Not wishing to interrupt, Brogan slipped quickly to the back and hung his hat and coat on the nail he always did. Mr. Sorokin must’ve been nearly finished with his latest printing order. The table in the back room was strewn with samples, several marked with changes to be made. He’d left the room in disarray, something neither father nor daughter ever did. The man, it seemed, was overwhelmed by the job he’d taken on. He likely wouldn’t be if he confided in his daughter more.
Brogan hoped the job proved as lucrative as Mr. Sorokin believed it would be; Vera had spoken many times about the struggle they’d had to make the shop profitable.
He stepped back into the main room, excited to start the day. Working at a shop would not have been his first choice, but he found he thoroughly enjoyed it. That, he suspected, had far more to do with Vera than with the work he did there.
Vera nudged the children on to do their work. Brogan smiled at her when she turned to face him. She, however, did not smile back.
Odd.
“Good morning, Vera.”
“A minute of your time, please.” She pointed toward the back. Her tone was too formal, too unemotional. Something was decidedly wrong. Whatever had been bothering her when they’d last been together seemed to be troubling her still.
“Of course.”
He followed her to the back of the room, but not through the back door. She looked him in the eye, her shoulders back, her chin at a confident angle.
“Is something the matter, Vera?” he asked. “You seem upset.”
“I’m not upset.” But she wasn’t terribly convincing. “I pulled you aside to inform you that your employment here has come to an end.”
’Twas little she might have said that would’ve surprised him more than hearing that. It’d come without warning. There’d been no indication she was unhappy with his work. He’d always done his best, gone beyond what was asked of him. He was, he’d thought, an asset to the shop.
He’d thought he was more than that.
“If this is a jest of some kind, I’m struggling to find the humor in it.”
Vera gave a firm shake of her head. “No jest.”
He watched her closely, searching for some kind of clue as to what was happening. She was as unreadable as an empty page.
“You’re truly giving me the sack?”
“You’ll be paid the wages that are due you.”
He quickly eyed the children. “Is the trouble that you can’t pay me and the wee’ns both? I’d give the children my pay if need be. I’m certain they need it more than I do.”
Nothing in her demeanor softened. “It’s precisely what I told you: you’re no longer needed here.”
He folded his arms across his chest. “No longer needed, or no longer wanted?”
“No longer either.” The coldness of her response sent a shiver down his spine.
It made no sense. “You’re the one I work for, so I’ve no ability to override your decision here, but I do think I’m entitled to some explanation.”
“I gave you one already.” With that, she turned about and made to walk back to the heart of the shop.
To her retreating back, he said, “You said I wasn’t needed or wanted, but you didn’t tell me why.”
Vera half-turned, enough to look at him over her shoulder. “I do not employ people I cain’t trust.”
Her words were piercing. Hadn’t he been thinking on his way to Soho how much he disliked the dishonesty between them? She had declared she couldn’t trust him. That was truer than he would prefer.
“Why is it you don’t think you can trust me?” He could hear the worry in his voice.
“Why is it you think I can?” Then she added in a hard and unyielding tone, “Brogan.”
Brogan. She had found out somehow. Learning his actual name told her more than merely that lie. It told her he’d lied about his profession. He’d lied about his need for employment. He’d heard her explain more than once her family’s feelings about writers, and he hadn’t said anything, hadn’t kept a distance when he’d known that was what they’d prefer.
He’d been open with her about so many other things that he’d hoped it would be enough to overcome this . . . eventually. Seeing her walk away, back ramrod straight, he knew it wasn’t.
Stomach firmly in the soles of his boots, he stepped into the back room. No more than a minute had passed since he’d been there, but he felt decades older. He pulled his coat off the nail he’d only just hung it on. His mind refused to make the least sense of all that had just happened.
He swallowed. He tried to breathe. His mind was so befuddled that his body didn’t seem to know how to function without it.
There must be a way of fixing this. There has to be.
But even as the desperate thought spun in his mind, he knew it was futile. He himself had argued that this would eventually be the result for all the Dreadfuls and the lies they told. The secrecy allowed them to save lives, but he’d always known it would eventually exact a steep, terrible price. And he was paying it now.
He’d sacrificed the friendships he’d made in the DPS. He was still telling half-truths to his sister. He’d lost Vera, lost all the dreams he’d begun having of the two of them. And for what? He wasn’t any closer to solving the mystery he’d been sent to Soho to investigate.
His eyes took in the back room while his mind attempted to find a way of moving forward. A name on the papers scattered across the desk caught his attention: Lord Chelmsford. That was the gentleman the Dread Master had mentioned was on the outs with the Russian ambassador.
Brogan looked around, making absolutely certain he was alone, then stepped closer and carefully slid the paper out from underneath the ones nearly hiding it, making note of its position so he could return it with no one the wiser.
It was a handwritten letter, which was odd for a print shop, and addressed to the Russian ambassador. A quick glance at the bottom showed it was signed by Chelmsford. In it, the baron spoke of a document that he implored the ambassador not to share. He mentioned their long-standing friendship, the trust that bound them. The letter spoke of damage to Chelmsford’s reputation should the document be found.
Strange.
On the table, directly below where the letter had been, was a stack of nearly identical documents, ones with only the slightest changes made between them. He took them up as well, careful not to disturb the papers that had been hiding them. Here was a solid connection between Mr. Sorokin and the ambassador. ’Twas what he’d come to the shop to search for. Weeks earlier, he’d’ve been excited by the discovery, but now he felt no joy, so sense of accomplishment.