Sneak Peek: The Silence Architect

My previous post was a bit of a whopper on craft and I could tell it wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea. So I thought…why not ask you want you’d like to read more of?

And because The Silence Architect is almost ready for Tom, my proofreader, I’m going to share this sneak peek with you all. Enjoy!

They say a moth remembers its time as a caterpillar. But the truth is, there is no remembering. The chrysalis is not a cradle but a coffin. The creature dissolves its old self to nothing before it can tear free, wings wet and trembling. Metamorphosis erases all: every leaf tasted, every dream of flight.

Perhaps this is mercy.

One might think Beatrice Wren's transformation began in Bedlam's cold stone belly. Or perhaps earlier, when her sister's last breath still warmed the air between them on a marble floor.

But metamorphosis is rarely so simple.

Beatrice's final catalyst was a small act of kindness — a sewer rat trusting her with the lives of its offspring on a night so dark she could not tell the walls from the sky.

Such a tiny thing, to change the course of one's life.

***

'Perfect.' Grim kicked at a pile of dust in his corner, sending motes dancing through the last rays of murky daylight. 'Of all the days for rain.'

Beatrice shook her head. It was a waste of breath to complain about the rain in London. Or about the weather in general.

His pacing stopped.

She traced her fingers along the rough floorboards. The attic's scents of pine, wool, and camphor, layered with mildew, settled thick in her lungs. She'd gone from pauper to madwoman to fugitive in scarcely a fortnight. Her world had shrunk to this cramped space, shared with a man whose face was the only one she could recognise.

A fat droplet of water splashed on her hand. She pulled back, wiping it on her skirt.

The patter increased. Water found new paths through the aged timber above. Beatrice drew her knees close to her chest, trying to make herself smaller.

'Thank you,' she said. The words came out thin. 'For breaking me out.'

A laugh burst from him. 'Don't thank me yet.'

What were his true motives? He hadn't risked life and limb solely for her language skills. He said Laurie was a murderer, had been killing for years. She didn't believe a word. Couldn't. Did everything Grim did and say spring from vengeance?

But vengeance for what, exactly?

Rain tapped against the roof slats. She tilted her chin towards the sound. Pressed her palms flat against the floorboards. Steadied herself. Then, when the noise in her head had quieted to something she could work with, she whispered, 'You claim you acquired details of my past. You broke me out of Bedlam. Why? No one does this without good reason.'

His answers would determine how quickly she would leave him.

He looked away. Picked at loose threads around a hole in his trousers. 'Told you. It's because of your fucking brother. Need to get to him. You're my only way in.'

So she was a tool. But she knew that already, didn't she? 'You want him dead.'

He gave a dark laugh. 'Too easy. The man needs destroying. And his whole bloody business along with him.' He shifted, his bad arm pressed closer to his chest. 'Figured you might help with that, seeing as how he put you in an asylum. Twice, far as I can tell.'

In the growing dark, his voice did all the work. Every word ground against the next.

Rain pummeled the roof. A cold droplet struck her temple, and she flinched away from the wall where water was already trickling down, spreading a dark stain across the grey plaster.

'I don't trust you,' she said.

'You think I give a damn?' Metal clinked as Grim adjusted something in his coat. Lockpicks, most likely. Or worse. 'But I guess it means you're not completely mad after all.'

They fell silent, each pressing back into their own corner as thunder rolled above. Water dripped steadily now, forming puddles on the warped floorboards between them.

'Christ's sake,' Grim hissed. He scooted sideways and nudged a dented biscuit tin under the drip. 'Why'd they swarm the place like that? Half the bloody Metropolitan Police crawling over your rotten lodging house. Bit much for a runaway madwoman, innit?'

Beatrice shrugged, not looking up from her knees. 'Laurie is concerned for my well-being.'

Grim snorted. 'Concerned? That's what you're thinking? Christ, woman. That man doesn't give two shits about you living like a pauper. He locked you away in Bedlam. And you think he's concerned about your well-being?' His voice rose to a mocking pitch.

She didn't answer. What could she say, anyway? That Laurie wanted her silenced? That fragments of Margaret's death had begun to resurface, contradicting the official story? That those figurines had somehow unlocked memories better left buried? That her own mind frightened her more than Laurie ever could?

'Fine. Keep your secrets.' Grim pushed up from the floor. 'I'll check on the warehouse. If no one's around, I'll fetch us blankets.'

'Is that wise?' she asked, finally looking up.

'Better than sitting here waiting to drown.' He gestured at the growing puddles on the floor.

He moved toward the attic door, then turned back, jabbing a finger in her direction. 'Make sure the papers stay dry. And stay here. Don't make a sound. Don't leave. I'll be back before midnight.'

She held her tongue. Let him think she was complying. She needed time alone, time to think, to sort through new information and fragments of memories.

His footfalls receded down the attic stairs, each creak growing quieter until only the persistent plinking of rainwater leaking through the roof remained.

She exhaled. Her shoulders dropped.

The stack of papers was safely tucked under her overcoat. Shipping manifests stolen by Grim, translated by her, alongside her own notes and the patient files she'd taken from Bedlam. If Grim spoke true, these pages connected her brother to weapons smuggling, bribery, and murder. This was evidence dangerous enough to explain the police swarming her lodgings.

Her thoughts turned to Sir Sebastian and the babies. Would they already have grown enough to explore the world outside their nest? Her almost-smile fell away. Her room would have been let to another tenant as soon as her brother took her away to Bethlem Hospital.

She stood abruptly and knocked her head against a roof joist. Bending double, she rubbed the sore spot on her scalp. Grim had told her that the rat had been evicted. Together with all of her things.

She was left with nothing.

But what if Mr Jones from the second floor had salvaged a few of her belongings? He'd always been kind to her. Would he have thought to save... No. Sir Sebastian would be alone now, with the babies to protect.

But what if she could lure the rat out? Offer a few morsels of food to tide her over until the rat babies had grown enough?

This might be her only opportunity to check on her old lodgings without that locksmith shadowing her every move, barking orders, telling her what to do and how to do it. Without his distinctively disfigured features and crippled arm drawing attention. Without his constant, irritating presence.

Without him telling her what was real and what wasn't.

This was her chance to find information that couldn't have been influenced by him. And maybe her only chance to get away from the bastard. Yes, he'd gotten her out of Bedlam. But he might just throw her back in if she refused to serve up her brother's head on a silver platter.

She squinted into the darkness of the attic to find a spot that was dry enough to leave the papers. Grim would return if he wasn't caught.

She shuffled from floorboard to floorboard, searching for puddles and warped areas until she found a dry spot that seemed safe enough for the next few hours, even if the deluge wouldn't lessen that night. She pulled the stack of documents from under her overcoat and leafed through them, her eyes close to the papers, straining to catch words in the dark. Then, she laid the shipping documents and her translations on the floor and placed a dusty, broken glass bottle on top of them.

The rain hit her face the moment she stepped outside. She pulled her collar up and kept to the walls.

***

Beatrice stood in the doorway of the pawn shop. The door lock was still broken, but the shop was no longer abandoned. Rainwater dripped from her sodden overcoat and pooled at her feet. Familiar scents of collected treasures had been replaced by those of damp and dust.

The door creaked as she pushed it wider. Two huddled figures stirred in the corner where the counter once stood. The crawlers — street folk with nowhere else to shelter — had fashioned a nest of ragged blankets and discarded newspapers. They'd even managed to light a small fire in a hole in the floor, casting shadows across the water-stained walls.

Beatrice had once worked here. The shop had been her refuge, filled with forgotten trinkets that whispered secrets to her. Then it was ransacked, every precious Whisper-filled object stolen. She'd lost her work as a shop assistant the same day.

And then it all went downhill.

Her gaze returned to the pair of crawlers. She'd planned to hide her notes and patient files beneath one of the loose floorboards in the back, but that wouldn't be possible now.

'This ain't your place,' grumbled the older of the two, a woman with a face like crumpled parchment blurring around the edges. Her companion, a man with one eye clouded white, silently stared at Beatrice.

'I used to work here,' she replied simply, making no move to leave. The patterns in their clothing told her nothing useful. But the woman's left hand — clenched tight around a small bundle of rags — that was worth filing away.

'Worked for Green, did ya? The bastard.' The woman spat into the fire, making it hiss. 'Still ain't your place.'

The one-eyed man mumbled something. The woman answered with a vigorous nod.

'I have a place. Just got surprised by the rain. If you don't mind, I'd like to warm my hands and sit for a little.' Beatrice took a step closer to the pair, her shoes squelching. Her papers pressed against her ribs. Her pulse ticked faster. Where could she hide her secrets now?

She froze. She shouldn't have told the crawlers she'd once worked here. If not her face, they might know her name. They might know even more.

Time to find out.

Cautiously, Beatrice sat on the floor. 'Saw the coppers over at that lodging house at Ratcliff Highway this morning. Was someone murdered?'

The woman honked in amusement. 'Were chance I come by. Dunno if someone was killed but them standing there was sayin' the woman what was taken from Bedlam lived there. And some fancy folk come, too. A man with a stick. Silver top, it had on it.' She tapped her temple. 'I remember details, me. Everything seen or heard.'

Beatrice nodded, relieved these two didn't seem to recognise her.

'Very good for business.'

What business the crawlers had, she couldn't fathom. 'Bedlam, you say?'

The woman nodded and leaned closer with the air of a conspirator. 'They says a blacksmith beat up an orderly and stole a patient.'

'Stole a patient?'

The man with the milky eye spoke up. ''E ain't no blacksmith. Locksmith's what 'e is. Nasty piece o' work. Folk round 'ere calls 'im Grim.'

Her stomach dropped to her toes. Did the whole neighbourhood know Grim had broken her out of Bedlam?

The woman's head snapped toward her companion. 'Grim? You sure it was him?'

The man nodded. ''Aven't you 'eard what that gossiping old trout told the coppers? Were Grim, right enough!' He spat on the ground. 'Face like spoiled meat, 'e 'as, and a temper that'd make Old Nick wet 'imself twice.'

'What do the coppers think happened to the woman?' Beatrice asked quietly.

'Dunno,' the woman replied. 'Word is he's hiding her out near Limehouse.'

Limehouse. Not too close to the attic, not too close to the warehouse. Good. Her shoulders relaxed a little. 'Do they know where this Grim lives?'

'They'll know it soon enough. Offering ten pounds to anyone who spots him or that woman.'

Ten pounds. A fortune to most people in the East End. Enough to overcome anyone's fancied loyalty.

'I hope he didn't hurt her,' Beatrice said, forcing concern into her voice for this fictitious version of herself. The truth was, she didn't know Grim at all or what he might be capable of.

The man cackled. 'Only one way a devil like that gets 'is way with the ladies.' He dragged a grimy thumb across his throat. 'Permanent-like.'

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