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With a click, the safe opened. There was nothing inside it, but it was not the destination that mattered, only the speed of the journey.
The boy did not cheer nor did he smile; it would have made him look unprofessional and inexperienced to openly react, but inside, he did feel a small sense of triumph. It was made even stronger by the crestfallen look on the other boy's face next to him, the smug certainty erased completely.
“That's not—you must have cheated,” his friend said, his face turning red. “You knew the combination beforehand.”
“Are you suggesting that someone here cheated?” He cocked his head towards the six masked figures watching them. It was rather dramatic, considering the relative simplicity of what he had accomplished, but it was also deeply entertaining. At least it wasn't grubbing around in the streets, picking pockets or swiping something when the owner's back was turned.
“No, not--” his friend stammered, his hands clenched. He wanted to punch the boy, that much was obvious, but he wasn't quite stupid enough to think he could do that with no consequences. “But you weren't the one that was being hired. It should have been me.”
“And yet it will not be,” a voice rumbled. It was the one the boy assumed was in charge, the other figures moving out of his way as he walked forwards. He loomed large, taller than almost everyone around him. His mask also simpler; fools might assume that he was the lowest ranked because of that, but the boy had long since learned that those of true wealth need not flaunt it, they just assume that others around them will recognize their inherent superiority.
If he didn't need the job, he might have been tempted to try to rob this man, for the challenge of it and to take him down a peg or two. But he did and he'd already stepped on one person today to try to climb to the top.
“Congratulations, young man,” the man said. “I trust you will not let us down.” He reached his hand and the boy shook it, bowed his head and watched out of the corner of his eye as his friend's mouth worked, his eyes glittering with hatred.
“I hope it's worth it,” he hissed. “Just know that I won't forget this.”
“I don't expect you to,” the boy said. “Goodbye, Lucian.”
Two other figures moved forward to usher Lucian out while the mask was handed to the boy. He took it in his hands, turned it over and ran his fingers along the silk ties.
“We do not address each other by name here,” the man said. It might have been a reproof, but if so, it was mild, a statement of fact rather than an accusation. “I am Sunday.”
“And what am I to be called?” the boy asked. He slipped the mask around his face, tying it tight. There was a murmur of voices, a ripple of approval from the others.
“Saturday,” Sunday said. “The last day of creation.” His hand rested atop the boy's head. “I hope you can keep a secret.”
“Of course,” he said.
Behind his mask, Hercule Flambeau smiled.
As far as kidnappings went, it was not the worst one Flambeau had ever experienced.
There was no bag over his head, no crack to the skull, just the polite mention that things might turn more violent if he did not behave and the brief suggestion of a gun, as the actual sight of it would be far too gauche. It was all very civilized and neat and if one were a passenger on this train, one would think that the four men sitting across from each other were having a very reasonable discussion.
Perhaps they were, Flambeau thought, eyeing the men across from him. When a certain priest was involved, things had a way of working out. Still, it was a challenge to even Father Brown's abilities to change this situation from anything other than what it was: a man seeking vengeance and taking a hostage to ensure it was pulled off. Flambeau was the revenge, and regrettably Father Brown was the leverage.
“You're very quiet,” Donald said. It was certainly not his real name; he did not appear to have the air of someone who'd been born a Donald. Perhaps a Chester, a Julian, or maybe a Francis. “I should hope you're not thinking of doing anything stupid.”
“And leave your pleasant company?” Flambeau smiled thinly. “Perish the thought.” He didn't look at Donald as he said that, kept his gaze firmly fixed on Father Brown and the man next to him.
“Surprised no one's cut out your tongue yet,” the man said. Father Brown shot him a glance, but didn't say anything.
Strange, he thought. Time changes some men to the point of nonrecognition, while others can't hide who they are even if you put a mask on them.
Lucian had gray hair instead of red, a scar across his cheek, and a hardness to his eyes, but it was easy to see the kid he'd been, the one that Flambeau had coolly and quietly stolen his dream from. Perhaps this should have been the thing he was most proud of. It wasn't easy to take a life and still leave someone breathing.
Father Brown, next to him, did not seem the least bit perturbed by him, which had to be frustrating to Lucian on some level. Flambeau could almost sympathize with it; a calm man could inflame emotions far more than a man who was willing to yell right back at you. It had irritated him at first, enraged him by how easily Father Brown could thwart him by unraveling his schemes as if he were unraveling a spool of yarn. It made him lash out in petty spite, stealing and lying just to have at least some victory, however small.
And then one day, he realized something, or perhaps he'd always known it, just let it linger in the back of his mind, trying to push it away until he could no longer ignore it. Father Brown was a great detective, an adversary to be admired as equally as he had to be opposed, but Flambeau had to concede one additional thing. He was an excellent thief.
What other man could slip behind the strongest defenses, the highest walls, work his way to your innermost soul and with careful hands and gentle words, let Flambeau know that he'd stolen his heart from the moment he met him? Not to rub it in or to put one over him, but to take care of it because he was the best man for the job.
Sorry, Father, Flambeau thought. I truly didn't mean to entangle you in this mess.
“It's a shame, Lucian,” Flambeau said. “Here I thought we were trying to behave like civilized gentlemen and yet, you seem insistent on lashing out.” He let his smile widen, look at Donald. “Is that your intention as well? I thought you wanted answers.”
“You don't seem inclined to give them,” Donald said, his hand clamping down on Flambeau's wrist and tightening. “Even with some incentive.”
“Oh, don't mind me,” Father Brown said, looking far too composed for having been plucked from his home right after services and bundled into a car next to Flambeau to be driven to the train station. “I'm sure this can all be solved amicably.”
“It will be if your friend loosens his tongue,” Lucian said. “It should hardly be a challenge to a master criminal such as himself.”
“Retired,” Flambeau said. He felt the bones almost crack in his wrist. “As are the rest. But you wouldn't know that, would you? It's why I'm here. You want to find them.”
“Yes,” Lucian said softly. “And you will tell me who they are.”
Flambeau shrugged. They wouldn't shoot him, no matter how tempted they might be here, but it would upset Father Brown after all the trouble he went through to save his life... and his soul. “I'm afraid I can't. As I said, we all used code names.”
“You--”
There was no telling what Lucian might have said next, given his unpredictability. Fortunately, Flambeau did not have to guess and possibly be proven wrong.
“Father Brown?”
Lucian tightened, making Flambeau wince, and then he relaxed his grip. His hand went to his pocket, a reminder of just what was concealed within. Across from him, Lucian was also tense.
Flambeau, for his part, almost laughed. The devil's own luck, he mused. How appropriate. He nodded at the priest and the nun next to him. Father Brown would not recognize them, perhaps, but he was sly enough not to react with surprise. Another thing to love about the man.
“Goodness, fancy meeting you here.” The priest's pudgy face crinkled into a smile. “We were just talking about how exciting your life must be and here you are!” His glance flickered over to his colleague. “I told you he must be traveling all the time.”
“I try to stay close to home,” Father Brown said mildly. “But sometimes my calling takes me elsewhere.”
“Of course, of course,” the nun said, her own wrinkled face beaming. “We must help where we can.” She smiled brightly at the rest of them. “Father Brown must have so many good friends.”
“Yes,” Flambeau interjected before the other two had a chance. “After all, did not John 15:13 say that to love each other as we love God.” He watched Father Brown's face stiffen for a moment, before it relaxed.
The sister also flinched, though that could be blamed on the train slowly coming to a halt, the announcement of the station on the overhead. “You are right,” she said. “But--”
“I think the next verse applies as well,” Flambeau said, keeping his voice steady. “As Father Brown would tell you, I'm not as knowledgeable as he is about it.” He looked over at Donald. “I suppose this is our stop?”
Donald's eyes were narrowed. Flambeau kept his body loose, his hands in sight, made every movement slow and deliberate and eventually he relaxed. “Yes,” he said. He jerked his head over at Lucian “If you wouldn't mind escorting Father Brown. We wouldn't want him to trip.”
“Of course,” Lucian said.
“Well, it was nice seeing you again, Father,” the priest said. “Give my regards to your parish.” He took his companion's arm and they walked away towards the door of the carriage. Only when they had stepped down did Lucian fully let out a breath.
“What was that?” he asked.
“Admirers of the good father?” Flambeau said. “I shouldn't wonder if he doesn't have them all over the place with the work he's done.” He cocked his head. “Possibly something to consider.”
“I will,” Donald said through gritted teeth. He took Flambeau in a far tighter grip than the clergy and they walked to the exit of the carriage as well. “Don't try anything funny.”
“I wouldn't dream of it,” Flambeau said. He wasn't lying, he thought. He wasn't going to do anything.
But....
A woman knocked into Lucian, her cane catching him in the knee and causing him to fall, his grasp loosened on Father Brown. He swore, trying to right himself and reached for the father, but a porter with a cart pushed in between them, blocking his view.
Lucian could not see what happened next, but Flambeau could, watching as the two clergy they'd just spoken to, swiftly each took one of Father Brown's arms and quickly carried him away into the crowds, so deftly done he would have applauded if Donald did not have an iron grip on him.
“What the--?”
“Apologies,” Flambeau said, showing his teeth. “I've made other arrangements for your guest.”
This time, the ride wasn't quite so gracious. Chalk it up to losing their hostage, or perhaps that they felt no need to disguise what they were in front of a man who'd been rather adept at seeing behind masks.
Lucian was inclined to show his displeasure by punching Flambeau in the ribs, Donald making no attempt to stop him, and Flambeau spent the better portion of the trip up to presumably the final destination of his captivity trying to catch his breath and wincing at every jolt. His hands had been cuffed behind him, tight to the point of pain, though he still had some circulation.
It was about a few hours later, the sun coming down when the house came into view. It must have been beautiful back in the day, but he could see the signs of wear, of the lack of maintenance that comes when money is an issue. The left side of the manor seemed to have experienced a fire as well, windows boarded up walls scorched with black.
“Recognize it?” Donald said, glaring at Flambeau. “Does it bring back any memories you'd care to share?”
“I can't say that it does,” Flambeau said. “Should it?”
“It's where my father died,” Donald said. “Murdered after a robbery. They burnt down part of the house to cover his tracks.” His voice shook. “I had to identify him from his ring.”
Flambeau closed his eyes. He'd never actually been here; that part was true. But that didn't mean that he didn't feel the chill of the sudden reappearance of a past he'd moved beyond a long time ago--
“Robert Hervey,” he said. “I read about it in the papers.” He opened his eyes. “And you must be Francis Hervey, his son.” So he had been right about the name.
“Clever,” Francis said. “Lucian tells me that you're quick on your feet.” His smile was twisted, not reaching his eyes. “That trick you pulled at the station—you must have suspected something was in the wind. Should I bother to ask who they were?”
“You can,” Flambeau said. “It doesn't mean I'll answer.”
“Hmm,” Francis said. “Well, I'll find out soon enough. In the meantime, let's talk about the past. Your past, specifically.”
“My favorite subject,” Flambeau said drily.
“The Days,” Francis said. “A group that used days of the week as their code names and were rarely ever seen in the same place together. Seven of them and no one had the slightest bit of information about who they were.”
Flambeau looked at Lucian. “Except for you,” he said softly. “You knew who the only one was. I'm surprised you didn't say anything sooner, just out of revenge.”
“I wanted to,” Lucian said. “But at the time, I didn't know who was involved and your leader made it rather clear that if I were to talk, I'd find myself in equally grim circumstances. So I waited and then it seemed useless. Telling someone that Hercule Flambeau was a thief?” He laughed bitterly. “They'd already known that.”
“And then one day, you met someone that might have use for that information. Tell me, how did you meet Francis?”
“Nothing complicated, I'm afraid,” Francis said. “I simply asked about, inquiring if someone might be interested in talking about the Days of Creation. I had a number of misguided individuals seeking to proselytize to me, but eventually Lucian came to me.”
“And from that, you had at least one lead.” The car was stopped, the engine turned off. “Unfortunately, I still won't be able to help you.”
“Do you deny that it was your group that was involved in my father's death?” Francis said. “Will you tell me you have no idea what I'm talking about?”
“No,” Flambeau said. Maybe if it had been a decade ago, a few years even, he might have lied to the very end, proclaimed his ignorance and dared Francis to do something about it. But he was older, tired, bore several scars to witness how close he'd come to death and there was no point to any of this. “I won't deny that.”
Francis's face was close to his. In the driver's seat, Lucian watched them both. “So tell me the truth for once in your godforsaken life. Who killed my father?”
It was silent in the car. The wind came through the window, carrying with it the faint scent of roses. There were no other voices to be heard.
“Sorry,” Flambeau said. “But I truly don't know.”
The blow to his head was completely expected.
Rumors had always circulated about the group. That they wore masks, that they slipped in and out of the wealthy houses they robbed like ghosts, that none of them had ever known each other's names or faces. That way if one was caught, people said, there was no way that they could give anyone else up.
The first two were true. The last was not.
Poppy was the first to take off her mask, her warm smile greeting Hercule. She'd taken to him, viewing him with a certain amount of fondness that translated to worrying far too much as she dabbed at his knee.
“You have to stop jumping out of windows,” she said. “One of these days, there won't be something to catch you.”
He'd shrugged, careless and carefree as only youth who look no further than the next day can be. “I'll manage something,” he said. “I always do.”
She shook her head. “Talk some sense into the lad, will you?”
Charlie came in, Imogen right behind him. They'd always been an odd couple, he thought, Charlie tall and broad, Imogen barely up to his shoulders and thin. But they were close, he knew, though not in that way. He'd often speculated, bored out of his mind during certain heists, about which one of them was sleeping with the other and had come to the sad conclusion that either all of them were or none.
For his sanity, he hoped the latter.
“He'll survive,” Charlie said. “Just needs a shot of whiskey and he'll be fine.”
Imogen looked at Poppy. “Get a good night's sleep, too.”
Poppy pushed up her glasses, her eyes owlish behind them. “You certain?”
“Every growing boy needs his rest,” Owen said coming into the door. He had George trailing behind him, his pale blond hair gleaming in the lamplight like a halo. Of all of them, Flambeau thought, he was the most—well, it didn't matter. None of them saw him as any more than a kid, something foisted upon them by the one figure that had never taken off his mask, never celebrated after a success, kept his distance from the rest of them.
Just as well, Flambeau figured. It was awkward enough with the others. He accepted Charlie's flask, drank it and kept his expression from betraying his disgust at it. Charlie liked it strong and bitter.
“I've stopped growing,” Flambeau said. “Besides, I don't think whiskey makes you taller.”
“You'd be surprised,” Charlie said. “My brother and I drank it and we're giants now.” His smile flashed quickly across his face, something replacing it that was more complicated to read.
“Don't we have another job tomorrow night?” Flambeau asked. He stretched his fingers in anticipation. “Has Sunday still not given us the plan?”
Poppy and Imogen exchanged glances. At the time, he'd thought nothing of it, too giddy with the rush of near death and the buzz and burn of the whiskey, but later, he'd remember the expressions, train himself to recognize them in other people's faces.
It was the look of someone lying to you and regretting it. It would be one he'd seen a number of times.
“In the morning,” Owen said, patting Flambeau's shoulder. “For now, why don't you drink a little more and then knock off? If he gives us anything, we'll let you know.”
The night blurred after that. A few more pulls of whiskey, a drowsiness creeping in, the sense that there was something he should be asking and yet the words stopped in his mouth. There'd been hands helping him into bed, tucking blankets around him, a voice distantly whispering that it was sorry, but he couldn't be here for it, not right for a kid, he'd understand one day---
Maybe he understood. It didn't mean he ever forgave them for it.
The pounding in his head this time was more intense, the difference between what happens when your colleagues carefully drug you and when someone hits you on the head with little regard for the consequences. Likely a concussion, he thought, in addition to the broken ribs.
He was still handcuffed, propped upright in a chair and tied to it around his waist and ankles. His head lolled for a few minutes as the room spun until he was able to get it into focus. Not that there was much to look at. He'd clearly been placed in one of the burnt, destroyed rooms, judging from the black marks on the wall, the smell of dust and ash still strong. The windows were cracked, wood splintered here, a cold wind blowing through and it was night.
Flambeau sighed. He couldn't just wait here until Francis came back and decided that there must be some way to get blood from a stone. He could tell him that he knew nothing, that he'd been too young and cocky to pay attention to anything until it was knocking him out and leaving him behind, waking up to discover that he was all on his own once again.
Everything leaves, he thought. Everyone just walks away. Except for one bloody priest that hopefully will have gone far away, kept safe by people who knew what they owed him and that he always collected on debts.
It would be one thing to die here. He didn't want to particularly – he never did – but at least he could find some peace in it coming full circle, a beginning and an end given by the same blood. But if Father Brown had been hurt, had been used against him...
Father Brown had believed that no one sin was too grave that it could not be understood and forgiven. Flambeau knew that there was one.
He eyed the one remaining picture on the wall, a half-burnt portrait of someone that looked vaguely familiar. It was hard to think, his head still throbbing, but if he had concentrated, if he thought about it long enough--
The laugh that came out of him surprised him as much as the revelation that swam over him. It couldn't be that simple, he thought. To have the answer be literally staring him in the face, to have been in front of Francis all along--
“Really?” Flambeau said. “No great mystery, no intricate scheme to be unraveled, just... this?”
And the worst of it all was that Francis wouldn't believe a word of it. Not from him. Lucian would have poisoned the well enough that any words he said would sound like a lie. Perhaps Francis wanted the truth, but it wouldn't serve Lucian's purposes, not if he wanted Flambeau to be taken apart, left as alone as he was.
His head had been beating as loud as his heart for some time now, so it took a moment for him to realize that it wasn't the pain of a concussion, but an actual noise coming from outside the room.
It could have been Lucian coming in to gloat or Francis coming in to ask questions that he didn't really want answers to, but Flambeau had a sinking suspicion that he knew exactly who it was.
“Are you insane?” he hissed as the door opened and Father Brown slipped in. “How did you—who on earth let you?”
“You might have told me, Hercule,” Father Brown said softly, closing the door with a click. “I would have at least been prepared to be shuffled off by some rather irate friends of yours who weren't particularly pleased about your use of the Bible.”
His hands were gentle on Flambeau's face, carefully wiping away some blood and checking the back of his head. Flambeau bit back a curse when he found a rather sore spot. “It got the point across, didn't it?”
“Oh, it did,” Father Brown said. His hands brushed against Flambeau's wrists, fingering the cuffs and causing Flambeau to shudder. Just the touch of the man was too much for him sometimes, the way he treated Flambeau as if he was a relic as important as the Holy Grail. “I don't know whether I should be grateful that you're familiar with the words or angry that you choose to follow them in this manner.” His hands moved down to Flambeau's waist, untying the knots there before he crouched to do the same at his ankles.
“I would give up my life for you, you know” Flambeau said quietly. “If it came down to it. I don't see anything wrong with that.”
“I do, Hercule,” Father Brown said, muffled at first before he stood up. His face was grave, solemn. “Your soul and your life are meant to be cherished, not cast aside in pursuit of--”
It was too easy to rise up quickly, ignore the vertigo, and kiss him on his lips. Nothing hard or fierce, just a soft touch to steady himself, keep the world from spinning away from him.
“Father,” he said when he broke away. “You can't stop me.”
There was a sigh that turned into a chuckle, Father Brown shaking his head, before he kissed Flambeau gently back. A benediction laid upon him, a blessing he did not deserve and yet Father Brown persisted in giving it to him. And like a good thief, he took it. “I suppose not.”
He took Flambeau's shoulder, led him to the window. “For the record,” he said, “I'd rather you not risk yourself this way. But your colleagues assure me that a single story is manageable even in your condition and at your age.”
Flambeau spluttered. “What—they--”
“Please jump, Hercule,” Father Brown said politely. “I'd rather not have to push you.”
Irritatingly, he was right. There was a bit of tricky angling to aim for the bushes, but he made it there, safe and clear, only the slightest rustling to give away his position.
Hands picked him up before helping up Father Brown, who'd managed to land quite neatly as well. “Father, have you considered coming over to my side?” Flambeau asked. He knew the answer, but there was pleasure to be had in asking it, seeing the way Father Brown twitched or shook his head. “I rather think you'd be good at it.”
“I'll save that for you,” Father Brown said. “Though I do appreciate you using your talents in a far more constructive manner.”
“Yes, about that,” Owen said, dressed all in black, though he'd taken off the priest's collar he'd worn. “Heard you got him doing jobs for the Vatican. I thought your lot was against that sort of thing.”
“We tend to be,” Father Brown said. He watched as Imogen, her fingers nimble, picked at the lock, opening it easily. Flambeau rubbed at his wrists before Father Brown took them carefully, touching the broken skin. “But I find that one works more miracles by recognizing human nature than denying it.”
“I see,” Poppy said. She was standing up straight, the previous cane clearly a feint, leaning against George. His hair was white now, but it still gleamed in the moonlight. “I'd rather wondered why you were so quick to jump on board with our plan to break Flambeau out.”
Her eyes went to Imogen's, who smiled back at her. “I told you,” Imogen said. “He wouldn't just do this for anyone.”
“No,” Flambeau said. “I wouldn't.” It was cold outside, but he wasn't shaking, not with the anger building up inside him. Now that he was out and they were walking down the road, where no doubt they had a car concealed in the bushes, he knew that he should be keeping cool, steady, waiting to talk to them. It was the smart thing to do, the rational thing.
“Which one of you killed him?” he asked. “And was it an accident?”
It was quiet. Father Brown's hand slipped into his, both guide and support, and as much as Flambeau wanted to deny that he needed it, it was a comfort.
“None of us killed Robert,” Owen said. “Oh, we might have wanted to, given how he'd been using us all to play around and rob his rich little friends, but we didn't.”
“Not Robert,” Flambeau said. “Charlie.”
“Hercule--”
“No, Poppy,” Imogen said, holding up her hand. “It's all right.” She gazed at him. “You always were a smart boy,” she said.
“You're leaving?” Robert said. “Just like that?” They'd left Owen and Poppy outside to keep watch and signal for a getaway. George was waiting in the car, ready to drive them away as fast as possible should things go wrong.
“Yes,” Imogen said. “You must know that we can't keep doing this. As exciting as it's been, it has to end. Too many risks, too many ways of getting hurt.” She rubbed her head. “When you asked me to join, I thought we were just going to have some fun, not keep almost getting killed over this.”
“Nothing happened,” Robert said. Without his mask and robes, he seemed less imposing, more a petulant rich man playing at being a thief than any underworld figure of terror. “Don't start losing your nerve over this.”
“We could have died,” Charlie said calmly. “If not Poppy three months ago, then Owen one month or Hercule just the other--”
“Hercule,” Robert laughed. “He doesn't care.” He looked around. “I notice you didn't bother to bring him. Probably because he'd laugh at all of this. Maybe I have made a mistake. Not in taking this too far, but in selecting people who are too old and weak to take a risk.“
“You don't take any risks,” Imogen snapped. “We do. You let us run from dogs, slash our hands open on broken glass, nearly get shot while you sit back and reap the benefits of it all. You're not a mastermind, you're just a coward.”
“Careful,” Robert said, his hand reaching into his pocket. “You don't want to go down that road.”
“Maybe I do,” Charlie said. “Just because you're my brother doesn't mean I'll always obey you.” He took a step forward, locking eyes with his brother. Two giants, neither willing to back down.
Robert's hand shook, fumbling around before he pulled out a pistol, aiming it shakily at Charlie.
“Don't,” Imogen said. “Just calm down, Robert. We can talk about this.”
“We don't need to talk,” Robert said. “You just need to do what I say until I'm done.”
“No,” Charlie said. He took another step, ignoring the gun.
“Charlie, wait--”
It took some time for the ringing to stop, the sound of the gun deafening to her ears. Maybe the ringing would always be there with her, a bell tolling out the last moments of Charlie's life in her dreams.
When she could finally hear, Robert was sobbing over and over, holding his brother's body to him. “I didn't mean to--,” he choked out. “I didn't—oh, God--”
“Robert,” she said.
He looked up. “I don't know what to do.”
Finally, he was willing to listen.
“You didn't go to the police,” Flambeau said. He stood by the cars. There was a second one there; a decoy to lead astray in case they were chased, but now a way for him to finally cut ties with his past. He held out his hands for the keys. “Not that I would have expected you to.”
“What would we have even said?” Imogen said. “How could we have explained what happened? It was easier to just trade one life for another, let Charlie die and Robert atone for what he'd done.”
Flambeau looked at Father Brown. There was no judgment there – he wouldn't have expected it – just that infinitely weary, sorrowful look he wore when the burdens of men became too much to bear. “Is he dead?” Flambeau asked.
“During the War,” Poppy said. “He volunteered to be a medic. He died out on the fields.”
“So Francis's father is dead for real,” Flambeau said.
“Are you going to tell him?” George asked, his hand gently laying the keys in Flambeau's palm.
Father Brown's hand was warm against Flambeau's back, keeping him from stumbling, falling back. “Yes,” Flambeau said. “But not until you're safe enough away.” He didn't feel the smile he wore, but he needed to wear it so he wouldn't break. “I'll let him decide what he wants to do.”
“If he comes after you--”
“He won't,” Father Brown said quietly. “He doesn't want revenge, just the truth.”
“Lucian, on the other hand,” Flambeau said. “I will have to do something about him.”
“No, Hercule.” Father Brown's voice so low and soft, spoke it as a commandment into Flambeau's ear. “You do not.”
He wanted to argue it, to turn around and snarl at the priest, tell him that he had no right to tell Flambeau what he could do, but if anyone could tell him, it was this man, who'd pulled off a greater heist than Flambeau ever could. He asked for a thief's heart and soul and the thief, who held onto his treasures as tight as he could, gave it to him, expecting nothing in return. And yet what he was given...
“Then when Lucian comes--”
“I'll be there,” Father Brown said.
Flambeau hadn't meant to stare into his eyes, but Owen's quiet cough made him aware he was doing just that.
“I am sorry, Hercule,” Imogen said. “For all of this.”
He nodded, saying nothing. That was the most he could give them and they took it for what it was. It could not be forgiveness, but it could be a mutual recognition of old wounds that would never be healed.
They got into the other car and he watched them leave in the night, a past he'd never thought to seek out again leaving him once more, though it was his choice this time. He stretched, winced at the sore muscles and the lingering pain in his head.
“I'll have to see a doctor,” Flambeau said. “That's irritating.”
Father Brown smiled at him, something warm and far too reassuring. “Then I'll drive you,” he said. “In your state, Hercule, you should not be behind the wheel.”
Flambeau narrowed his eyes. “I'm perfectly capable of--”
Father Brown kissed him, far too careful for Flambeau's taste, and neatly stole the keys out of his hand.