There is no Remembering

Finally, here it is: The first teaser for The Silence Architect, the second book in The Memory Collector mystery series. And I've created something wickedly fun to accompany it👇🏽

Yep, my delightfully rude locksmith is ready to sling his most cutting insults at anyone brave enough to engage. (Don't say I didn't warn you!)

And for fans of the Keeper of Pleas mysteries — I've been keeping a secret...

Gavriel Sévère has returned.

Yup, our sharp-tongued solicitor/coroner/detective from the Keeper of Pleas series has found his way into Beatrice's world. When she faces legal entanglements, who better to call upon than a man of the law who is ready to break it?

Now, without further delay, here's your first look at The Silence Architect:

Chapter 1 - Shelter

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 can only emerge after it has found the courage to dissolve its old self to nothing and tear its way free, wings wet and trembling. Metamorphosis erases all: every leaf tasted, every dream of flight.

Perhaps this is mercy.

Some transformations are gentle as mist burning away in the morning sun. Others crack bone and reshape flesh. Only if you learn to walk through the pain and terror, head held high and gaze fixed on distant shores, will you rise from the ruins of your old life.

One might think Beatrice Wren's transformation began in Bedlam's cold stone belly, where madness dances an intimate waltz with sanity. Or perhaps it was earlier when her childhood shattered on marble floors, her sister's last breath still warm in the air.

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 that everything good in this world felt distant as the stars.

Such a tiny thing, to change the course of one’s life. But don't all rivers spring from the humblest sources to carve their path through the hearts of mountains?

Beatrice traced her fingers along the rough floorboards, cataloguing every splinter and groove to calm her nerves. The attic's blend of pine, wool, and camphor, layered with mildew, pressed against her chest as darkness began to creep through gaps in the weathered roof slats. She'd gone from pauper to madwoman to fugitive in the span of scarcely more than a week. Her world had shrunk to this cramped space, shared with a man who wore the only face recognisable to her.

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

'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.'

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

He threw a flinty gaze her way.

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 to Grim, the words falling awkward and heavy between them. 'For breaking me out.'

His laugh held no warmth. 'Don't thank me yet.'

She wondered about his true motives, doubting he would risk life and limb solely for her language skills. He said Laurie was a murderer, had been killing for years.

'Kill again?' he'd said. 'Magpie, your brother's been at it for years.'

She didn't believe a word. Couldn't. Did everything he did and said spring from a desire for vengeance?

But vengeance for what, exactly?

His earlier words rang in her mind. Your family paid off the authorities to make your sister's death look natural. Greased the right palms, they did. Then they shipped you off to Bedlam, where they scrambled your head with their treatments.

He mentioned names. Alaric Voss and Annie Davies. He'd fed her enough details to pique her interest but not enough to explain what was truly going on. The man might be a habitual liar. He certainly knew she couldn't tell truth from lie unless the lie was obvious. He'd lied to her face about the shipping manifests he wanted her to translate and analyse — documents he'd stolen and planned to use as blackmail to get to her brother.

Because according to Grim, Laurie not only killed with impunity, he also smuggled weapons. With opium and silk on the side.

And that, Beatrice suspected, was where Grim's true motive lay. He'd mentioned Afghanistan and faulty weapons sold by Wren Industries to both sides of the conflict. The burns scarring half his face and neck, the crippled right arm — these could be consequences of her brother's actions.

No, there must be more to this story.

A lot more.

Rain tapped against roof slates. She tilted her chin towards the sound, mentally boxing away fears of inadequacy and all her emotions save curiosity. With that imaginary box sealed tight, she whispered, 'You claim you aquired 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.

His gaze darted away. He picked at loose threads around a hole in his trousers. 'Told you, it's because of your fucking brother.' Grim spat the words like poison. 'Need to get to him. You're my only way in.'

So she was a tool. '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.’

Rain drummed harder against the roof. A cold droplet struck her temple. She flinched to the side. Water trickled down one wall, forming a dark stain that spread across the grey plaster. The afternoon’s growing darkness obscured Grim's face, but his hatred for Laurie rang clear in every word.

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

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

They fell silent, each pressing deeper into their respective 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 biscuit tin with his boot. The plink of water grew faint with his next words, '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.' An automatic reply.

Grim snorted. 'Concerned? That's what you’re thinking? Christ, woman. Your brother locked you away in Bedlam. Twice! That man doesn’t give two shits about you living like a pauper. And now 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 mind was not merely unreliable but sometimes too terrifying a landscape to explore?

'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?' Beatrice 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.'

Beatrice bristled at his harsh tone but remained silent. Let him think she was complying. She needed time alone, time to think, to sort through new information and shrapnel of memories.

Grim's footfalls receded down the attic stairs, each creak growing quieter until only the persistent drip and pling of rainwater leaking through the roof filled the quiet. Beatrice exhaled, her shoulders relaxing when she was certain he had truly gone.

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 stolen. If Grim spoke true, these pages connected her brother to weapons smuggling, bribery, and worse. 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? A smile stole across her mouth but fell away quickly. 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.

'Oh no,' she said as gravity pulled on her shoulders. But what if Mr Jones from the second floor had salvaged a few of her things? He'd always been kind to her. Would he have thought to save... No, she was certain Sir Sebastian was alone now, struggling to protect the babies.

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 Grim shadowing her every move, barking orders, telling her what to do and how to do it. Without his distinctively scarred face 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.

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 what looked like an old biscuit tin, casting dancing 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, merely stared at Beatrice.

'I used to work here,' she replied simply, making no move to leave. Rain hammered against the remains of a broken window, punctuating their standoff. She studied them carefully, noting the patterns in their clothing, the way the woman's left hand clenched around a small bundle of rags.

'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 nerves jangled. 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?' Pretending to be someone else while fishing for information proved harder than expected.

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.' Though 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? That woman from the lodging house?'

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.'

A chill that had nothing to do with her wet clothes scuttled down Beatrice's spine. 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.'

Chapter 2 - No Sanctuary

Grim pressed against the rough brick wall of a warehouse, ignoring the cold that seeped through his sodden coat. Rain plastered his hair to his skull and ran in rivulets down his scarred face. His crippled right arm ached fiercely in the damp.

The rain kept hammering down, its steady drumming providing cover but soaking him to the bone. He cursed silently. The familiar bitterness of rage prickled on his tongue. Ten pounds. That's what that bastard Laurence Wren had put on his head. And ten on his sister's as well. Enough to make every street rat turn him and the Magpie in.

Movement caught his eye. He froze. Three short figures huddled under the torn awning of the abandoned milliner's shop, directly across from the entrance to his hidden workshop. Street urchins, by the look of them. Grim squinted through the curtain of rain and darkness.

The smallest one coughed, the sound barely carrying over the downpour. Another passed something, bread perhaps, to the others. Just children seeking shelter — or Wren's newest pawns?

Grim remained motionless. They didn't move like children with purpose. No furtive glances toward the warehouse, no scouts positioned at the corners. Just three wet bodies pressed together against the cold. Still, he couldn't risk it.

Inside his workshop was everything he had scraped together over the years. His locksmith tools were worth more than gold to him now. So were the seventeen pounds and eight shillings hidden beneath the floorboards, and the documents he hadn't shown the Magpie. And warmth. A dry blanket. Clean clothes.

The rain intensified. One of the children pulled a cap lower over his eyes, hunching closer to the others. They didn't seem to be looking for him. But others were. Earlier, he'd glimpsed two coppers questioning merchants three streets over.

Ten pounds bought a lot of eager eyes.

He edged around the corner, keeping to the dark. The side door was clear. Or seemed to be. His best bet, now that he couldn't use the main door if he wanted to remain unseen. He couldn't go through the roof, not with his right arm being what it was and the downpour making the tiles treacherous. One slip and the fall would snap his neck.

And Laurence Bloody Wren could add another cold body to his long list.

All Grim needed was a few minutes inside. Grab the essentials. The tools. The money. The papers that might finally expose that prick. There’d be at least enough to not have to start all over again.

A match flared under the awning. One of the urchins lit a cigarette stub, the tiny flame illuminating three gaunt faces. Grim tensed. The tall boy among them — couldn't be more than twelve — looked familiar. One of the dock children who'd loitered near his locksmith stand last fall. Billy? Ben? Something with a B.

Ten pounds would feed three street rats for months. New clothes. Shelter. Security. Ale.

Grim cursed under his breath.

The boy glanced up, peering into the darkness where Grim stood with his boots rooted to the spot. For one heart-stopping moment, their eyes seemed to meet through rain and darkness.

Grim held his breath.

The boy turned to his companions, whispering. All three heads snapped in Grim's direction.

'Clap-ridden, beetle-headed cack-hands!' Grim hissed, preparing to bolt.

But the urchins made no move to run for coppers. Instead, they huddled closer together, the cigarette's glow wavering as they shifted, protecting both their precious light and themselves.

From him.

They were afraid, not plotting. They saw a dark figure watching them from the shadows and feared for their safety.

For now, fear would keep them silent, keep them from investigating the stranger lurking near the warehouses. Street rats never ran to the coppers for protection. They knew the authorities were the last place they could expect help.

Slowly, Grim backed toward the side entrance of his sanctuary. The rain continued its relentless assault, covering the soft splash of his footfalls in the puddles. He'd check the perimeter once more, just to make sure. And then he'd retrieve what was his.

Rain hammered against the workshop roof as Grim struck a match and lit two oil lamps. Jittery shadows leapt across the walls. He paused for a moment, listening. He'd survived the Afghan war by knowing when to be cautious, when to be brutal, and always to be planning for the worst. Tonight was no different. His gaze swept the room, searching for signs of a break-in. There were none.

In his mind, he categorised his possessions by necessity and the size of his satchel. The first priority was what he kept hidden under the floorboard beneath his workbench.

He pressed down on one end of the board until the opposite side lifted just enough for his fingertips to find a good grip. He slipped his hand into the opening and extracted a small leather pouch. The weight of seventeen pounds and eight shillings felt reassuring in his palm. His entire savings. If used only for food and shelter, this money could get him and the Magpie through months.

And he'd need to bribe his way out of this mess, that much was certain.

Grim placed the money pouch next to his open satchel, then dug deeper into the hiding space to retrieve a small stack of documents wrapped in a clean fabric scrap.

He moved to his tools next, fingers hovering over his collection of lockpicks before selecting two specific sets. The first containing slender tension wrenches and hooks, the second picks designed for more sophisticated mechanisms. He added several custom tools to the small pile: wire cutters, a small glass cutter, and more.

Every item underwent scrutiny. Nothing superfluous. Nothing he could find somewhere else or build easily. The rain intensified, masking the sounds of his movements as he packed two shirts, undergarments, a pair of trousers, and woollen socks.

At the small chest by his pallet, Grim removed two blankets, then hesitated. Survival meant thinking ahead, anticipating everything that might go wrong. He packed the hunk of stale bread and the piece of hard cheese wrapped in waxed paper he had bought before breaking the Magpie out of Bedlam. His fingers hovered over three carving knives, each blade honed to a lethal edge. He wrapped each in a rag before tucking them into his trouser pocket.

The stolen documents required special attention. Grim laid them flat on his workbench, encased them in multiple layers of oilcloth, folding and binding each packet with care. Waterproof. Protected. These papers were worth his life. They were evidence, leverage, power.

He smoothed and tucked the final layer before wrapping the package in one of the wool blankets. The bundle disappeared into the bottom of his satchel, cushioned and protected amidst clothing.

A final review. His gaze swept the room, checking for forgotten essentials or telltale evidence. The coppers weren't particularly clever, but with Laurence Wren's money underwriting the search, they would be thorough and persistent.

'Gone to ground before. Can do it again,' he muttered as he pulled the satchel closed and tested its weight. Heavy enough to hold his survival, light enough to run with if needed. Satisfied, he extinguished one oil lamp, leaving the other to provide just enough light to navigate to the exit.

Rain continued its assault as he pressed his ear against the door, listening. The warehouse beyond should be empty at this hour. Should be. But surviving meant never trusting in should.

Three heartbeats passed.

Five.

Ten.

Then, a sound. Soft shuffling, just on the other side of the door.

Grim's body went rigid. His hand found one of the knives, drawing it silently. He shifted his weight, positioning himself beside the door rather than in front of it, his breathing controlled to near silence as he listened again. Not the heavy footfalls of police boots. Something lighter. More cautious. Perhaps just one person? He calculated distances, angles, and obstacles, mapping the fastest escape route through the maze of crates and barrels.

Slowly, Grim reached for the door handle, knife clamped between his teeth so he could grab it quickly with his intact hand.

The rain continued its assault on the tin roof, its relentless metallic pinging drowning out any sounds that might reveal the intruder's precise location. He swallowed the colourful curses that sat on his tongue.

The knife warmed between his teeth, its metal pressing against his tongue. With his good left hand, he eased the bolt on his door back, each fraction of movement carefully controlled. The hinges, freshly oiled only two days ago, made no sound as he pulled the door inward.

Darkness greeted him. The maze of crates and barrels formed black geometric patterns against deeper blackness. No moonlight penetrated the grimy skylights tonight, just the endless drumming rain.

He slipped into the warehouse proper, every muscle tensed, becoming a shadow among shadows. His left hand found the door behind him, eased it shut, then silently worked the key into the lock. His ears strained as he locked his workshop. He slipped the keys into his pocket and took the carving knife from between his teeth.

The rain masked any sounds he might make as he crouched behind a stack of wooden crates, but it also drowned out the movements of whoever had invaded his domain.

His breath came slow and controlled. If he had to kill a copper tonight, he would. A rat, perhaps. Or a cat hunting rats. The coppers, finally connecting him to that job in Cheapside. Or someone who needed Wren's ten pounds more than their health.

There! A sound. Not the rain. Not rats. A scrape of a boot on the packed dirt floor.

He flexed the grip on his knife. The warehouse was his. The one place where the nightmares sometimes eased. His hideout. No one took what was his. Not anymore.

Grim slid forward, keeping low, using the crates and barrels for cover. The scraping came again, then a thud. Someone bumping into something in the dark. Amateurish. Sloppy.

Another sound froze Grim mid-movement.

A snicker. Coming from a young throat.

'Got a smoke?' A voice piped up halfway across the room, near a tower of barrels. A boy's voice, breaking on the last syllable.

'Shut yer gob, Jimmy,' came the answering hiss. 'You'll 'ave the crushers down on us.'

'Ain't nobody 'ere. Place is empty as a toff's 'eart. Told ya it'd be proper.'

'Just give us a smoke, will ya?'

'Yer only ten, ain't ya? Smoking'll stunt yer growth, it will.'

A derisive snort. 'Yer smoking and yer eleven and yer taller’n me.’

'Nearly twelve, I am. Practically a cove now.' A match flared in the darkness, momentarily illuminating three figures huddled against the far wall. The brief light caught their hollow cheeks, the sharp angles of malnourishment, before dying away to a steady orange glow as a cigarette caught.

Grim remained frozen, knife poised. The street urchins. The same ragged children he'd seen earlier. They could lead others here. Coppers. Or Wren's muscle.

His thumb tested the edge of the blade. A simple problem with a simple solution. No witnesses. No risk. The urchins wouldn't even know he was there.

'This place gives me the collywobbles,' one of the children squeaked.

'That's why no one'll find us 'ere. We can kip dry tonight.'

'But what if there’d be ghosts?'

'Ain't no such thing as ghosts, you noodle. Just people. And people's worse.'

If that ain't right, Grim thought, and stepped around the crates.

Backstage members can access the cinematic edition of the The Silence Architect here:

The Silence Architect

Cinematic edition of The Silence Architect - book 2 in The Memory Collector Series

Annelie's Bookish ShenanigansAnnelie Wendeberg

If you're a fan of The Memory Collector – I made some art for you: