Page 25 of The Finest Print

24

Accounting Ledger of E. Fletcher

1 June 1848

Secrets of the Old Bailey Vol. 1, No. 9—CANCELED

Inclusive of expenditures, profit loss —￡20

Remaining debt owed—￡20

Remaining debt owed—￡40

When Ethan was made reporter at the Sentinel , his first story had been about the opening of a local medical surgery. He’d spent a morning in the grimy operating theater, observing unspeakable horrors, and his main takeaway was that it was a beastly business that seemed to mostly revolve around knowing what could bleed for the longest.

He could bleed for the longest.

So the agonizing pain in his own chest would have to come last.

It had been four days since Belle stumbled into the printshop, breathless, begging for her fair copy. In rising horror, Ethan watched her claw through one serial after another until he finally understood enough to lift her away from the carnage. As she pressed her tearstained face to his knee, he’d sluggishly understood he would need to begin cauterizing wounds.

First, Belle. He bandaged her thumb and ordered Sam to take her home. Only after the shop was clear of her heartbreaking sobs was he able to turn his attention to everything else. He’d painstakingly restacked the useless copies of number nine. He poured a strong drink for Tobias and Newburn and a stronger one for himself. Then late into the night, he’d paced, working through the accounts, curtailing his panic with any semblance of action.

By the following morning, it was plain they had to halt production on number ten. Ethan had lost more than twenty pounds on expenditures for an issue they couldn’t sell. He couldn’t piss more money at the walls until he knew if the walls were worth saving.

Now he surveyed his empty, silent workroom. Everything about it felt wrong . Tobias and Sam and Newburn and even Marks should all be in various stages of production. Belle should be at the damn broken desk, hoarding adjectives like jewels.

But nobody was here, and he hadn’t seen Belle since Sam took her home. He’d written to her father to apologize for missing his appointment, and he’d written to her to tell her he was sorting things out and would call on her soon. It was the most demoralizing series of letters he’d ever exchanged—and that included the letter he’d missed from Gabler, informing him he’d inherited a debt-ridden printshop halfway across the world.

A mistake .

After all their work—every gain, every stride, every hope they’d nurtured in this godforsaken shop—it came down to a fucking mistake .

The door clanged, and a grim-faced Tobias strode in with a small stack of newspapers rolled in his hand.

“Well?” Ethan tensed. “Did you find anything? How deep is the shit we’re standing in?”

They’d been keeping an eye on the news, trying to discern how well-publicized the Lennox trial was. A very real part of him wanted to believe Belle had the entire thing wrong.

“The Standard .” Tobias tossed down a newspaper. “And The Guardian . Roberts scrounged them from the week of May twenty-first, and yes, the Lennox trial is in here. We likely didn’t notice because we hadn’t started production on number nine yet. At any rate, last week’s news from Parliament crowded out most other stories, so the trial was buried several pages deep. I wager that’s why we didn’t recognize the names we were typesetting.”

“So it’s genuine news.” Ethan scrubbed his face. “If we used her court notes, I already know she got the details right. It’s what’s made us popular, the authenticity.”

“Yes.”

Ethan swore, raking back his hair. “All right. Let’s go through it again, Porter.”

He couldn’t stop revisiting number nine, because there were thousands of copies sitting in the storeroom, and there had to be something he could do with them.

Problems had solutions. Every problem had a solution. He could find it. He was the physician in the surgery; he had the sutures, the scalpel, the dressing.

He refused to believe it was too late to use them.

“Fletcher.”

“Again, Porter.” Ethan pressed his palm to the Columbian, in his mind, the second-most beautiful resident of his printshop. “Because if I’m about to send for an auctioneer, I need to be damn sure selling the Columbian is my only option. If I lose this press, we’re down to one, and it’s going to be an entirely new set of problems.”

“Fine.” Tobias cracked his knuckles. “Go on.”

“We can’t pay the tax and sell it as a penny blood,” Ethan started.

“We’d be nearly worse off than we are now,” Tobias agreed. “We can’t pull a profit when stamp duty is the same as the price. And people won’t pay more than a penny for it.”

“We can’t sell it as a newspaper and charge five pence accordingly.”

Tobias shook his head. “It’s not news. The case is real, but nothing else is. Plus the title, the illustration…there’s plenty of fiction in it.”

“Right.” Ethan closed his eyes. He pictured a set of scales, tipping against him, one tax at a time.

“We could do nothing,” Tobias said bluntly. “Pretend this never happened and distribute the same as any other week. Nobody has to know it contains news. Our readers can’t afford the news.”

Ethan hesitated. He’d had this thought too. But no.

“I can’t risk it.” He grimaced. “That damn inspector is watching us. He’s already holding it over my head that we took a radical pamphlet at the coffeehouse. If we attempt to sell news illegally?—”

“Christ, yes. You’re right. You’d be fined.” Tobias closed his eyes. “Fined, certainly, if not jailed. We could lose the business.”

I might lose it anyway .

Number nine had somehow become more of a puzzle than Irascible Nell had ever been. Too factual for a story paper, too sensational for a newspaper.

It was worthless.

Ethan stopped pacing and looked at Tobias.

“Selling the Columbian is the right decision, Fletcher,” Tobias said, his voice low. “It will set us back in the short term, but we only need to get through a few weeks. Once you own the shop, you can recoup over time. You’ll still have the serial. Secrets sells. You said it yourself.”

Ethan dropped his head to his hands, growling in frustration. If he lost one press, he would have to scale back weekly production. Their profits would diminish; he’d have to cut Newburn loose.

And he’d have to wait even longer to stand on his own two feet.

But it hardly mattered. Every one of his dreams and desires were bound up with Belle. If retracting was the way to keep them moving forward, he would do it.

“Fine. We’ll auction the Columbian. We’ll use the profits to bolster what we lost from this week. We’ll resume work on number ten.” He sighed. “In the meantime, I’ll pray Justice Sinclair is an understanding man.”

There was a sudden loud knock at the shop door. Tobias crossed and swung it open, and in stepped Victor Marks with a gray-haired fellow Ethan didn’t recognize.

“Marks…” Ethan shook his head. “Didn’t you receive my note? We’re holding on number ten. I don’t have a commission for you yet.”

He would have to cut the illustrator loose too.

“That’s why I’m here,” Marks said, jerking his thumb to the man next to him. “Might have a solution for you, Fletcher.”

Ethan glanced at Tobias, who shrugged.

He turned to the gray-haired man. “Fletcher. And you are?”

“White.” The man nodded. “Gregory White. Illustrated Metropolitan News .”

Tobias and Ethan turned to Marks as one.

The artist raised his hands. “I do some work for them from time to time. When I was at their offices this week, White mentioned a new story he’s working on, but he needs information. And he’s willing to pay for it.”

White patted his pocket, withdrawing a notebook. “You publish a penny blood, Mr. Fletcher?”

“I might,” Ethan said suspiciously. “What’s it to you?”

Some would call the Illustrated Metropolitan News a newspaper; Ethan considered it a scandal sheet. The coverage was always melodramatic and often unfavorable. He didn’t trust White any further than he could throw him.

“Did you know there is a contingent at Scotland Yard positing that penny fiction is related to rising crime among the laboring class?”

“Penny fiction? ” Ethan scoffed. “As opposed to inhospitable living conditions, poor working hours, disease, starvation?—”

“My source believes boys who read such ruthless stories are more likely to commit theft and assault.” White angled his pencil. “It seems susceptible young minds are ripe for undue influence. I’m writing about the looming moral panic sure to be caused by the glorification of crime and bloodlust.”

Ethan stared. “You are aware that’s utter rubbish from top to bottom?”

“Are you willing to make a statement to that effect?”

“No, but I am willing to turn you out of my shop.”

White tilted his head. “Now wait, Fletcher. This is going to be published whether or not you’re involved, but I’d very much like to include a counterpoint in my article series. Motivated , if you will.”

“Motivated, are you?” Tobias crossed his arms. “And it’s a series now?”

White ignored him.

“My intent is to speak to your author.”

Ethan’s misgivings sharpened their claws. “Absolutely not.”

“I want to find out more about the creators of these controversial tales,” White continued. “ Secrets is a bit different from other penny bloods, wouldn’t you agree? Irascible Nell has proven elusive . A mystery author for a mystery paper, eh?”

Ethan’s throat went dry.

Marks leaned closer. “He’ll pay, Fletcher. For a statement. For a name .”

White slid Ethan a note. He glanced at the offer, a sick leap rocketing through him.

“Do you expect me to believe you’ll pay this much for my author’s name?”

White chuckled. “You have a very narrow understanding of how hungry people are for gossip, Fletcher.”

“You said Scotland Yard.” Ethan narrowed his eyes. “That’s your source, is it?”

Duncan after the last word, of that he had no doubt. He should have crushed the man’s arrogant windpipe when he had the chance.

“You aren’t the only one who isn’t revealing sources,” White said. “Suffice to say, I was encouraged to look into you. And once I started looking, my interest was piqued.”

“It’s a healthy sum, Fletcher,” Marks cajoled. “You need this money.”

He stared at the note in his fist. He did need this money.

But there was no way in hell he would betray Belle. She’d been so adamant that day when her cousin found the serial—she wasn’t ready. She wanted to be a serious novelist; she didn’t want to be tied to a penny blood. It was her choice, even if he wished things were different.

It was her choice.

God, he couldn’t give her anything, but he could give her that.

“I’m not giving you a name. I’m not giving you a statement,” Ethan said roughly. “That’s final.”

“ Nobody is giving you a name,” Tobias added, looking at Marks with heavy warning.

White looked disappointed but shrugged. “Then you should know I’ll have no choice but to default to the information provided by my other source. I imagine it won’t take much to get him to share his suspicions, but I did want to offer you the opportunity first.”

Ethan’s fists clenched as a divot of helpless rage pressed upon him. He couldn’t buy Belle’s name. He had nothing to buy it with.

And then just as quickly, the flare retreated.

Ethan wasn’t angry; he’d never been an angry man. He had always, always understood the only aspect of his life he could control was his own willingness to face each day head-on. For a long time, he’d managed it.

And he was so damn tired .

It felt as though his whole life had taken place in the middle of an unfortunate story. Until one day, there was Belle. His ray of light, his stroke of fortune, his one good thing .

He would not—he could not—let her be his collateral.

“What do I have to do for you to keep Secrets out of it entirely?”

White’s smile widened.

“Well. That’s an interesting question, Fletcher.” He looked around the shop. “Our operation has been looking to expand. We’re on the rise, you see, and could use additional space. Rumor has it, you only have these premises until June fifteenth.”

He poked his head into the workroom, glancing about with interest.

“Suppose we exercise discretion regarding your publication, and in turn, we’d be much obliged if you had Charles Howe arrange a private sale.”

And there it is .

Ethan thought again of the long-ago surgery, wondering if the men on the table recognized the fatal blow for what it was. He sure as hell did.

He couldn’t keep the shop without Secrets .

He couldn’t keep publishing Secrets without a shop.

And he refused to keep any of it at Belle’s expense.

Tobias cursed, but Ethan could only summon a cutting sense of recognition. He’d tried to make this work. He had tried . But he was nearly out of options, nearly out of time. He was holding his hands over too many damn wounds.

He had to finally accept what he’d been trying to avoid this entire week—this was a bleed for which he had a bandage.

No . He had tourniquet .

A last resort, to stop the hemorrhage.

He’d lose the shop but only in service of salvaging the rest.

A safeguard for his prospects, a safeguard for her name.

It looked like a newspaper in New York City.