Chapter 239: Chapter Two Hundred And Thirty Nine
Delia looked at Eric, who was still trembling from the aftershocks of his terror. His strange words echoed in the sudden, ringing silence that followed the crash. Lose you again? Just like the last time? She saw the raw, unguarded panic in his eyes, a look she had never seen before.
"Eric," she said again, her voice soft, "What do you mean by that?"
He stuttered, his mind clearly scrambling to cover the slip. "Oh, well... well," he began, avoiding her gaze. "I just... the crash. Seeing that wagon... it was just like the stories. The stories about your mother’s accident. For a moment, I thought..." He shook his head, running a trembling hand through his hair. "It was just the shock. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by it."
Before Delia could press him further, the sound of more horses and another heavy carriage arriving cut through the air. Constable Davies and his team had arrived, their prisoner carriage pulling up just behind the wreckage.
Augusta’s world swam back into focus with a throbbing, searing pain in her head. She was slumped against the unconscious Fredrick, the inside of the wagon a mess of splintered wood. She looked out through a crack in the wagon’s side and saw the official carriage of the Criminal and Justice Division. The trap had closed.
A primal instinct for survival took over. She pushed the heavy, limp body of Fredrick off her. " Get off me, you bumbly fool."she hissed at him. Fredrick fell to the other side of the wagon then she scrambled towards the back of the wagon. A sharp piece of broken wood from the wagon’s frame tore a long, deep gash in her dress, injuring her leg, but she barely felt the pain. She tumbled out of the back of the wagon, landing hard on the damp, grassy verge.
Blood was trickling down her head from the impact her head made with the wagon. She shook her head, trying to clear the dizzying fog. Her vision was blurred, but she could see the dark uniforms of the constables.
"Over there!" one of the team shouted, pointing directly at her.
Augusta heard the shout and, with a desperate sob, began to crawl, her fine, manicured hands digging into the mud as she tried to get away, to drag her injured body into the cover of the nearby trees. " I need to escape. I need to escape. They must not catch me again." She said.
"Stop right there, Baroness!" a voice commanded.
She looked back and saw them running towards her. It was over. Two of them reached her, their grips firm but not unnecessarily rough as they held her.
"Let me go!" she shouted, still struggling weakly, a cornered animal to the very end. "You have no right!"
While this was happening, some of the other constables carried the unconscious Fredrick out of the wagon and laid him on the ground.
Just then, Prescott came running out from the monastery, his face pale, drawn by the commotion. "What happened?" he said, his eyes taking in the chaotic scene: the two wrecked carriages, Eric and Delia by the side of the road, and the constables holding a struggling, bloodied Augusta.
Delia looked at him, and her own eyes widened in concern. Blood was trickling down from a cut on his forehead and from his nose. His fine coat was torn at the shoulder.
"What happened to you?" she asked, rushing over to him.
He dabbed at his nose with the back of his hand, a grim expression on his face. "I got into a brawl," he replied, his breathing still a little ragged. "With some men Augusta had kept inside to guard the place. It seems she was expecting trouble." He then looked at Delia, his concern overriding his own injuries. "Are you alright, Your Grace? I heard the crash."
Delia nodded. "I’m fine. Eric protected me." Her attention snapped back to their mission. "What about the imitator? The workshop? Did you find anything inside?"
A small, grim smile touched Prescott’s lips. "Yes," he said, a note of triumph in his voice. "There’s a full workshop inside. Looms, dyes, bolts of fabric everywhere. You were right about everything."
Delia let out a short, harsh chuckle, a sound of pure, grim satisfaction. She turned to look at the struggling Augusta, who was still screaming at the constables. "Let me go! Unhand me, you brutes!" she cried, despite the obvious pain from her head and leg injuries.
Prescott called out to the head constable. "Constable Davies! I require your assistance inside the monastery!"
Davies nodded and entered the old stone building with some of his team. After some moments, they came back out, and they were not alone. They brought with them three of Augusta’s guards, their faces bruised and their hands bound—the men from Prescott’s brawl. They also carried several large, magnificent bolts of the Adair Reed fabric, the beautiful, forged textiles gleaming in the daylight. And finally, they brought out the impersonator.
He was a man in his late fifties, looking frail and underfed. His fine, artistic hands were stained with dye, and he seemed intoxicated, his movements unsteady, his eyes clouded.
"Let me go," he slurred, struggling weakly in the grasp of the two large constables holding him. "You common curs. You would never be allowed near someone like me."
He stopped struggling when he looked up and saw Prescott standing there, watching him.
The man’s bleary, arrogant eyes widened slightly in recognition. Prescott’s own eyes watered, his composure completely shattering. A look of profound, old pain crossed his face.
"You..." Prescott said, his voice a choked, disbelieving whisper.
The frail man pulled himself up straighter, a flicker of his old, arrogant genius returning to his eyes. "You recognize me," he said, his voice a hoarse rasp. "Yes, you should. You all should." He looked around at the assembled faces, a mad, proud gleam in his eyes.
"I am the great Adair Reed."