Horacio Ashmont's Arc

Chapter 11 of 12

Horacio climbed back through the manhole and sealed it behind him. The abandoned building had been a waste of time, but at least he knew the truth now. His people were still safe in the storm cellar, waiting for him to decide their next move. The coach appeared on the street above just as he straightened. Not the usual rickety cart or loaded wagon that rattled through these alleys, but a proper carriage with matched horses and lacquered wood that caught the morning light. Horacio froze. No one drove a coach like that into the East End unless they had business that couldn't wait. A man stepped down, brushing dust from his sleeve with the same careful gesture Horacio remembered from tutorials and dining halls. The visitor pulled something from his coat pocket—a red leather yearbook stamped with gold letters. Oxford, 1870. Horacio's own graduation year. The man looked up and their eyes met across the cobblestones. Recognition flashed between them, followed by something worse than contempt. Pity. Horacio stood there with soot on his hands and the manhole cover at his feet. No explanation would erase what the man could see—the rough clothes, the hollow cheeks, the fact that Horacio had just crawled out of the sewers like something that belonged there. The visitor tucked the yearbook away and approached, each step measuring the exact distance Horacio had fallen. There would be no hiding this. Someone from his former life knew where he'd ended up, and that knowledge would spread faster than any rumor through the old networks he'd left behind.