II. The Banished

Once upon a Town...

'I hate him!' the little girl cried. 'I'll never marry that boy, Mama! He pushed me in the pond!'

Little Belinda stared at the little girl with awe. She could shout and her mother merely shook her head. Not only was she drenched and dripping pond water all over the elegant carpet, Cressida Belverst was also causing a scene.

'Never associate yourself with such girls,' her mother whispered disapprovingly beside her.

She looked at her mother, bewildered.

'The Belversts may be rich, but they cannot put a leash on their daughter. Just look at her.' Her mother shook her head, lips screwed in distaste. 'You can have as many friends, but none like the Belverst girl.'

But Cressida had been quite nice and fun until she was pushed into the pond.

Her mother gently turned her away. 'Go back to the playroom with Poppy and Posy.'

*****

For five years, he had been chasing after ghosts. But even before that, the women and children had been disappearing under their watchful eyes. Worse, hundreds of leads led them nowhere.

He did the right thing.

Belinda Carrington was not the first to come to him with a promise of information. There were others like her who always wanted something in exchange for valuable information.

Every day, people were being plucked from the streets, most of them homeless and not missed. They were not like the gentries banished by their family to a small village like Belinda Carrington. McKenzie could not afford to waste his time entertaining gossips.

The lady should know that her war was with her family, not the Town Guards or the League of Founders who had actual problems in their hands. She should return to where her father took her and try to live a modest life like other banished gentries. And mayhap, in the future, she may be allowed to return.

He did the right thing.

Did you?

He silently cursed. Somehow, last night continued to bother him. Dartridge was too far away. It would take nearly a week to travel to Willowfair. He did not think that someone like Belinda Carrington would endure such long travel and knock on his door every day for a fortnight just to tell him gossips.

He entered the Mary House, one of the gentleman's clubs his sister-in-law owned. He ran up the stairs to the family room. There, he found his four-year-old nephew climbing a shelf. Not alone, of course, because the child's equally childish father was there to support his quest by holding the shelf steady. Both dark-haired Haverstons turned to stare at McKenzie.

"Uncle Mac!" Ernest cried with glee before jumping from the shelf like it was the most natural thing. He landed perfectly on the carpeted floor, his proud father beaming next to him. The boy ran up to McKenzie and tried to climb up, clinging to his coat, then staying there, dangling as McKenzie refused to hoist him up.

"Where's Mary?" he asked Adrien.

His brother tore his son from McKenzie. "Love! Mac is here!"

The door connected to Mary's office opened and his sister-in-law poked her head out. "Mac." And to her husband, she said, "Darling, Ernest needs to eat."

"I'm not hungry!" Ernest protested.

"You need to eat," Adrien said, putting the boy down. "What do you wish to devour, son? The monster or the witch?" McKenzie frowned, but Adrien just winked as he led his son out of the room.

Inside the office, McKenzie settled in front of Mary's desk. For years, even before she married his brother, McKenzie had been working with Mary on the slavery case. It had been five years since she inherited her father's clubs, including his title of Uncle, the leader of a criminal group called the Society. Before that, she was the Blower, the rat of the same group who provided information to the Town Guards on many occasions. It was how they got acquainted and formed a secret partnership of sort. The slavery case was by far their longest venture together.

Mary's marriage with Adrien offered many advantages. For one, she did not have to meet McKenzie in secret anymore because they were now family. She was still the leader of the Society, and she was clearly still involved in some questionable activities, but her cooperation with the Town Guards and the League of Founders was far more advantageous.

Mary had ears everywhere. She was the first to discover about the mysterious disappearances of the women and children, and eventually how they were being traded as slaves all over the Town, and—as they all believed—aboveground.

"We hear some people are looking for someone—a runaway," Mary said. "A village down south has an extra influx of men there. They believe that's where she has been hiding since her arrival six months ago."

He straightened, suddenly alert. "By runaway, Mary, do you mean someone from up there?"

She nodded, a lock of black hair escaping from behind her ear. She looked excited. Hopeful. "I believe so, yes."

"Is this a reliable source?"

Her light brown eyes regarded him with impatience, as if he should know the obvious. "Of course not. We got it from the Meriweather bandits and you know how ambiguous they can be."

A brief silence followed Mary behind her desk.

"Someone came back." It was not a question, rather a statement to make himself believe it was true.

"If the bandit gossips are to be believed, yes. We have to get to her before they can. She could be the link we need to solve this."

"Have you made progress? Followed a track?"

"No. The bandits refuse to be involved. I sent men, but they cannot actively search. I do not want to trigger any suspicions. Perhaps you can do something."

He blinked, perplexed. "Do we even know who we are looking for?"

"No," she replied, moistening her lips. "We only know they are looking for a woman with red hair. They had been knocking on doors with the description."

McKenzie stiffened. "Which village are you referring to, Mary?"

"Dartridge."

A chill rushed up his spine, his own voice echoing in his head...

"That is too far away."

And then came Belinda Carrington's words...

"I've been to farther places."

McKenzie's eyes closed, and he groaned. "Bloody tarnation." He brushed his fingers through his hair.

"What is it?"

"I just received a visit from her last night." Jumping to his feet, he rushed to the door. "I will explain everything later."

In the corridor, he met Adrien and Ernest, each holding bread wrapped in paper with the word sandwitch written on it, making McKenzie wonder for a second what the monster food might be.

"Where are you going?" his brother asked through his food.

He did not reply. He ruffled Ernest's hair as he passed. Bounding down the stairs, he cursed himself.

Bloody hell! She could be anywhere by now!

*****

Two days since she left Willowfair, Belinda was jostled awake. When she realized where she was, she jumped away from the hands that shook her, sliding to the other end of the hackney.

"Relax, lassie," said the man, chuckling loudly.

Her eyes darted to her fellow passenger, an old woman who looked more impatient than she was hours ago. Pulling the hood of her cloak over her head, she stared at the open door of the hackney. Outside stood the driver, his pipe hanging at one corner of his mouth.

"I can't take you further, lass," he said, motioning over his shoulder. "New passengers." Three restive men stood behind him.

"But I paid."

"Yer pay only takes ye 'tis far, lassie," the driver dismissively said, pipe swinging up and down. He grabbed her rucksack. "Come on, get down."

"Get on with it, woman," one of the new passengers added, voice crisp. "We've been waitin' a ride fer ages."

Belinda reluctantly jumped out of the hackney. Soon, her rucksack was pushed into her arms and the driver happily rode away with three more passengers after telling her that the next village was not far along.

Three hours later, feet sore and stomach empty, the village of Marsden came to sight, its roofs glowing yellow from the surrounding lamps, and smoke floating sleepily upward.

Another hour later, a barmaid was staring her up and down with a combination of pity and uncertainty. She did not know what the woman saw, but she could tell what she could not see: the beautiful lady in a pretty gown and glittering jewels. The one who never had to receive the same look the barmaid was giving her now. A proud woman.

Here, she was just someone begging for a bed. "I can mop floors," she said. "I can clean the rooms for you."

"I don't know, darlin'," the barmaid said, shaking her head. She looked over at the owner standing behind the bar with a cloth over one shoulder. "There's nothin' much fer ye to do here." Belinda refused to back out, still waiting for something—anything. Finally, the woman leaned closer and whispered, "But ye can stay in the stable. The stable boy ran away three days ago. You'll be alone there." The woman's helpless smile told Belinda that's all she could offer.

She blinked a few times and nodded. "Thank you."

Not long after, Belinda was in the stable, hiding in a stall with a pitchfork standing against the wooden stall wall that separated her from the nearest gelding. There were only two horses inside, and both neighed now and then, sensing her presence. They eventually relaxed, perhaps realizing she was harmless, that she was not crawling out of her hiding place. Why would she? She was safe here, on a bed of hay, away from the foxed men in the tavern. The barmaid promised to bring her food, but Belinda was not hoping to see another soul tonight. People often forget their promises.

Light streamed through the bar windows above the walls across from her, landing yellow on the hay-covered floor of her stall. She wrapped her cloak over herself from chin down and leaned back against the hay, the questions in her mind as pesky as the dried blades of grass stabbing through her clothes.

What would Julia do? Would she take her in?

Belinda was starting to forget her sister's voice, her face, or even how she said them, but she would never forget the words. She held on to those words for so long.

She absently searched inside her rucksack. No food. No money. Her thoughts went to Anne, the blond woman she traveled with for days, the one who taught her how to survive the roads as a woman through her stories. Silently, she berated herself for trusting someone too fast and too soon. She could not blame Anne. True to her teachings, Anne was just trying to survive. It was her, Belinda, who was naïve and stupid.

She pulled out the small gold mirror with a bitter smile and held it before her. She moved her head to inspect every inch of her face, her mind circling back to her sister. They never looked alike. People had always thought her older sister was plain. She, Belinda, was the fairest. Not true anymore, she thought, pointing the mirror away from her to catch the light, watching it reflect on the ceiling.

A small giggle bubbled in her lips, then grew into a fit of chuckles. The two horses huffed and whipped their tails, their peace disrupted. But Belinda did not care. It was in that time of day, when she was alone and the world was sleeping, that she could laugh at her fate.

Her friends should have seen the things she did. They would be horrified, really. Poppy and Posy most of all. They might even faint. Her chuckles died down as the faces of her family flashed in her mind. Would they be awed she survived at all? She knew Nana would, wherever she was.

She pointed the mirror at her face again and tried to smile, tucking the greasy red tresses behind one ear, feeling ridiculous. She hated what she saw. In fact, she did not know what she was seeing.

Then she scoffed. She threw the mirror back into her sack and slouched into the hay. Her mother's disapproving face flashed again. She could imagine what Lady Amber Carrington would say. "That's not very ladylike, Belinda." She would say it without a twitch on her face, the black ringlets on the sides of her face stiff as her own shoulders. Even that night five years ago, her mother's face remained rigid and blank. They did not even change when Belinda cried out for her when the men took her.

She closed her eyes, hoping sleep would not come too strongly. There was no time to rest. Not tonight. Not until she was safe.

Hours later, or perhaps just five minutes, Belinda flinched. The horses were making noises again, stomping and huffing. She stiffened, the hairs at the back of her neck erect.

Someone else was in the stable. She silently reached for her rucksack, but then realized it had nothing inside for her to protect. She grabbed the pitchfork instead and slowly rose to take a peek, diving back down when she saw a man guiding a horse into an empty stall. Her hand tightened around her weapon when more footsteps came through the stable door—another man with a horse.

"She could be in Wickhurst by now," a deep, throaty voice said. "Let's trade the horses and move along. The others are on their way. We can't be caught pottering about."

Belinda's heart leaped to her throat. She did not even dare swallow, afraid to make a sound. The other man grumbled under his breath. "Talk to the owner and ask around. The chit may have asked for a bed. If we're lucky, she'd be here. If not, let's hope she's on foot to Wickhurst."

To Belinda's horror, the horse right next to her stall huffed and stomped its foot. Her heart thudded against her ribcage as she sank deeper into the hay. The dull footsteps neared, just paces away from her. They were checking out the horse. "See if this one can be traded," said the surly voice, sending the other man out.

Belinda stayed motionless as the remaining man guided his companion's horse into another stall. "Where's the bloody stable boy?"

She heard him pace around, looking for the servant that was not there. She looked at the pitchfork and considered her options. Letting go of the only weapon that could save her life, she climbed back into the hay, pulled her cloak over her, and turned around. Pretending to sleep was perhaps the most ridiculous idea, but so was forking a man ten times her strength.

Her heart pulsed in her throat, her ears ringing with the rush of blood. She did not have to hear the man walking toward her stall. She only had to sense it.

"Oi, boy! Wake up. You have horses to feed." The voice was above her. Then she felt a kick, right on her leg. She flinched and slowly moved. Hands fisted around the rough material of her cloak, she sat up, careful to keep her head covered. "You lazy bastard. Get up and—"

The stable door flung open again and the man's companion said, "There are Guards outside." He sounded urgent. Alarmed. "We must leave."

"Find out what they're up to. I'll get the owner." Giving Belinda another kick, he added, "Take care of the horses." And then he turned and walked out of the stable with his friend.

There was no time for relief. Belinda grabbed her rucksack and poked her head over the stall wall. Fear was not a stranger to her, but it was still as potent. They had caught up with her. They knew where she was going. And then a more immediate panic set in. The barmaid knew she was here.

Her frantic eyes landed on her neighbor—the black gelding. It huffed; deep, almost like a growl.

She swallowed and let out a shaky sigh. Well, she had been held captive for years, been chased for months, been stolen from. She deserved at least a horse for those.