Page 61 of A Vocation of Violence

“Ye look like ye’ve been wrestlin’ with ghosts, Fiona,” he said, crossing the room with the silent grace of a man accustomed to moving through more dangerous spaces.

“Perhaps I have,” I admitted, my voice a mere wisp of sound.

“Come now,” he chided gently, offering his hand, calloused yet surprisingly tender. “Tonight, we’ll chase away specters with a bit of merriment. Oscar, George, and I are whiskin’ ye away to the Painted Veil… They’re hosting the Order of the Green Carnation tonight. Nothin’ too strenuous for that shoulder of yers, I promise. Just a bit of fun,” he added, holding his hands up against a forthcoming excuse.

His invitation hung in the air between us, a lifeline cast amidst the swirling currents of my inner tempest. I eyed him, the corners of my mouth quirking upward. “And how does Mr. Wilde intend to make this an early night? His penchant for revelry is well known.”

Darcy chuckled. “He gave his word. And George—well, he’d carry ye home himself before lettin’ the night claim ye.”

“An early night,” I said, skepticism lacing my tone. Yet the prospect of laughter and lightness beckoned, a siren’s call drawing me from the depths.

“An early night,” Darcy affirmed, his gaze steady upon mine.

“Very well,” I conceded, pushing aside the missives of gloom that cluttered my desk. “Let us tempt fate and seek solace in the company of friends.”

For tonight, I would don the masque of normalcy, allowing the camaraderie of dear companions to shield me from the shadows that clung with vampiric tenacity. Tomorrow’s darkness would come soon enough, but for a few fleeting hours, I would bask in the glow of gaslight and friendship, defying the insistence of my own brooding soul.

The door to my chamber creaked open, and in the threshold appeared George Tunstall, his broad frame silhouetted against the dim corridor. In his arms nestled little Tegan, her cherubic face a serene contrast to the labyrinth of shadows that stretched behind them. As Tunstall stepped into the room, light danced across his visage, softening the edges of his usually stern countenance.

“Look who’s eager to see her Auntie Fiona,” he said, his voice betraying a tenderness seldom heard from a man of his hardened disposition.

I watched, heart swelling, as Tunstall bent forward, allowing Tegan’s tiny hand to reach for me with infantile enthusiasm. His fingers, though accustomed to the clench of fists in less savory circumstances, now cradled the child with an almost sacred reverence. The sight unfurled a warmth within me, seeping through the cracks of my armored heart.

“Hello, my sweet,” I whispered, brushing a kiss upon Tegan’s brow. I saw in her guileless eyes the reflection of a burgeoning bond, one not wrought from blood but formed in the crucible of our shared tribulations. I felt a tranquil assurance that, should the tides of fate whisk me away, she would be cherished in hands as capable as they were gentle.

“Ye’ve become quite the friend to her,” I remarked softly.

“Someone has to watch over the wee ones,” Tunstall replied, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. “And it seems I have a knack for it.”

“Indeed,” I agreed, the simple truth resonating between us.

Before another word could pass, the sharp rap of knuckles upon wood echoed through the room. Mary entered with the day’s post cradled in her arms. Amongst the envelopes and parcels, she bore a newspaper that seemed to command immediate attention.

“Miss Mahoney, this was delivered to your door,” she intoned, extending the paper toward me like a dark omen.

“Thank you, Maryann,” I said, my fingers grazing the coarse print as I took it from her hold. My eyes flitted across the front page, where bold letters heralded the ghastly end of one Herr Oswald J. Drumft. The illustrated image of the knife protruding from his back was a stark reminder of justice served cold and merciless.

A shiver of satisfaction coursed through me, undeniably macabre in its nature. Night Horse had enacted a vengeance that the law would never dispense. Though I harbored no love for the path of the vigilante, in this instance, I could not suppress the gratifying thought that there was one less demon prowling the streets of our plagued city.

“Seems justice comes in many forms,” Darcy observed, his gaze lingering on the paper before returning to Tegan’s innocent face. “At least Vivienne can rest in peace.”

“So it does,” I replied, setting aside the newspaper.

For all the darkness that pervaded our existence, we were afforded these fleeting moments of light—a child’s laughter, the solace found in unlikely friendships, and the ephemeral peace of knowing that, for now, we could revel in the night.