As soon as Papa Jeff and Meghan were sleeping Cindy was in the back garden, braving the chill air rather than spending another moment in the house. She trudged through the thick bushes around the garden shed and lowered herself carefully to the ground, grimacing against the pain in her ribs and stomach. It really wasn't that bad, so long as she didn't breathe.
Even with her left side almost completely useless Papa Jeff had made her cook dinner, probably just to further "teach her her place" or some rubbish. Like she didn't already know her place as a stupid little nobody with no past, and no future so long as the Hopes were still living. The thought made her inconceivably angry, and she fumed quietly until midnight, until she could hear her sister and Holmes approaching again.
"Are you okay?" asked Anthea instantly, concern for Cindy's drooping form managing to melt away the coolness she adopted in her new life. Without waiting for an answer she pulled from her bag a wrapping bandage and offered it to Cindy for her ribs.
Mycroft politely turned away as the sisters did their necessary work. "Did you get any names for our terrorist?" he asked over his shoulder.
She is forced by her own halting breaths to wait until Ma- Anthea has bound up her ribs, with resigned ease after so many years of practice, and covered her back up before speaking. "No. I didn't have time; the prince was getting suspicious."
Even as she fumbled with her bag Anthea looked up with boggling eyes. "You met the prince?"
"As have you, Isabelle," sighed Holmes with an indulgent smile. "More than once."
Anthea - apparently Isabelle tonight - snorted, "Hardly," before helping Cindy to her feet. "I never spoke to him. Did you? Was he nice? Did he fancy you? I'll bet he did." She beamed, and even through the makeup and expensive clothes Cindy could clearly see the brightly rebellious girl who used to be a prisoner right along with her.
"So you didn't get a name, not even a whisper," continued Mycroft as though there had been no interruption. It wasn't a question, and the darkness in his eyes made Cindy shiver.
She shook her head. "No. I'm sorry. I'll try to get it tomorrow."
Staring down his long nose at her, Mycroft quirked a small false smile as Anthea passed her two paracetamol and a bottle of water for the pain. "Let's hope you do. The auction starts at two o' clock tomorrow afternoon; we'll be back in the morning to deactivate your bracelet or you won't have enough time. My esteemed colleague anticipated that your foster family would vent their frustrations on you, and requested we make an appearance to tend to any medical needs," he explained before Cindy could ask. "Are you feeling better now?"
Even though the paracetamol hadn't yet taken affect she nodded gratefully, wrapping her sister in a loose embrace before the pair set off again. A gentle drizzle started to fall as Anthea picked the back gate's lock, and instantly Holmes had popped open his umbrella and covered the both of them with its shelter. If Cindy were a bit closer she would have seen the warm, beaming smile Anthea offered him before the gate popped open. Again, within moments, like some sort of weird modern magic, they vanished from sight. Cindy fought a shiver. That was just damn creepy.
-
John checked the room where the auction was being held at least half a dozen times before so much as thinking of allowing Greg inside. He inspected window latches, door hinges, cracks in the apex of the walls and ceiling, even the bloody holes in the antique carpet, but there was nothing. Breathing a sigh of relief, he pulled out his mobile phone (fabulous inventions, those, when one had a signal nearby) and called Greg to alert him of the all-clear.
In accordance with his prediction, John had been on the receiving end of a very severe reprimand from the king that morning after the papers had come out with the news. Damn bloody tabloids having ears bloody everywhere. Luckily, however, due to the prince's intervention, John had not been sacked. It was a good thing when you spent so much time with your employer that you became good, loyal friends. John's father had been the king's personal guard, after all, so it seemed almost fitting that John carry on the position for the next generation, even if he had scarpered off a few years to join the army.
Waltzing in as though completely unbothered by the previous day's attempt on his life, Greg tucked his hands into his pockets and started instructing volunteers in where to put all of the items up for auction. Most of them were old paintings by unremarkable artists, or vases from the '80s. However, after a few dozen volunteers brought in their items, one young woman with tantalizingly long blonde hair and dark eyes came in, almost tenderly cradling a stuffed frog. She smiled tremulously at the prince, and Greg couldn't help but ask her what the importance of the toy was.
"Oh," breathed the woman softly, arranging the love-worn frog to sit on a little wooden chair. Its limbs were stiff with lack of use, and the stains were faded, but there were traces of dust that had obviously been very hastily brushed away from the matted fur. "This belonged to Sally Donovan."
Brow furrowed, Greg blinked at the woman. "The DCI's little girl?" he asked, even though he was already certain of it.
"Mm," agreed the woman, brushing a bit of the fur around one black bead-eye. "He and his wife thought it was prudent. Though I'm really not sure who would want such a sad thing. It's sort of like inviting her ghost into your home, isn't it?" She smiled sadly, and Greg compulsively clapped a hand softly on her shoulder. "It's just so sad! Those poor children, and they never even found Sally's body. Who would be so sick and twisted not even to let the poor girl's parents have her body back?"
Her whole face seemed to contort as she fought a sniffle, and Greg dutifully wrapped an arm around her, ignoring John's deploring looks, until she had pulled herself together. "Here," he said, offering a handkerchief from the pocket of his now-rumpled suit.
She beamed and dabbed at her watery eyes. "Thanks. God, I'm sorry, I must look like an idiot. I just hope someone takes the toy; it would mean so much to Sally's family to know their loss is going to a good cause."
"Of course," agreed Greg instantly. With another shaky smile the woman returned his handkerchief and left to fetch more items for the display. He watched as more meaningless items were rolled into the room, even while half his mind lingered on the doll, so frayed and worn with the love of a child long dead.
Without being told, he knew that John was hovering just behind him. "No one's going to buy that toy," the soldier murmured sadly. "Why would they want a dead child's plaything that's too worn out even to reuse?"
"I know," replied Greg with a twist of his mouth. "What if...I mean to say...what if I bought it? I've got the money to spare, haven't I? And it's for a good cause. Yeah. I'll just get it and bin it, or maybe even give it back to her family."
John grandly rolled his eyes but didn't try to discourage him, knowing it was pointless. "You sentimental idiot," he instead sighed. "Keep your head in the game and an eye out for our guardian angel, okay mate?"
He nodded absently and went to find himself a quick drink before guests started arriving. He hated these events, always full of rich pricks trying to one-up each other and women trying to throw themselves at him. God forbid he try to spend his last years of youth happy and single. Or at least trying to meet a girl on his own instead of having all his dates pre-screened and arranged by his security detail. It was both frustrating and extremely disheartening. No one treated him like just a bloke, it was all Your Highness this and I know everything about you; I read the tabloids! that. Bloody annoying.
But that girl yesterday...she hadn't looked at him like that, had she? Sure, she'd been surprised to see him there, but within moments had regained control over the situation, even talking down to him. She'd been refreshingly calm as she explained the situation (well, alright, lied about the situation) and didn't balk at his orders to stay put. Sure, it might get annoying if that happened all the time, but it was a nice change in the tedium.
Once the guests had all arrived and were milling around drinking at two in the afternoon, Greg settled himself against the wall and crossed his arms. Might as well be comfortable for as long as possible before the droves started rolling in.
Across the room, standing stoic as ever by the door, John caught his eye and nodded the all-clear. They'd agreed the night before on a strategy to use if the girl came back for any reason. They needed all the information on her they could get, after all.
Fifteen minutes before the auction was due to begin, they spotted her. Appearing to have just shaken off none other than Sherlock Holmes (who very well may have been high that very moment; blast it all), she was milling around the edges of the room, keeping a decorative scarf tucked up over her chin and fashionable shades over her eyes. Even so, the shapes of her face and nose were enough, along with the consternated expression on her face. Greg didn't signal John right away, but watched as the girl tiptoed along the tables of items to be auctioned off, stopping at the end to look at Sally Donovan's stuffed frog. A tiny, trembling hand reached forward as though to touch the toy, but pulled back as if burned at the last moment. She cast her eyes around the room once, not even noticing him.
John was watching him watch her. Time to get to work. He nodded and waggled his eyebrows, their signal, and they casually made their way toward her at a level pace.
"Excuse me, miss, but do you have an ID?" John asked, all manners as usual.
The girl stiffened as though she'd been struck by lightning, eyes bulging almost comically when she spotted Greg beside her, then hissed out a carefully-controlled breath, holding herself very stiffly. "I'm a volunteer, remember?" she asked in a low voice laced with cautious confidence. "I was at the race yesterday."
"And if you were a volunteer you would have an ID, and there'd be no problem, would there?" replied John airily, bobbing on the balls of his feet and looking all for the world that he was simply inspecting a piece of art for sale.
Shifting from foot-to-foot and wincing again, the girl kept staring down at the stuffed frog. "I can't do that," she murmured, though without resignation or defeat in her voice.
John briefly met Greg's eyes before shaking his head. "Then we'll have to ask you to leave. Come on, I'll escort you."
He reached out for her arm and she recoiled violently, muscles in her jaw twitching as she clenched her teeth. Some part of Greg's mind filed the body language signals away for later, but felt an odd sense of foreboding as the girl turned her dark eyes on him, ignoring John as easily as flipping a switch.
"I need to have a word with you."
"Fine, fire away."
"Not here; in private."
He'd been hoping to unsettle the girl with his instant response, but then found himself to be the one gaping as she shot right back, jaw stubbornly squared and chin tilted upward. She looked like she very dearly wanted to cross her arms but didn't. Blinking and shaking his head, Greg did the only thing that he could undoubtedly fall back on. "You ought to have some respect and stop making orders of me, miss."
For a brief moment something in her eyes dimmed - she was sinking away, at least emotionally and mentally - but then she whiplashed back at him with a snarl. "And you ought to stop being such a great spoiled prat, and realize that I'm trying to tell you something bloody important!"
"Miss, if you're going to be hostile, I really must ask you to leave." John turned directly toward her then, no longer pretending to be interested in the auction, but Greg halted him with a wave of the hand. The shorter man bristled in sparkling form but otherwise did not argue.
Relieved, Greg crossed his arms and leaned in towards the girl, who had inched nearer to get away from John's free-grabbing hands. "What's so important then?" he asked.
"I said private," the girl ground out between gritted teeth.
"Anything you can say to me can be said to John. I trust him with my life."
Despite the continued bristling, that earned him a nod of thanks from behind the girl's back.
"It's not about him; I couldn't care less about him," she argued, ignoring the plaintive "Hey!" it drew from the soldier. "If one of these people overhear it could cause a panic."
She kept up her steady glare until finally, flustered and floundering, Greg acquiesced. "Fine. Second door on he left. Lead on." John opened his mouth to protest, but Greg shook him off. "Watch the door?"
John huffed. "Yes, Your Highness."
Watching the girl grab up the stuffed frog before setting off, Greg winced; he always knew he was in for an earful later when John rolled out the formalities. "Postpone the auction," added the girl under her breath, "just for 15 minutes; that's all I need."
Greg nodded and went to speak to the auctioneer, vaguely noticing when a short man moved in to talk to the girl behind his back.
When he returned with a half hour more time ("These things never start according to schedule, son, it's no trouble to me.") the girl was rooted in place with her back to the room, pale as a ghost and shaking. John had been cornered by Holmes (who Greg was now even more certain was his boyfriend due to the prolonged eye-contact and complete disregard for personal space) and apparently had missed whatever it was to have upset the girl. Concern and curiosity warred within Greg as he touched her elbow and felt how drastically her breathing had accelerated in just a few minutes. "Come on, we're clear," he murmured.
Nodding shakily, the girl shot off like a bullet while still at a walking pace, gripping his arm in a vice. She shot a glance over her shoulder; Greg followed suit to see the blonde woman who'd set out the stuffed frog watching them with a strange expression on her face. They reached the side room and she pulled him inside, gasping with unmistakable pain.
"What the hell is going on?" Greg asked as the girl situated herself behind the door, swaying dangerously. He checked to make sure John was keeping watch outside the door before closing and locking it behind him. He touched her elbow, and she jerked back into the wall with a yelp.
"Sorry," she gasped, wrapping an arm around her middle. "Just...someone here I'd rather not see me."
"Who?" He was beginning to feel angry instead of curious with all this mysterious cryptic bull, even as concern grated the inside of his ribcage for the pallor of the girl's face. "I mean it, no dodging or running off like you did yesterday. I want the whole story."
"I know you do," sighed the girl wearily, pinching her lips together for a moment. "And I want to tell you, really I do, but if anyone finds out I'm helping you I'll be the one to pay."
He threw out his arms in frustration, gesturing to the whole of the palace that was serving as location for the two latter events of the benefit. "You don't think we can offer you protection?"
"Your protection is useless if you're dead," she bitterly pointed out, "and if I don't go back, he won't stop until he finds me. And probably kills me."
This was getting exhausting. Every line she spoke twisted him round in circles until he lost his footing all over again and had to go back to the start. "Who would find you? And how?" he asked, feeling quite the idiot as she tutted at him.
She shook her head at the first question, not totally unexpected, but hesitated at the second. Even Greg could see the cogs working behind her eyes. Before she could invent a reply, however, a woman's voice carried in to them, mentioning the name Cindy. As if a whip had been brandished at her the girl fell against the wall, let out another muffled yelp of pain, and crumbled to the floor with Greg catching the brunt of her weight at the last possible moment. "Christ! Are you okay?" he asked as she sucked in fast shallow breaths. She shook her head, tears glittering in her eyes, and shifted her crisp white shirt to show the restrictive bandages underneath. Broken ribs.
"You didn't have that yesterday," he stated dully.
"It's-"
"Did someone hurt you for helping me?"
"No!" she blurted out. "Well, I mean, they don't know I'm the one helping you." After a moment of deliberation, she reached down and tugged up the hem of her trousers' right leg. A tracking bracelet, one used for prisoners under home arrest, was wrapped around her ankle, both red and green lights blinking docilely up at him. "This is how he would find me. It's been disabled, but only temporarily. It's due to activate again around five."
At her nod of consent, Greg leaned farther forward and carefully inspected the bracelet's thick plastic shell, running a finger over the serial numbers on the side, tapping the unresponsive lights. "You're a prisoner," he breathed, unable to shake the coil of terror the sight awoke in the bottom of his gut.
He must have hovered too long, because the girl nudged her trouser leg back over the bracelet and cleared her throat. "Yeah, well," she muttered, but didn't elaborate.
Suddenly there was a chorus of shouting outside followed by a crash. Greg and the girl looked at one another inquiringly, hoping the other was responsible somehow, but it seemed that they both were set up for disappointment. Greg very carefully helped the girl to her feet, making sure they were both presentable before opening the door.
The auction room was in shambles, tables overturned and small black specks scattered across the plush carpet. In the center of the room stood Sherlock bloody Holmes, grinning and triumphant as scandalized upper-crust citizens gaped openly.
"Pupae of the Tsetse fly!" announced the great bloody prat. John was already gently picking his way through the room to get to him, shooting apologetic looks all round. "I knew it was something. John, didn't I tell you I knew? Because I did, I knew!"
"Yeah Sherlock, you knew, congratulations." The soldier grabbed the skinny man's arm and hauled him off into the room Greg and the girl had been using for their little conference, a long-suffering expression on his weary face all the while. Poor lovestruck bastard.
The girl turned to him, along with half of the room, while the other half panicked over the poisonous flies in the objects they had been about to buy. "Believe me now?" asked the girl with one eyebrow arched.
And, God help him, he did.
-
Cindy should have known that the prince wouldn't let her off so easy once Holmes' brother had caused the initial ruckus to stop the auction. Still, it had been worth a shot to try sneaking away, only to feel Greg's heavy hand on her shoulder. "Not so fast. You aren't in trouble; just come with me for a bit." He seemed earnest enough, but she was still apprehensive. However, after glancing over her shoulder and seeing all the volunteers being rounded up for interrogation, Meghan cornered between two others and unable to escape, she felt a shot of confidence. And why not? He was the prince, after all. She did, however, keep her scarf hitched up just in case.
She followed Greg through a series of corridors, faintly hearing the bodyguard and Holmes' brother clambering along behind them. Next thing she knew she was being seated in a small impersonal room two floors up, Greg's eyes watching her carefully. "John has medical training," he said. "I'm going to have him wrap your ribs again before you go; whoever did it last time is rubbish." She couldn't help quirking a smile at that; Marie never was the best nurse. It made sense, seeing as the elder was far more frequently the one being beaten after her many attempts at escape while Cindy tended her. She was still uncomfortable with that bodyguard bloke seeing her naked, though.
"He's very professional," Greg assured her as though capable of reading her thoughts. "Wait here. Please. I'm only trying to help." At the frankly pathetic look on his face Cindy nodded, idly unbuttoning her jacket after he left the room. Why was he so interested in her? It made sense that he wanted information; but he had no need to help her. Sure, the binding on her ribs was shoddy, but it was good enough to tide her over. And when he'd seen the bracelet circling her ankle, Cindy thought he'd been on the verge of violence.
After a few minutes' quiet conversation outside - punctuated by Sherlock Holmes' continued insistence that he'd been right, dammit! - the bodyguard, John, poked his head inside. "'Lo," he smiled politely before the rest of him followed his head in. "Greg tells me you've some broken ribs. Mind if I have a look?"
Even if he was too young to be a doctor yet, he was very professional and had excellent bedside manner - though Cindy couldn't really compare it to anything else, as she had no recollections of ever seeing a doctor before. He very carefully helped her out of her shirt and the loose bindings, only gaped briefly at the ugly purple bruises marring her flesh, and wrapped her up again with clean bandages, testing if she could breathe alright. Then he supplied her with a small white pill, which she swallowed dry.
"D'you mind if I take a blood sample while you're sleeping?"
Alarms went off in her head even as a wave of warm contentment rolled over her, eyelids becoming heavy. "Wait," she protested, voice slurring already. "I can't go t'sleep, need t'go home."
"It's not very strong," replied John. "Just enough to get you to relax a bit, I promise. You'll be home in no time. Now, I'm just going to take a little bit of blood; here comes the pinch..."
She was barely aware of the needle slipping into the crook of her elbow before she was asleep, anger a vague undertone to blissful calm.
When Cindy woke up she was on a sofa in a small but posh flat, uncertain of how much time had passed and very, very angry. She sat up, ribs uncomfortable but not painful, and swung her legs over the edge of the sofa, looking around. It was obviously a bachelor's place, going by the clutter and magazines and abandoned beer cans. Somewhere behind her she could hear a kettle's whistle being cut off.
"Oh, good, you're up. How d'you take your tea?" asked Greg, breezing out of the kitchen with a mug in each hand. Cindy gaped at him; he cringed. "You're upset."
"No shit," she spat back, getting up to stride as far across the room from him as possible. "You drugged me, you twat!"
He grimaced even further. "Technically, John was the one who did that. And it was a very light sedative; you've only been out half an hour. John said your body needed the rest." Biting his lip, he offered one of the mugs, though still kept a fair amount of distance between them.
Cindy would have ignored the offering if her throat wasn't so dry. "Didn't put anything in it, did you?" she asked before taking it and assuming a new seat, avoiding the sofa.
Chuckling self-consciously, Greg shook his head and sat where her knees had been curled on the sofa minutes earlier. "No. And listen, I am sorry about that. Really. It won't happen again. You had me worried, though." He pointed around his mug with mock-disapproval on his face. "I thought you were going to faint regardless."
Immediately she knew what he was talking about, her little panic-attack before they'd gone into the side room. Holding herself together was never a problem, not once, but then that man, that Irishman with the soft voice and black eyes, had sauntered her way and leaned in close and whispered, I'll tell you mine if you tell me yours, my pretty bird. Won't you tell me your name? The feel of his hand on the bottom of her chin as she hesitated and faltered at the last moment. That's right. You don't know, do you? Not really. How his eyes had burned into hers like black coals, free hand closing coarsely around her elbow.
Don't try to play with me, little Sally. I don't play nice.
He'd given her a shake, but she'd hardly noticed with the roar of blood pumping through her ears. Then had come the epiphany, the gritty realization. It was rather like when one puts together a complicated jigsaw puzzle, reaching the point where thongs finally get easy, and all the little pieces slot into place so perfectly and so quickly it feels as though the puzzle was made just for those hands putting it together. The faded stuffed frog, that had seemed vaguely familiar upon first glance, was like an extension of her arm. The names Sally, August, and Martha Donovan all came as second nature. A year of terror and drugs being pumped into her every few hours in that dank old cellar rushed over her until she couldn't breathe.
A murmured conversation overheard during her months of captivity...the Moriarty boys...
"I had thought so too," she muttered before sipping her tea. Then, in an attempt to turn her mind away from he confusion, asked, "Why are you doing all this?"
After only a moment's thought Greg shrugged. "I'm just trying to be helpful," he said, his tone so mild it made Cindy hate him.
She had to put her mug down to keep from throwing it. "You think this is some sort of kid's storybook, and the 'happily ever after' has your name on it? You're such a good guy you just feel like saving me? Well guess what? I'm not your damsel, and I don't need your help."
"I know you don't need it," replied Greg just as calm as before. "It's obvious that you've been looking out for yourself for a long time; god forbid I try and get in the way of that. But it never hurts to see if maybe you want it."
Cindy knew she was gaping, really she did, but seemed powerless to stop. She'd never thought of it that way before, not once considered that Greg was intruding because he thought she wanted him to. He suddenly seemed very young...and so did she; a grim reminder that she hadn't even seen 20 years yet.
"I...hadn't considered that."
A slow, heady smile crept over the prince's face as he regarded her across the room.
-
"What have you heard?" asked Mycroft that night, as Anthea - named Persephone for the evening - pressed ice to Cindy's black eye to prevent swelling. Meghan had avoided arrest, but that hadn't made her any less frustrated that her first job was being thwarted every step of the way. Luckily all she'd done was punch Cindy, knowing it would be a messy affair if the younger woman collapsed a lung and died on her.
"Moriarty," she breathed through shivers in the cold night air. "The Moriarty boys."
Mycroft nodded solemnly, not even appearing surprised. "Professor James Moriarty, Senior, was one of the ringleaders of a child smuggling ring many years ago. One of his sons, James the second, was killed during his apprehension. A most unfortunate accident. His second son's records have vanished from all databases. Naturally a young, impressionable boy already on the verge of psychopathy would be tipped over the edge at such tragedy."
She fought a twinge of anger at his easy recollection; if he'd known all this, why was she needed?
"I had suspicions, yes, but you provided confirmation." Mycroft nodded graciously, and Persephone lifted the ice away to check her eye.
"Well, I suppose we can cover this with makeup before the ball," she said critically. "And if you're part of the waitstaff no one will much notice. That's the only way we could get you in on such short-"
"Actually," Cindy interrupted meekly. "My name's on the guest list. I'm going as...as Prince Greg's...date."
The ice pack hit the ground with a frozen 'thwack,' as Persephone gaped openly at her. "You're his date? Does he fancy you? Are you in love with him?" she eagerly asked, eyes alight with curiosity.
Smiling and shaking her head while Holmes looked on on a vaguely disapproving manner, Cindy felt a bit sorry for crushing her sister's hopes. "It's not like that. It's just a date - I mean, a dance - I mean, it's just work." She shook her head again to clear it of cobwebs, too easily distracted. "He offered his assistance, and I took it. He's got people picking my clothes and all, you won't have to worry about that; I'll just need you to deactivate my bracelet earlier than we planned." Even as she fought for casuality, she couldn't fight the hint of butterflies in her gut.
"The ball goes until 2am as it is," intervened Mycroft. "In case you were unaware, the device we've used on your bracelet loses it's effectiveness the more it's used on one particular piece of tech."
"Then I'll get my work done and leave early," Cindy acquiesced. "Promise."
Persephone smiled, only half-visible in the darkness, eyes glowing like faerie lights.