Reddi grimaced, showing uncharacteristic emotion. “It’s bad, my lord,” he said more softly. “Politics is involved.”

Then Suit might be involved as well. “Tell me more.”

“It, well, it’s connected to the governor, my lord. His brother, you see, was hosting an auction last night. And, well, you should see for yourself…”

Marasi didn’t miss Waxillium grabbing Wayne by the shoulder and pointing toward a waiting constabulary carriage. He didn’t come for her. How long would it be before that damnable man was willing to accept her as, if not an equal, a colleague?

Frustrated, she made toward the carriage. Unfortunately, she ran into Captain Reddi on the way. He spoke, and she had to strain her ringing ears—and guess a little—to figure out what he was saying.

“Constable Colms. You are out of uniform.”

“Yes, sir,” she said. “It is my day off, sir.”

“Yet here you are,” he said, hands clasped behind his back. “How is it that you find your way, consistently, into situations like this, despite explicitly being told that it is not your assignment, as you are not a field constable?”

“Pure happenstance I’m sure, sir,” Marasi said.

He gave her a sneer at that. Funny. He usually saved those for Waxillium, when the man wasn’t looking. He said something she couldn’t make out, then nodded toward the motorcar she’d brought—which was technically constabulary property; she’d been told to become proficient in driving motorcars and report on their effectiveness to the constable-general. He wanted to test them as replacements for horse-drawn carriages.

“Sir?” she said.

“You’ve obviously been through a great deal this day, constable,” Reddi said, more loudly. “Don’t argue with me on this. Head home, clean up, and report for duty tomorrow.”

“Sir,” Marasi said. “I’d like to brief Captain Aradel on my pursuit of the Marksman, and his subsequent demise, before the details become fuzzy. He will be interested, as he’s followed this case personally.”

She stared Reddi in the eyes. He outranked her, yes, but he wasn’t her boss. Aradel was that to both of them.

“The constable-general,” Reddi said with some obvious reluctance, “is away from the offices at the moment.”

“Well then, I’ll report to him and let him dismiss me, sir,” Marasi said. “If that is his wish.”

Reddi ground his teeth and started to say something, but a call from one of the other constables diverted him. He waved toward the motorcar, and Marasi took it as dismissal to do as she’d said. So, when the carriage with Waxillium pulled away, she followed in the motor.

By the time the trip had ended, at a fashionable mansion overlooking the city’s Hub, she had started to recover. She was still feeling shaken, though she hoped she didn’t show it, and she could hear with her left ear, if not on the other side, where she’d fired the gun.

As she climbed out of the motorcar, she found herself wiping her cheek again with her handkerchief, though she had long since cleaned off the blood. Her dress had been thoroughly ruined. She grabbed her constable’s coat from the back of the motorcar and threw it over the top to hide the stains, then rushed over to join Waxillium and the others as they descended from the carriage.