wide, before he clapped his hand over them, hiding them away. “Are you mad?” he whispered. “Trying to start a riot?”

Samuel shook his head, slowly. “No, I—”

“Are these real?” Cobb lifted the edge of his hand to peek at the cufflinks. “Where did you—oh. Hells.” He shoved them back towards Samuel. “Not enough to get me fired, eh? Gotta try to get me killed?”

Samuel accepted the cufflinks as they rolled back towards him, but he looked up at Cobb in confusion. “What?”