Chapter 11
Dinner was simple - grilled eel in a thick sauce with bread to sop up the last of it, and a single apple, accompanied by wine that had been a gift from Martin's cellars. It took under an hour to prepare it. But all the ingredients were fine and clean; the bread wasn't moldy, the eels weren't musky, and the apple was crisp and unblemished.
The wine, of course, was perfect.
She would never be able to trust - or house - servants to cook her meals for her, but the food in front of her was a far cry from what she'd eaten in her tiny apartment without a stove.
It had been five days since the trip to Coldridge, and she was close to finishing the passage on the Empress's murder and the heir's disappearance. She'd copied the text out onto loose pages, and those were spread out on the dining room table - another gift of the Abbey. She eyed them as she ate. She'd spent the last few days so busy she could barely sit down, assisting with every meeting Martin had, organizing his notes for sermons, and arranging his travel. Her nights had been filled with dreams of Attano's broken hands.
She'd put her foot down earlier that afternoon, and demanded a few extra hours to herself. Martin had agreed with surprising ease.
But to herself meant little now. She had books on the sea to read, or she could go stroll by the docks, but both felt ashen and hollow. Work had beckoned. The apartment was now comfortably furnished again with the Abbey's old, unused furniture, but it wasn't hers. She kept to the table, nibbling on her bread, making quick notes on her copies of the relevant pages.
She worked until long after her food had gone cold, and she finished the bottle of wine without noticing. By the time she roused herself for bed, it was well past midnight. Her night off lay in laughable pieces behind her.
It didn't matter.
She knew where the heir was.
Callista was considering dragging on her uniform again and leaving immediately for the Abbey when somebody knocked on her door. She froze, picturing Watchmen standing at the door again, bellowing for her head. But there was only another, fainter knock.
It sounded familiar.
She retrieved her pistol from her room, then went to the door and crouched by the keyhole, trying to get a glimpse of whoever it was, but their bulk and the darkness beyond blotted out all but a few shreds of light. She stood, mastering her breathing. Havelock, perhaps? An old friend of her uncle's? An Overseer would have announced himself.
Her voice refused to work, and whoever it was refused to introduce themselves.
Finger caressing the hammer of her gun, she edged the door open. Martin stood on the other side, his hair dishevelled, his jacket torn. Blood trickled from the corner of his mouth, and his eyes were wild.
Callista swore and wrenched the door open, reaching for him with her free hand. He stumbled inside, avoiding her touch, and leaned heavily against the entryway wall. Callista set the gun aside on a nearby table, locked the door behind them, then hooked her arm beneath his shoulder.
He hissed in pain.
"What happened?" she asked, dragging him towards the main room. His steps were halting. A jacket - not from his uniform - hung around his shoulders, only one of his arms through the sleeve.
"Thugs," he gasped, and his voice sounded odd. Strange. Faintly accented. She frowned and sat him down on a chair, tugging his jacket from his shoulders.
He hissed as the fabric stuck to his skin. With a sucking sound, she pulled it free, exposing his blood-stained shirt and a ragged flap of skin, half-flayed from the flesh beneath.
"Outsider's eyes," she whispered, freezing.
He laughed, helplessly, trembling. She took a quick inventory of the rest of him. There was dirt ground into his skin, and his flesh was bruised and swollen in what seemed like a hundred places. But the flayed skin was the worst of it, and she quickly covered it with her hand, pressing on it to keep it in place, and tugged his shirt from his body.
"I went out," he gasped as she dragged him to his feet again, keeping pressure on his back. She led him to her small washroom, where she pressed a sewing kit into his arms, then turned him around. "I needed air, to think." The brogue she had picked up the edges of grew stronger as he formed sentences. "I didn't even see them coming, but- fuck!"
Callista had peeled her blood-soaked hand away from the wound and was beginning to wash the blood away, to see the damage more fully. The flap of skin was darker than the surrounding area, and after a few passes of a damp cloth, she could make out stark black lines.
A tattoo.
He jerked away at her next touch.
"I need you to stay still," she said. "Did they rob you?"
"Of course they fucking robbed me," he spat, chest and shoulders heaving. He flinched again as she ran water over the area, and uncurled his fingers from around the sewing kit only with great difficulty. She set it on the edge of the sink and opened it, reaching for needle and thread. She glanced around for an oil lamp to heat the needle in, but the nearest one was across the house.
She ran it under water. It would have to do.
"Did you have the notebook on you?" she asked, gaze flicking to the line of his jaw.
"No, thank every Spirit ever conjured up by man."
Pressing a red-stained cloth to his shoulder and awkwardly holding it there with the side of her arm, she quickly threaded a curved needle. "The Abbey has a better nurse than me, I'm sure-"
"You were closer," he said. "And I don't- I'd rather nobody saw me like this." His accent was thick, now, and his gaze darted about fast, unsteady.
She tried not to think about what it meant that he would come to her when he would go to nobody else.
"Exhale," she said, and when there was no air in his lungs for him to lose, she pierced the needle through the ragged edge of the flap of skin, and began tacking it down to the surrounding flesh.
He hissed in pain, then shouted, hands going to the edge of the sink. He sent her sewing kit clattering to the floor as he gripped the porcelain, heaving for breath. She pressed her elbow into his spine, bending him forward so she could get above the work, and for the next fifteen minutes, she focused only on closing the wound, her hand smoothing over the destroyed flesh, trying to keep it flush to the meat beneath.
Martin was weak and trembling by the time she was done.
She cleaned the wound quickly with another pass of the stained cloth. The tattoo was hard to make out beneath its patina of blood and the dark bruising from the pass of the knife, and she bit her lip against the questions rising up in her as she covered it with gauze.
"You're rather- well-stocked," Martin gasped out as he straightened up, the better for her to wrap his chest.
"It's habit, after everybody in my family began to die," she said, turning him to face her. She reached up and touched his swollen jaw, thumb brushing against the small cut at the corner of his mouth. "Should I call the Watch? Thugs assaulting the High Overseer-"
"I wasn't in uniform. They couldn't have known," he said, pulling away. He moved in halting, limping steps - and not all from the pain in his back.
She reached out and touched his ribs, lightly. He swore.
"How did you get away?"
"By slitting their throats, Miss Curnow. I'm quite capable of protecting myself," he growled. "I need- I need a drink. I need a drink, and a smoke."
"I can get you those. Come here," she said, taking his elbow. She made him lean on her as she steered him towards the sitting room.
The couch's upholstery would be ruined, but it hardly mattered.
She sat him down and went to the kitchen, pouring him the last of her uncle's whiskey and bringing it to him. She pressed the cup into his hands, along with a small cigarette case that she'd picked up earlier that evening, for when her nerves overwhelmed her.
He muttered a thank you, and knocked back the whiskey. She watched his throat bob.
"Your back," she said, when he'd finished sucking on his teeth and shuddering from the burn in his chest.
"You did a fine job of it, I'm sure," he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Blood smeared across his skin, and he hissed as he jarred the cut.
"What were they trying to remove? The tattoo? That's not a usual part of a mugging."
Martin said nothing.
"Tattooed skin doesn't fetch a high price on the market," she added. "And that didn't look like an Abbey mark."
"Leave it, Miss Curnow," he said.
"Is this going to happen again?" she asked.
"Given that it was pure luck that they found me? I doubt it. They're also all dead or wishing they were dead," he snapped.
His accent, his blood loss, and the whiskey made his words nearly unintelligible.
"And were the men who attacked you Morlish too, Martin?"
Martin didn't respond. Callista returned his gaze levelly, then rose from her seat and went to get one of her uncle's old shirts from his closet. By the time she returned, he'd struggled up from his seat and was staggering for the door.
She crossed quickly to him and took his elbow. He jerked and tried to round on her, but stumbled and sank to one knee. She sank with him, keeping him upright.
"Let's get you dressed. You're staying here tonight. There's no way you can make it safely back to the Abbey like this," she said, voice softer.
"They were Morlish," he whispered.
"Did you know them?" she asked, letting go of him only once he seemed steady. She helped him into the shirt as if he were a small child, all gangly limbs with no idea of where to place them.
"Once."
He leaned into her too much for her to button his shirt, and she gave up after a few seconds' awkward fumbling, instead bracing him as she helped him stand again. They staggered together to the couch, where she eased him down again, this time so he laid on his stomach. He let out a groan as his weight strained his ribs in a new direction.
She straightened up, watching his back closely for any sign of blood seeping through his bandage.
"You didn't answer me earlier - do you want me to submit a report to the City Watch? They'll be sure to take it seriously."
Martin's answer was a pained huff of breath.
"Unless there's something about this you don't want them prying into?"
"Very perceptive," he grunted.
Her lips tightened, grimly, and she sat down with her back against the couch. "I have good news, if it would help." Her voice sounded surprisingly even to her, and she realized, belatedly, that she was hardly shaking. Her terror didn't rule her - it hardly touched her. Instead, her focus was icy cold and unmoving.
"Well?" he asked, bringing her back to herself from the odd space she'd drifted to.
Her lips curled, faintly, and she turned her head to look him in the eye. "I know where Lady Kaldwin is," she said.
Martin went very still, even his labored breathing going steady for just a moment.
"She's at the Golden Cat. The Lords Pendleton - the twins - are responsible for her." Her voice had dropped from its former firmness to the same indulgent gentleness she used with sad or ill children, and she caught herself only moments before she settled her hand against his cheek. She placed it on the couch beside him, instead. "When the moment is right, we can move to retrieve her. You'll be a hero."
Martin's breathing began again with a harsh rattle, followed by a helpless cough. Her hand went to his lower back, and she helped roll him onto his good shoulder as he hacked and wheezed. Finally, as he stilled, he managed a weak, bitter smile for her.
"Good work, Miss Curnow," he murmured. "I could kiss you, if I weren't so bloody wrecked."
"Maybe in the morning," she returned, then flushed and stood, clearing her throat. "I'll go clean up the bathroom. You need to rest. Do you- feel safe enough to sleep?"
"With another whiskey in me? Sure."
She lifted the cup, with no intention of refilling it. "It'll make you bleed more. Besides, it's too good to waste as a sleeping aide, even for you."
"I'll buy you another bottle. Ten more bottles," he said, then laughed, then gasped in pain. "But fine, do what you will. And come up with some lie about where I was tonight."
"If we didn't have plans," she said, "I'd recommend the Cat - but the guards there will need to be questioned extensively, and it will become clear very quickly that you were somewhere else tonight. I'll give it some thought." She set the glass down near the sink, then went to her bedroom to retrieve an extra blanket.
She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, then came to a halt before it. She was largely undressed, in soft breeches for sleep and a short-sleeved undershirt, her waist unbound. Both garments were spattered with Martin's blood, and her hair was coming down from the bun on top of her head. She looked wild.
With a glance back towards the sitting room, she thought of herself on a whaling ship. She had been strong - she was strong. Her limbs and heart didn't tremble. Men had assaulted her only tie to safety in the city, had flayed the skin from his body, but he was alive. In the morning, they would have to talk strategy. What his alibi would be, how they would time rescuing Lady Kaldwin and how they would handle Attano.
But the night had been won.
She returned to Martin and draped a blanket over his half-asleep form. He mumbled something, shifting minutely, his accent thick and rich. She couldn't make out the words for his exhaustion.
Briefly, she touched his hair. And then she doused the lights and went to her own room.
In the morning, she subjected him first thing to an inspection of his injuries. Her strength had been shaken by dream after helpless dream of times other family members had been sick, the vagaries of sleep twisting each memory until it was terrible and unrecognizable. That she remained in her bed through the night was a triumph alone, and she was glad to rise and put on her uniform.
Martin was still sleeping when she came out to rouse him. By the light streaming in the nearby window, she could take better inventory of his injuries. The swelling on his jaw, at least, had gone down, though there was a faint bruise there. Slowly, she peeled back the blanket. His bandage had soaked through in places and left brown spots on the shirt, but they were small. Crouching, she took up his hand, inspecting his knuckles. They were cracked and blood-caked, as she'd expected; she'd overlooked them the night before in favor of his more pressing injuries.
He groaned and stirred, and she let go of his hand and went to the kitchen, filling her kettle to the brim before putting it on the stove. She was still stoking the fire when Martin managed something closer to a word, and once the coal bed had been laid, she stood up, dusting off her hands.
He'd managed to sit up on his own - that was reassuring.
"Fuck," he spat, and grimaced. "Latrine?"
She pointed. "Do you need help getting up?"
"I trust you with my secrets, Miss Curnow. Not my bladder," he responded, and as she watched, he did manage to get to his feet.
But his weakness was clear; she went to him and looped her arm around his waist. "I'll take you as far as the door."
"Thank you," he drawled, his voice thick with bitterness. But his pained expression did soften, and with her help, he moved far more easily than she'd expected.
When he'd been left to his own devices, she went back to the kitchen and began frying up breakfast. He'd need the strength, and the delay before he had to make his way back to the office. It would probably be best, too, if she went ahead of him, retrieved a uniform, and brought it back for him.
She was still pondering when Martin made his slow, cursing way back to the kitchen.
His hair was wild, sticking up in several places, hanging down across his forehead, and his jaw was covered in rough stubble. She'd have to help him with that, too. A trip to the barber seemed preposterous. And there was the matter of all the blood and dirt still worked into his skin.
"I'm afraid I don't have your usual coffee," she said as she took up the now-whistling kettle and poured it into her chipped teapot, which had once been her aunt's most prized possession, back when tea was expensive and pottery still hand-made.
"Somehow, I think I'll manage," he said, smiling thinly.
"Once you eat, I'll have another look at your injuries. And I'll get you cleaned up. Do you want me to get a fresh uniform for you?"
"Yes."
"I'll leave you to eat, then," she said. "And I'll stop by the chemist's - the guards must have disposed of whatever antiseptic my uncle had. They disposed of quite a lot."
Martin nodded, wordlessly, and went to seat himself at the table. She poured his tea, then served up a plate of fried hagfish hash, settling it in front of him.
"Can I trust you not to go wandering?"
"If I didn't have appearances to make, I'd be happy to stay here for the next week."
She quirked a brow, but didn't question him, instead disappearing into her bedroom to inventory her own appearance. Once she was satisfied that she looked only like her usual self, she grabbed up the materials she needed to take back to the office. She bid Martin farewell, and set about her errands.
They took just under an hour; her passage through the Abbey hallways was unimpeded, and though it was her first time in Martin's quarters, she had memorized the way to them, in case it was needed. The rooms were lavish, large, but he kept them in surprisingly spartan order. The sheets were fine and soft (or looked to be that way, at least), but the bed was carefully, tightly made, with only a single pillow on the great expanse of mattress. His walls were largely bare, missing the decorations so many others tended towards. Even his bookshelves were simple and small.
She retrieved his uniform and folded it into a small packet beneath her arm, then locked up the room and made her way out onto John Clavering, and from there to the chemist that Dr. Galvani supposedly got his experimental substances from. She bought a bottle of antiseptic and another packet of gauze, along with proper suture thread and needle, then took the whole lot back to her apartment.
Martin was attempting to pace, though his movements were halting, slow, and pained. Callista deposited her parcels on the couch, then went to set the kettle - still half-full - onto the stove to warm up again.
She emerged back into the sitting room to ask, "Can you get your shirt off without me?"
He responded by fumbling with the buttons and shrugging out of it with a hiss. Callista glanced at his chest, then away. She tugged at her gloves, then disappeared into her room, emerging only once she'd stripped off her uniform and dressed in working clothing, fabric she didn't mind ruining with a bit of water and soap.
She gathered up several pillows, and some cloths and items from the bathroom, then arranged them all on the floor of the kitchen. The flooring was smooth, with no rugs nearby, and easily cleaned. It was also a larger space than the bathroom.
"Sit," she said, indicating the nest she'd made of pillows.
He lowered himself with a groan, and she followed, quietly. She worked small scissors beneath his bandages and snipped them, then eased the crusted gauze from his skin. He hissed and twitched, but she got the wound uncovered.
It looked worse by daylight, but she wasn't sure if that was because it wasn't healing, or because she wasn't wine-addled. Her stitches, at least, were neat, and she was hesitant to remove them. Instead, she dipped a cloth in the bowl of hot water she'd poured, and passed it gently over the swollen flesh.
The tattoo was still impossible to make out.
When she'd wiped away the crusted blood, she soaked another cloth in antiseptic and pressed it to the wound, hoping to squeeze some droplets out in such a way that they'd pass beneath the flap of skin.
Afterwards, she bandaged him up again and began the slow work of cleaning off the rest of his flesh. When her hand passed over his shoulder to the front of his chest, though, he snatched up the cloth with his good arm and washed himself, scrubbing at the dirt crusted into his knuckles and under his nails. He tossed the cloth aside when he was done, panting.
"I'll take care of your hair and beard," she offered.
Martin turned, twisting at the waist despite the pain it caused.
"I've helped my uncle before," she assured him, gesturing to the badger-hair brush and the old, fine straight razor. "You're not the first man to be injured and have to go back to work the next day."
"Hair first. Then we'll see."
He had to hunch forward, instead of bending back, as she poured hot water over his head. His hair was short and fine, but thick, and it took some doing to scrub the old pommade from it, but the work was strangely soothing. It was also intimate, and she had to focus on the endless passing of her fingertips over his scalp to avoid the thought of how close her chest was to touching his back. She had to ignore, too, the way he exhaled as she worked. It was shaky and wondering and relieved.
When his hair was clean, he laid back with little protest, until he was stretched out on a bed of pillows with his head resting in her lap, separated from her legs by only a towel.
He looked up at her, chest rising and falling with strained, labored breaths.
"You'll understand, I'm not used to trusting anybody with a blade at my throat," he murmured.
"You came here last night for a reason," she said as she stretched to one side, swirling the brush in the pot of glycerin soap.
He didn't respond for a moment, then sighed. "I suppose you're right. ... Thank you, for taking me in."
"I could hardly do otherwise," she responded, with a faint smile.
"The men - they were associates of mine, when I was much younger."
She stilled.
"When I was a boy, really."
"Before you became an Overseer?"
"Long before," he said, chuckling dryly. "It's a- long story, and one I'd rather not tell. It's enough to say that there's no love lost between us, but I have no idea why they'd be in Dunwall. In Gristol at all."
"You, perhaps?"
"Word of my ascension can't have reached the far isles yet. No, they're here for something else. It's bad luck that they found me."
She hummed low in her throat as she straightened. She passed a hot, wet cloth over his jaw and throat, then began lathering his skin with quick, sliding passes of the brush, working light circles. It had been a few years since she'd done this, true, but there had been a period of time where Geoff's right arm had been broken, and she'd shaved his jaw every day for a month.
Then, of course, he'd been sitting in a chair, but Martin's back could hardly take the strain. She tried not to think about how they were positioned now.
Martin's eyes closed as she worked, until she set the brush down. Then they were open, wide, and fixed on her.
"I stropped it before bringing it out," she assured him. "It's as sharp as when my uncle used it."
He let out a shuddering breath.
"I suppose," he said after a moment, "that there would be worse ways to die."
"You can trust me, Martin," she said, left hand coming to rest lightly on his chin. She tilted his face to one side, and pulled the skin of his cheek taut. "But I'll leave your throat for last."
His lips quirked, faintly.
Steadying her grip on the razor, she touched the very edge of the blade to just below his cheek, working in small, quick pulls, the metal barely touching his skin. A fear she was familiar with flared inside her, and she counted every time she'd tended to Geoff without incident, and thought back to when he'd walked her through the basics using her arm as a dummy. As she grew used to the texture of Martin's beard and skin, she cleared larger areas in a pass, breaking every so often to rinse the blade.
Martin was tense beneath her, and she imagined she could hear the loud beating of his heart. She ignored it, focusing on her own breath, and the light scraping sound of the razor doing its work.
She tilted his head to clear his other cheek, then began the delicate work of shaving beneath his lip and under his nose. He helped her reflexively, sucking in his lips and pulling the skin taut. She was gentle near the corner of his mouth that had been cut, but he still tensed and nearly pulled away.
Callista murmured soothing sounds, and he settled again.
When his face was bare, she set the razor down and spent a good two minutes wiping off the remaining spots of hair and soap, before she tilted his head further back and leaned forward over him.
His breath puffed against her ribs, and she shivered.
She passed the brush over his throat again, making sure that each and every bit of skin was lathered, and then she cleaned the blade, almost obsessively. She was fiddling with her grip when Martin shifted.
"Get on with it," he hissed.
She flushed.
As much as she was slightly fearful of nicking him, he was terrified of her simply killing him. For every time she'd had a gun in his presence, he'd never seemed afraid that she would use it. But now, injured and vulnerable, shedding secrets like dead skin, he was baring his throat to her.
She licked at her lips, and touched the underside of his chin.
Pulling his flesh taut, she tried not to think of what the men from Morley had used to flay his skin away, nor how bright his blood would be if her blade caught and pressed too deep. She had every reason to preserve him; he had no reason to fear her.
She put the blade to his flesh just below his chin, and again worked in small strokes.
But the small strokes didn't reassure him. Instead, every initial touch of the blade to his skin seemed to make him jump, and her free hand left his chin to instead press on his chest. He panted, his breath fast and hot.
Again, she murmured soothing sounds.
Slowly, she returned to her work, this time making long passes up the column of his throat. Whenever her blade lifted, his throat bobbed. His hands worked against the floor, tapping uncertain, frantic rhythms. His breathing unsettled his body, and more than once she had to pause and draw her hands away, afraid of hurting him because of the spasms that rocked him.
Callista set the blade aside with perhaps three passes left to go. She straightened up, and looked down into his eyes.
"Martin," she murmured.
His gaze sharpened; it had been away somewhere else, afraid and distant. He cleared his throat, coughed. "Done?"
"Nearly, but I need you to be still."
He laughed, bitterly. "I'm doing my best."
"I understand," she said, smoothing a hand against his brow. "Just remember- you can trust me. You're safe here."
His gaze danced over her features, his jaw set. He swallowed again. There was disbelief there, in the crease of his brow, and worry, and fear, and a bit of anger.
"Three more passes," she said, "and then you can get up."
He was still for a long moment; then, finally, he nodded. He tilted his head back and took a deep breath, then exhaled, closing his eyes.
She bent back to her work.
The last three passes were quick, clean, and almost reverential in their perfection. His skin was unblemished as she cleared the hair and lather away. In her lap lay the head of the Abbey, clean and put back together again by her hands.
She let out a breath she hadn't known she'd been holding, and picked up the last of the hot, wet cloths, draping it over his jaw and throat.
Martin groaned appreciatively.
"All done," she murmured. "How's your back?"
"Horrible. But tolerable." His eyes remained closed. Callista found it nearly impossible to resist the impulse to stroke his hair, or to bend down and press her lips to his temple, but she did. Her heart was beating fast and high, lodged in her throat, as she stared down at her hands and the discarded razor.
He had trusted her.
In the moment, as it had been last night, she hadn't feared. She had simply done what was necessary. It was adaptive, and good, and right. But now that the moment had passed, his fast pulse seemed to bleed into hers.
She cleared her throat. "When you're ready to sit up, I have pomade. For your hair."
"You take exceptionally good care of me," Martin murmured, reaching up to tug the hot cloth down. He opened his eyes and quirked a brow. Just a few seconds of quiet seemed to have restored his armor. "Be careful, or I might start asking you to comb my hair for me every morning."
"And fetch your uniform?"
"I might as well leave the washing and starching to you, too."
Callista looked away. "Oh, I don't know. I've never been good at washing. Besides, then when would I find time to drink your wine and decipher your codes?"
He snorted. His weight in her lap shifted, and she looked back to him, slipping her hand beneath his good shoulder to help him sit up. He swore as he moved, but eventually managed to right himself. His bandages were still in place, and still surprisingly clean. It felt like a good sign.
Her hands trailed lightly down his spine before she made herself pull away and reach for the comb and pomade.
Martin responded much differently to her touch this time. Instead of tensing or flinching, he sighed, low in his throat, and let his eyes close to near slits as she combed the wax through his hair, slicking it back from his temples. The whole thing was sensual, and it made her fingertips prickle.
He'd been approving, but largely distant, since the night before his installation. But whatever was happening now didn't look like a loosening of his self-control. It looked indulgent, and highly aware.
She smoothed his hair out, then set down the comb and resealed the pomade jar. As she stood up, her knees protested. She bent to gather up each item that needed to be returned to the bathroom.
Martin's hand on her wrist stopped her.
He looked up at her, considering, then offered his most charming smile. "Well done, Miss Curnow. Thank you."
She opened her mouth to advise him to look in a mirror, first, before complimenting her, but stopped as she looked him over. He looked utterly composed. His jaw was clean and well-groomed, his hair set in order, the cut on his lip barely visible. She could see pain in the way he held his shoulders, but he was already beginning to master it; in his uniform, it would be barely visible.
"I believe," he murmured, "that last night we agreed on a kiss for your services?"
"Not necessary," she said, the words tumbling out in a rush.
"And if I insist?" he asked, voice dropping to a purr. He leaned closer.
"It would be better," she said, swallowing around the hammering lump in her throat, "if we didn't add any weight to the rumors of our- relationship."
"They'll talk no matter what," he responded, easily, but let go of her wrist without hesitation. Reaching out, he steadied a hand on a nearby cabinet, and levered himself up. Callista found herself looking at his waist, and stood quickly. She found him appraising her, lips pursed in thought.
She left him and went about setting her bathroom back to rights.
It was as if she could hear his thoughts; she'd let him bend her over his desk, cut off her breath, spank her until her ass was sore and red- but she wouldn't accept a kiss? But a kiss felt intimate in an entirely new way. His control she could accept, but even though she knew, without a doubt, that it excited her - and that it excited him - they hadn't crossed over into their other, more usual desires.
That he was offering was- unsettling. Frightening. Exhilarating.
By the time she returned, changed into her uniform and put back together once more, he'd gotten himself into his undershirt, and changed his trousers. He sat heaving for breath on the couch. She motioned for him to stand up, and helped him into his scarlet jacket. As she did up the toggles and settled his harness onto him, she was vividly aware of the smell of the shaving soap still clinging to his skin.
Luckily, it was her uncle's; the memories the scent brought with it helped keep her grounded.
But it was still hard to step away once she'd handed him his gloves.
"Lady Kaldwin," she stammered, in an attempt to build up a professional wall between them again. It should have been easier, now that he was dressed and appeared, largely, to be unhurt. "When will we move to get her?"
"Soon," he said. "Preferably when the Lords Pendleton are caught up in parliament. They do still go, don't they?"
"They were there the other day, yes. But why not catch them with her there?"
"I doubt they spend much time with the girl," he said, wriggling his fingers in the leather. "There are other, more enticing, ways to spend their time there, and it allows them some deniability. I wouldn't be able to accuse them of much in the moment, and they'd go first thing to Burrows. No, we'll strike when they're away. When's the next session?"
"There's one this morning, but it's likely already wrapped up," she said, grimacing. "The next isn't for two days."
"Then in two days, we move. Get me exact times, and, if you can, get in contact with the youngest Pendleton and see if he can't ensure his brothers' distraction."
"And Attano?"
"With Lady Kaldwin, we may be able to prove that Attano is innocent - but I'll keep Windham stationed all the same. He's looking for openings, though he doesn't entirely know that." Martin's smile turned wicked for just a moment. Then he frowned. "What do I have on my schedule today?"
She thought through it, quickly. "Meetings starting at noon. Before that, you were going to sit and talk with Overseer Hume about a project of his. Damn- I forgot to tell him it would be delayed."
"He'll live," Martin said. "First meeting is with-?"
"Timsh," she said, grimacing. "He's finally marshalled his objections, I should think."
"Let him come. Do you want to be there?"
Callista considered, glancing around the rooms. "No," she said. "Do you need the papers for the apartment?"
"They'd be helpful. Will you give them to me?"
She looked back to him to find him watching her with a solemn solicitude. He understood the weight of what he was asking. That alone made her smile, faintly, and pull the papers from the inside pocket of her jacket, handing them over. "Don't lose them," she said.
"What, and doom you to a life of living close at hand? Really, Miss Curnow - while I appreciate the job you did on my jaw, I intend to take that duty over once more, as soon as I can move my arm properly."
Callista canted her head. "And until then...?"
"Until then," he said, shrugging (which was followed by a grimace), "I'd appreciate it if you came early to the office each day. I'd like to hide my injury from- as many people as possible."
"As long as you don't take fever, you should be fine," she said, smiling faintly.
The idea of preparing him each morning made her stomach clench and flutter. She was just considering if she should object when outside the broadcast system whirred to life.
"Citizens of Dunwall: The traitorous murderer of our beloved Empress, Corvo Attano, will be executed at noon on this, the seventeenth day of the Month of Nets. Accordingly, all districts within two miles of Coldridge Prison are under mandatory martial law. I repeat, Citizens of Dunwall-"
"Shit," Martin breathed.
Callista didn't move.
"Shit!" he snarled, pulling away from her and moving to the door.
Callista followed, slowly at first, then at a jog to keep up. She barely had time to lock the door, and she raced down the steps after him. "Burrows didn't mention-"
"No, he must have heard something that spooked him. Fucking- if Windham let something slip-"
"But you were careful to tell him only what he needed to know!" she said, falling into step at his side as they passed fast over the cobbled streets and towards the railcar line that led to Coldridge.
"The only other person who I breathed word about this to was you. Would you like to present another head for the chopping block, Miss Curnow?" Martin growled, and glanced back at her at last, his eyes alight with a feral, violent glow.
She swallowed, thickly.
"We might not be able to get through the checkpoints," she offered, softly.
"I'm the fucking High Overseer - if I can't get through checkpoints, what's the point?"