Chapter 54 – Tuesday

The warmth from Eliza’s hand was fading from Florence’s palm. She could still feel the echo of it—the rhythm she had followed, the pressure she had eased—but it was retreating, and her own pulse was filling the space it left behind.

William stirred first. He had been resting his chin on his arms again, and when he lifted his head there was a crease across his forearm from the edge of the pew.

“Florence,” he said. His voice was careful, pitched low, the voice of someone who had been waiting for the right moment and wasn’t entirely sure this was it. “Earlier. You said it had been a difficult morning.” He paused. “Was that about last night, or is something else going on?”

Florence opened her mouth. Closed it. She had already unloaded on Lucia. She had nearly unloaded on Reverend Sophia. There was a version of today where Florence Bannerman told every person she met about her stolen money, and that version was beginning to feel uncomfortably close to the one she was living.

But these were D.A.A. officers. Thomas’s colleagues. And the thing that had happened to her might not be the kind of thing a constable could fix.

She looked at the satchel on her lap. Her thumb found the strap and pressed into the leather, working the same groove she’d been wearing into it all morning.

“I was pickpocketed,” she said. The word came out smaller than she’d intended. She cleared her throat. “This morning. Everything Thomas gave me for the week—uniforms, food, the lot. It was in the satchel and then it wasn’t.”

William’s expression shifted. “That’s awful. Have you spoken to the constabulary?”

Florence shook her head.

“I don’t think it was—” She paused, choosing her words. “I don’t think it was ordinary. I checked the satchel. Multiple times. The weight was right, and then it was gone, and I couldn’t find the moment it changed. Like someone reached in without opening it.”

William straightened. “The one Whitford and Calloway are chasing?” He said it to the room more than to anyone. “The mage on the Greybridge beat?”

Florence blinked. “You know about that? I met them this morning.”

“It’s been flagged internally. A pickpocket operating near the university district, suspected magical means, and the Grid can’t find a signature.” He looked at Eliza. “Does anything else match?”

Eliza hadn’t moved. Her eyes were closed again, her head resting against the pew, and Florence might have thought she’d stopped listening if not for the faint crease between her brows that hadn’t been there a moment ago.

“Greybridge area. University district. Items vanishing from a closed bag with no sign of entry.” Eliza listed the details without opening her eyes. “It matches.”

“If you thought a mage was responsible,” William said, turning back to Florence, “did you go to the D.A.A.? The constabulary handles theft, but if the means are magical, it falls under our jurisdiction.”

The question was gentle. It was also the question she should have been able to answer with yes.

She hadn’t. She had walked out of the fittings office. She had stood in the courtyard with an empty bag and a cracked sense of herself. And she had gone to a cathedral, because a girl she’d met an hour earlier had told her it was a good place to sit.

The thought arrived with a flush of embarrassment so immediate it heated her ears.

“I—” she started.

A sound cut through the nave. Small, sharp, and entirely wrong for the space—a metallic vibration, thin and insistent, coming from two places at once. It bounced off the stone and multiplied, and the candle reverend three pews away looked up with the politely scandalised expression of a man whose building was being disrespected.

Eliza’s hand went to the inside of her coat. William’s went to his waistcoat pocket. They moved at the same time, with the synchronised reflex of two people responding to the same signal, and each produced a silver pocketwatch. Florence recognised the shape—the same case Whitford had been fidgeting with on the bridge, the same engraved insignia on the back, the chain looped through the same button.

They opened them simultaneously. Eliza held hers at an angle Florence couldn’t read. William held his flat in his palm, his brow creasing as his eyes moved across the face.

Florence looked between them. “Is the time wrong?”

Neither answered. Eliza’s mouth thinned. She clicked her tongue—a sharp, percussive sound that the vaulted ceiling caught and returned, smaller.

“We’ve been assigned,” William said. He was still staring at the watch. “Just now. New case.”

Florence frowned. “But Eliza can barely—” She stopped herself. Eliza was right there. She adjusted. “Shouldn’t you be resting?”

Eliza’s mouth curved. It was not a kind smile. “The gentlemen at dispatch have long memories and short tempers. I may have said a few things to them last night that were, in hindsight, accurate but undiplomatic.”

“You threatened to have the entire office—” William stopped. “Best I don’t repeat it. Not in here.”

“I stand by the sentiment.”

William sighed. “I’m not sure what would have happened if the Chief hadn’t stepped in.”

“And yet here we are.” Eliza looked at the watch again. The smile thinned. “They’re citing the music box. The Class B we lost at the Cellar. Outstanding asset recovery failure, which is their way of reminding me I owe them paperwork and goodwill.” She tilted the watch, reading further. “And the assignment itself—a Tier 6 mage.”

She paused. Lifting an eyebrow.

“Huh. The pickpocket.”

William looked up from his own watch. “The Grid picked them up? Just now?”

“Just now.”

“The same target that’s been invisible to the Grid for over a day. Undetectable, according to Calloway’s report. No signature, no trace, nothing.” William’s voice had gone flat. “And now, what, they just… appear? Right as we are talking about them?”

Eliza didn’t answer immediately.

Eliza didn’t answer.

Florence watched her. The sharpness that had entered the conversation—the dispatch grievances, the Class B citation, the assignment itself—had gone quiet. Eliza was looking at her pocketwatch, but Florence didn’t think she was reading it anymore. Her thumb rested on the rim of the case, turning it in slow quarter-rotations, and her eyes had gone somewhere else entirely. Not distant. Focused. But focused inward, on something behind her own face that she was examining with extreme attention.

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

She closed the watch. Opened it again. Closed it.

“Florence,” Eliza said. Her voice was different. “When you were on the Greybridge this morning. Calloway and Whitford. Did they approach you, or did you approach them?”

Florence blinked. “They approached me. They were already on the bridge when I crossed it. One of them pointed at me and they walked over.”

“And they told you about the pickpocket before or after checking your permit?”

“Before. They said they were doing routine enquiries.”

“And you came straight to the Cathedral after the fittings.”

“Yes.”

“Did you tell anyone you were coming here?”

Florence shook her head slowly. “A friend suggested it. But I didn’t say I would. I was already thinking of coming, and I just… came.”

“Which friend? The one who mentioned an artifact being kept here?”

Florence blinked. She wasn’t sure why that mattered. “Yes? Lucia… Lucia Aurelius. She’s a student at the university. Do you know her?”

Eliza shook her head. It was a small motion, and it settled something. Florence couldn’t tell what.

“No,” Eliza said. “Not that particular flavour of name.”

She stood.

The motion was slower than her usual unfolding. She braced one hand against the pew, and Florence saw the muscles in her forearm tighten as she took her own weight. But she rose, and she stayed risen, and she stretched her neck to one side with a controlled, testing motion.