The Society of the Eleventh Hour

Compromises

My mother went home at five in the morning, after howling very creative and pointed curses at Morgan and Nightingale. She did not return when visiting hours opened at nine in the morning, so I could only assume that she went home to sleep.

Morgan left right after the visiting hours opened, as she could no longer fend off my visitors, saying that she had to go to work for at least a few hours to check in on her "boys." (The other Nightguards, I presume. I'd never thought of her as a leader, or even a team player— it's terribly endearing, to think that she has at least a handful of newer guards to take care of.)

This means that my first visitor is not someone I expect, at all: Detective Petra. She's got dark circles under her eyes, and her clothes are in worse shape than normal... which is really saying something.

"DETECTIVE!" I shout, at the sight of her, sitting up in bed and nearly tumbling out of it, stopping only to clutch my now-stinging chest. "I SOLVED IT! I—"

My hands are slick with blood, and I let out a startled gasp at the sight of it. I really have torn my stitches; Morgan wasn't overreacting. Damn it.

Petra has to step out into the hallway and call for a nurse, and I can only wait impatiently for her to return.

"It's William goddamn Beaufort! Petra, for the love of the Gods, PLEASE tell me you've still got him in custody!"

She's staring, blankly, and a strange expression of pity crosses her face. I wait for her to respond— she doesn't, just hesitates and sets down a vase of... Gardenias, or something.

"Lucia, are you certain? I understand that you're angry with him, but..." She frowns, like she's disappointed in me.

"YES, I'm sure! He confessed to the crime TO MY FACE and tried to threaten me to shut me up!"

Petra looks out the window, face even more troubled than before.

"That may be true, but the killer struck again last night. Our best forensics experts estimate the time of death to have been very late into the night... when William Beaufort was already in jail."

There's a tense moment of silence, as I wait patiently for Petra to continue— to give me anything, even a shred of hope. I'm trembling, slightly, for reasons I can't quite explain.

"Get out," I manage to hiss under my breath, so quiet I am not sure the detective hears me.

"Lucy, please—"

"I SAID GET THE FUCK OUT!" I shout at the top of my lungs, coming a bit undone at the edges, before taking hold of the vase of gardenias and hurling them across the room. The vase shatters into a thousand pieces, and Petra flinches. I'm bleeding more profusely, now, my breath coming in shuddering gasps.

Petra takes her hat off, like she's at a funeral, and leaves with it clasped in her hands. I hate her so much that at the moment it is all-consuming, and at the same time I want to beg her to come back. I USED TO BE ABLE TO RELY ON YOU, TO TRUST YOU, I want to scream at her retreating form.

I don't. I just let myself remember all over again how it felt to be shut out of the agency, abandoned a second time by another mother, denied my purpose yet again. Maybe, if I'd still been respected as a detective by the real agency... I could've gotten this right.

Maybe. What does it matter now? Detective Petra has done such an EXCELLENT job "protecting" me from this case... that the best thing I could do for it right now is bleed out and ensure that William is hanged.