Chapter Text
One day after the Lord of Crime fell from the Tower Bridge, word swept through London that Albert James Moriarty had been arrested for crimes against the British Empire.
The full truth, however, was that he turned himself in.
—
The whispers followed Albert like a shadow.
He felt vaguely like an exotic animal as he was marched through Scotland Yard Headquarters, a foreign, dangerous creature to be gawped at from a safe distance. Though, in fairness, he could hardly blame the poor officers for staring. Noblemen seldom appeared on the police’s doorstep, let alone a nobleman whose brother had recently murdered half of London's aristocracy. Not to mention the fact that he was still covered in ash.
Paterson, to his credit, didn’t question his decision to surrender himself in William’s stead. The Chief Inspector only nodded once, his eyes betraying the faintest glimmer of regret, then signaled for a pair of pale-faced junior officers to take Albert away. A dutiful collaborator until the end, it seemed.
The officers walked him down to the Yard’s windowless holding cells in silence, though they shot fleeting, curious glances in his direction when they thought he wasn’t looking. On a different day, Albert would have charmed or cajoled them into speaking their minds, but for once he found that he was grateful for the quiet. Neither man said a word until they had locked him safely in his cell. It was only when they hurried back toward the door that he overheard pieces of their whispered conversation:
…sure I’ve seen his face somewhere before…
Don’t you read the papers? That's Lord Moriarty.
The Earl? Why on earth is someone like that being arrested?
Are you really that thick? His brother was the ‘Lord of Crime’…
Was. The word struck Albert like a blow to the ribs. He didn’t hear anything else after that.
William was dead. He sank heavily onto the hard stone bench in the corner of his cell and put his head in his hands. It shouldn’t be true, couldn’t be. But then, countless witnesses had watched his brother’s body plunge into the Thames from a height that would be near impossible to survive…
Enough. He tugged at his hair until the pain pulled him from his spiralling thoughts and busied himself with counting the bricks in the wall instead. It was a distraction, a patchwork solution at best, but at least by the time he had finished, his ribs no longer felt like they were about to collapse. Albert had always been proficient at neatly folding his emotions away; it was the main reason he had survived for as long as he had without losing his mind.
He had moved on to painstakingly arranging the gravel covering the floor into rows when a different man rattled the bars of his cell. This visitor wore military dress, his red coat emblazoned with the same coat of arms that Albert himself had worn a lifetime ago.
“Evening, your Lordship,” the man sneered, spinning a key idly around his index finger. “You look like you’ve seen better days.”
Albert straightened, plastering some approximation of a smile onto his face even as his stomach roiled. A visit from a member of Her Majesty’s armed forces could mean any number of things, none of them particularly pleasant.
“Hello,” he said, wincing inwardly at the way his voice creaked. A sorry consequence of smoke inhalation and lack of use. “My apologies, I wasn’t expecting a visitor. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
The soldier’s lip curled, all pretense of civility vanishing. “Always ready with a pretty word, aren’t you?” He kicked a shallow washbasin beneath the door. “Better clean yourself up. The Director’s asking for you.”
The Director. Albert watched water spill over the side of the basin onto his carefully arranged lines of stones and felt suddenly cold with dread. Of course Mycroft would already know where he was, what he’d done, and perhaps even why he’d done it. What didn’t make sense, however, was what he could possibly want with him now.
When he had scrubbed most of the soot from his skin, a second, shorter soldier clamped a set of iron manacles on his wrists and he was bundled into an unmarked carriage without another word of explanation. Not that Albert had expected one; Mycroft was nothing if not enigmatic. Unfortunately, his companions seemed to be just as much in the dark as he was. Even more unfortunately, they seemingly had no intention of leaving him alone with his thoughts.
“So tell us, Lord Moriarty,” said the taller of the two men as they walked through the Intelligence Bureau, his eyes glittering with malice. “Why on earth is the Director requesting an audience with a useless dandy like you?” He gave Albert’s chains a vicious yank when he remained silent. “It won’t be military business, seeing as you were too soft for the army.”
Albert gritted his teeth, but kept his gaze fixed forward. He had been soft, once, it was true, but that boy had died years ago.
“Maybe Lord ‘olmes wants revenge,” suggested the other soldier, leaning in close enough for Albert to feel hot breath on his ear. “Seeing as the Lord of Crime killed ‘is younger brother in cold blood.”
“Or maybe there’s something else he wants.” The first soldier leered suggestively in a way that made Albert’s skin crawl. “I’ve heard stories about you, you know…”
It took every iota of his ever-dwindling self control not to scream. Thankfully, at that moment they arrived outside Mycroft’s office. “I suppose we’ll all find out together,” Albert said blandly, inclining his head toward the door. “Shall we?”
Mycroft’s office was exactly as he remembered it, with one notable exception: the intricately crafted model warship that had once been displayed on the bookshelf was gone, leaving behind a gap like a missing tooth. Albert stared at the empty space, his chest growing strangely tight. He didn’t realize that he had stopped walking until the shorter soldier gave his chains an impatient tug.
“We brought you Lord Moriarty, Director,” he said, shoving Albert forward to punctuate the statement. Albert did his best not to wince as the man’s fingers dug into the flesh of his upper arm. “Just like you asked.”
Mycroft barely glanced up from his desk, his eyes skating over Albert as though he were nothing more than a piece of furniture. “I can see that,” he replied coolly. “Though I do not recall requesting that he be brought to me in chains.”
The soldier’s smile faltered. “Ah, well, we…we supposed that ‘e might be dangerous, so…”
He trailed off as Mycroft capped his pen in a smooth, deliberate gesture. “Last time I checked, Lieutenant, deciding such a thing was my job, not yours.”
“Y-yes, sir.” Albert suppressed an absurd urge to laugh as both men shrank visibly beneath his gaze.
“Once you two remove those ridiculous shackles, you are dismissed.” Mycroft’s voice took on an ominous edge. “We shall discuss this lapse of judgement at a later date.”
Thankfully, the soldiers had the sense not to argue.
“Who are you?” mumbled the taller man, eyeing Albert warily as he unlocked his handcuffs. Albert only raised an eyebrow in response, imitating the cold, aristocratic stare his mother had favoured whenever she sought to cow the lower classes. If only you knew, he thought darkly. If only you knew.
“I'm sorry about that,” Mycroft said, once the soldiers had fled into the hallway. “I have found a few of our more junior officers to be somewhat...overzealous.”
“Don't be. I’ve endured worse.”
“Yes.” A pause. “I know.”
An uncomfortable silence stretched between them. Albert rubbed at his wrists, his mind overflowing with everything he wanted to say. But what could he say? An apology would seem disingenuous, and any further explanation was hardly necessary. After all, Mycroft already knew where his loyalties lay - he had made sure of that the last time they’d spoken.
Thankfully, Mycroft made the decision for him. “I was told that you turned yourself in to the Scotland Yard,” he said evenly, straightening a stack of paper on his desk. “Why?”
Albert dug his shoe into the carpet to distract from the way his stomach twisted. “There wasn’t an alternative, Chief. Not after what we did.”
“The Queen would disagree.”
The Queen? "I don't understand.”
“I met with Her Majesty last night, after everything…transpired.” Mycroft’s mouth briefly tightened on the word, as though it was bitter in his mouth. “During that meeting, I took the liberty of explaining the true motivations behind the Moriarty plan, as well as what it sought to achieve.”
Albert opened his mouth and then closed it, his mind reeling. That had never been part of Will’s plan.
“While she did not condone the Lord of Crime’s methods, Her Majesty acknowledged that it was her own failures as a ruler that pushed the responsibility of reforming society onto your family’s shoulders.” Something softened in Mycroft’s expression. “You and your brothers should never have had to assume such a tremendous burden.”
A strange, hollow ache started behind Albert’s breastbone. He thought of the emptiness in William’s eyes on that final night, the pain he'd been powerless to soothe. We swore to each other that we would do whatever it took to see our plan to completion, Will had said, his voice more broken than Albert had ever heard it. This is what must be done.
“It was a burden we took on willingly,” he said. The words felt empty now, like he was reciting them from a script.
“Ulterior motives notwithstanding, your years of service to this country have not gone unnoticed. In fact, I would go so far as to say that you have saved just as many lives as you have taken.”
“That doesn’t change the fact that we took them in the first place.”
“Of course not. We all must reap what we sow. However, in light of your prior actions, Her Majesty wishes to propose another way to for you to atone for your crimes.” Mycroft folded his hands on his desk. “Rejoin MI6 and devote your remaining days in service to the British Empire.”
It was a far kinder future than anything he deserved, and both of them knew it. “Please do consider it,” the other man added after a moment. “It would be a shame for your talents to go to waste.”
The words nearly unravelled him right then and there. Don’t you understand? Albert wanted to scream. I don’t have any talents. Not without him.
He clenched his hands into fists to stop them from shaking. The motion sent a bright flash of pain through his thumb, and he remembered the shard of glass that was still embedded there, just beneath his skin. It had come from the photograph of his brothers that he’d broken by mistake, in the moments before he’d burned their home to the ground. The glass had cracked right over where William’s heart would have been. Another precious thing ruined forever.
It’s your fault, whispered a voice in the back of his mind. If you hadn’t led Will on this path, he might have found a way to change this world without destroying himself in the process. But now, because of you, he is gone. He is gone, and you are still here.
There was only one choice that would allow him to live with that.
“Thank you for the most generous offer,” he said, bowing his head. “But I’m afraid that I must decline.”
Mycroft blinked, his dark brows pulling together. “You…decline? I don’t understand—”
“Even if I were to serve Britain to the end of my days, the blame for our crimes would still lie with my dear brother. And I cannot accept that.” Albert lifted his chin even as his voice faltered. “Not when over a decade’s worth of atrocious acts began with a request I made.”
Long-suppressed memories of that night stirred in the back of his mind, and this time he forced himself to remember: dried blood on his palms, the acrid smell of tapestries burning, his brother - the first William - curled on the floor beside his mother, their bodies like a pair of discarded toys. His original sin, the request that had damned them all. Show me the perfect future you envision. Rid the world of my family, of corruption. In return, I’ll give you everything: my wealth, my status, my life.
Will had kept his side of their bargain. Now it was his turn to do the same.
“As the eldest and head of the Moriarty family, the responsibility for our actions lies with me,” he said, straightening his shoulders with a confidence he didn’t quite feel. “Therefore, I will take on our punishment with the entirety of my being.”
“You would choose imprisonment over the chance to change our country for the better?” Mycroft’s frown deepened. “Wasn’t that your dream from the start?”
"Only after Will showed me that such a future might be possible.” In fact, Albert had very nearly had no future at all. He rarely thought of his life before his brothers, that endless stretch of hollow, hopeless days, but in that moment, he could almost feel the cold steel of his father's gun against his temple.
“He saved me in more ways than I can count,” he said, pushing the memory down. “This is all that I can do for him now.”
Mycroft searched his face, his eyes dark with a nameless emotion, and for a terrible moment Albert thought he might deny his request or, worse, have him taken away for his thanklessness. But the other man only sighed and leaned back in his chair.
“All right,” he said softly, running a hand across his eyes. “Sit down, then.”
Albert hesitated, then silently did as he was told.
To his surprise, Mycroft produced a bottle of brandy from somewhere in his desk and wordlessly slid a glass toward him. Albert stared numbly at the amber liquid. Hours ago, he would have done anything for a taste of oblivion, but at that moment, the thought of drinking turned his stomach.
“What's the matter?” Mycroft asked when he didn’t reach for his glass. “Not to your taste?”
“No. It’s just…I didn’t…”
“You didn’t expect me to give in so easily.” Mycroft swallowed his own brandy with a grimace. “Don't look so surprised. You aren't the only one that lost a brother.”
Albert looked away, his stomach knotting with guilt. “I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “We never intended for Sherlock to be involved.” In truth, no one had guessed that the detective would follow William to the grave, least of all William himself. In fact, his brother had always emphasized the importance of Sherlock’s survival. I shall entrust this new world to him, he had said on the night he revealed his true plan, and to you.
Alas, it seemed even Will’s foresight had its limits.
“I know.” Mycroft tapped a fingertip against the side of his glass. “There was no stopping him, I’m afraid. He had designs on William from the start.”
“I didn't realize.”
“Neither did I, until it was too late. Once Sherlock sets his mind to doing something, it’s impossible to talk him out of it.” Mycroft looked away, a muscle tightening in his jaw. Tap. Tap. Tap. “Though perhaps I should have tried.”
For a moment, he looked so distraught that Albert almost reached for him. “You cannot think like that,” he said, clutching his glass instead. “It will eat away at your heart until there is nothing left.”
Mycroft’s hand stilled, the percussive beat giving way to silence. “There’s no need to concern yourself with the state of my heart,” he said stiffly. “If my brother was here, he would remind us both that I never had one to begin with.”
He opened his mouth as though he meant to say something more, then stood and walked to the corner of the room. Albert watched him go, the ache in his chest growing more insistent. Beneath the other man’s usual veneer of detached calm was something raw and aching, a despair that was twin to his own. It should have hurt to look at and yet he found that he could not tear his eyes away, that he wanted to reach out and smooth the sorrow from Mycroft’s brow instead.
Don’t be a fool, warned his rational mind, but he followed Mycroft to the window anyway. “I know that isn’t true.”
Mycroft’s knuckles were white where he gripped the windowsill. “No,” he agreed. “Though in moments like these, I so dearly wish that it was.”
His voice broke, and Albert felt something inside him fracture, too. “I’m sorry,” he said again, the words raking at his throat. They weren’t anything close to enough. “For your loss. For the role that I played in it.”
His breath caught as Mycroft turned to face him at last. “As am I,” he said, whisper-soft, and Albert had to remind himself to breathe. He had prepared himself to be met with hatred, but Mycroft’s eyes were shadowed with a different emotion, one that looked dangerously like longing.
An unfamiliar warmth unfurled in the pit of his stomach, twining around his sorrow like ivy. He had felt fleeting snatches of attraction toward the other man before, but never anything like this. This was something more, something precipitous and terrifying. It’s the grief, he told himself, tearing his eyes away from the sharp lines of Mycroft’s face to look at the bookshelves instead.
“Don’t be.” His gaze caught on a familiar title, a line of prose materializing on his tongue of its own accord. “‘Will you never understand that I am incorrigible?’”
“Dickens,” Mycroft guessed, correctly.
Albert nodded. He’d read A Tale of Two Cities more times than he could count, until his beloved, threadbare copy had all but fallen apart. Will had given the book to him years ago. He clenched his teeth as a memory of his brother’s smiling face slipped between his ribs like a knife in the dark. I thought you might like this, he had said, pressing the cloth-bound tome into Albert’s hands. The hero reminded me of you.
But if that were true, it should be his body, not Will’s, at the bottom of the Thames. He pushed the thought away before the grief that lurked in the shadows of his mind could swallow him whole.
“‘There is prodigious strength in sorrow and despair,’” Mycroft said gently. Albert hadn’t noticed that he had moved to stand beside him until he spoke. “Still. You shouldn’t have to bear this burden alone.”
They were a mere handbreadth apart now, close enough for Albert to see the shadows that ringed the other man’s eyes like bruises, the flutter of his pulse at the base of his throat. His traitor heart flipped in his chest.
“Don’t,” he repeated, half to himself. It was all wrong. He didn’t deserve sympathy. He didn’t deserve anything. “Don’t you see? All of this was my fault. You do not know half of the things that I’ve done, the lives that I’ve—”
“Albert.” Mycroft said his name like it was made of glass, and the rest of his sentence died on his lips. He shook his head. “I know enough.”
Albert bit the inside of his lip hard enough to taste blood. He felt dizzy, almost drunk, though he hadn’t touched a drop of brandy. Perhaps this tragedy has driven both of us mad, he thought as they stared at each other. There was no other explanation for why he suddenly ached to close the distance between them, why his heart pounded against his ribs like a battering ram, why Mycroft’s gaze had drifted, inexplicably, from his eyes to his mouth.
“You…” Mycroft’s voice was rough when he spoke again. He leaned forward and Albert felt a thrill run down his spine. “You’ve still got some ash on your face.”
Oh. Idiot. Albert swiped blindly at his cheek as warmth rose up the sides of his neck. “From the fire. I must have missed—”
“Not there.” In the half-light of the office, Mycroft’s eyes looked almost black. “Lower, by the side of your—”
“Show me.” He hadn’t meant to say the words aloud, but they left his mouth before he could stop them. Mycroft went very still, only the faint rise and fall of his chest betraying that he was alive at all. Then, impossibly, he reached out and touched the side of Albert’s jaw.
Time seemed to stop, and for a second Albert almost forgot his guilt, his sadness. Everything fell away except for the coolness of Mycroft’s fingertips on his skin, the tiny, pained crease that had appeared between his brows, the question in his eyes. It would have been the easiest thing in the world to give in to his desire, to lean forward just a little more, consequence be damned. But the frantic rush of his heartbeat in his ears wasn’t quite loud enough to drown out the cruel little voice that coiled in the back of his mind like a snake. You destroy everything that you touch, it whispered. Will you ruin him too?
Something deep in his chest seemed to crack. He closed his eyes.
A second passed, and then another. At his silence, Mycroft released him, his hand falling away with the finality of an executioner’s blade. “Don’t worry,” he whispered, the words little more than a breath. “I will not ask you to stay.”
The clock chimed then, low and accusatory. When Albert opened his eyes again, Mycroft had moved to stand by the door as though nothing had happened. “It’s getting late,” he said in his usual voice, adjusting his collar with practiced indifference. “Are you ready to go?”
Albert felt like a sleepwalker pulled from a dream, lost and adrift and alone. It’s for the best, he told himself. Some lines simply could not be crossed.
“Yes,” he said, and followed Mycroft into the dark.
—
To his surprise, however, the unmarked carriage waiting for them outside the Intelligence Bureau did not set out for Scotland Yard Headquarters.
“Prisoners of the State are kept in the Tower of London,” Mycroft said, before he could ask.
“Right.” Albert leaned his cheek against the windowpane as the driver spurred the horses forward. “Of course.”
It was raining again, fat raindrops battering the glass like insistent fingertips. The wet cobblestones seemed to glow in the faint light cast by the streetlamps, casting a dreamlike haze over the city. Despite his best efforts to keep his mind empty, Albert couldn’t help but be reminded of Louis. His youngest brother had always loved driving through London at night, often choosing to sit outside with the carriage driver in order to better soak in the sights. The thought of leaving him alone ached like a bruise.
“You needn’t worry about telling anyone where I’ve gone,” he said hollowly, just to fill the silence. “By now, Louis will have learned what I’ve done, and I imagine the papers will be next.” He had left a note explaining his decision, though it hadn’t felt like nearly enough.
Mycroft was quiet, his posture carved from stone. Albert wasn’t even sure he was listening.
“It’s for the best,” he continued. Repeat it enough times, and perhaps he’d begin to believe it. “I only hope that Louis can find a purpose, something to give the rest of his life meaning. That he’ll be happy. Above anything else, that’s…” His voice wavered. “That’s what William would have wanted.”
The past tense would be the death of him. Albert took a deep breath and held it until his lungs burned, then let it go.
“I suspect he’ll be all right,” Mycroft said, once he’d collected himself.
“And what if he isn’t?”
“He will be.” Something in his tone made Albert look up. Their eyes met as the carriage was lit by the transient glow of a streetlight and Mycroft nodded, his gaze resolute. “I’ll make sure of it.”
More kindness he didn’t deserve. Albert bowed his head, half in thanks and half to hide the tears that pricked at his eyelids. But before he could reply, the carriage suddenly ground to a halt. A few seconds later, someone knocked at the door.
“Our time is up, it seems.” Mycroft leaned forward and pressed something into his palm. “Take this.”
It was a tiny iron key. Albert turned it over in his hands with a frown. “What does it—?”
He broke off as the door swung open, revealing a stern-faced guard. “Albert James Moriarty,” he said. “We’ve been waiting for you. Come along.”
He glanced back at Mycroft, but the other man’s expression was impassive once more. “Goodbye then,” Albert said, suddenly unsure where to look, what to do with his hands.
Thank you, he thought. I’m sorry.
Mycroft turned to look out the window, the dismissal clear. But when Albert moved toward the stairs, he heard the other man murmur something to himself, so quietly he thought he’d imagined it. It almost sounded like “Be well”.
Albert didn’t protest when the guard clapped another set of iron cuffs onto his wrists. Up close, he looked more boy than man - barely twenty, with a face that hadn't entirely lost the fullness of youth. Unlike the soldiers from earlier, this guard didn’t say a word as they climbed the stairs to Albert’s quarters, his gaze fixed pointedly forward. Once they had arrived in the room, however, his stony expression relaxed into something kinder.
“Sorry about these,” he said quietly, unlocking Albert’s manacles. “They’re standard procedure, I’m afraid. But you needn’t worry now, Lord Moriarty. I’ll make sure you're well looked after.”
“I don’t deserve any special treatment.”
“Nonsense. Director’s orders.” The guard gave him an enigmatic grin. “I was very pleased, you know, when he asked me to keep an eye out for you. Though really, it’s the least I can do, seeing as I’ve waited nearly a decade to repay the gift you gave me.”
What? Albert gaped at him, certain he had misheard. The guard’s face was vaguely familiar, but nothing he could easily place. “Have we met somewhere before?”
“Oh yes. Many years ago, though you probably don't remember me.” His smile faltered at the sound of voices in the hallway. “I should go, but ask for me if you need anything, all right? My name’s Benjamin.”
“Wait, I—” But Benjamin had already pulled the door closed behind him. Albert stared at it numbly, his outstretched hand falling limply to his side. A series of questions appeared in his mind, each of them more painful to consider than the next.
He turned around in a slow circle, taking in the room that would be his world for the foreseeable future. His quarters were small and spare, furnished only with a cot, a wooden dresser, and a desk and chair in the corner. Whoever had arranged the furniture had done so thoughtlessly; the desk was pushed against the wall at an odd angle, and the bed hadn’t quite been tucked into the corner of the room. Even the floorboards were crooked.
It’s all right, he told himself, even as the edges of his vision darkened and panic sent his heart careening against his ribs. He could move the dresser, straighten the bed, shift the desk. He could fix it, all of it, and this time, he wouldn’t fail. But the furniture refused to yield even when he pushed on it with all his strength. It was only after he had collapsed to his knees, gasping and sweating from the effort, that he noticed that it had all been bolted to the floor.
At that, something inside him seemed to collapse, the emotions he had swallowed for days bursting forth like water erupting through a broken dam. Albert was familiar with grief, with all the ways it ached, but nothing could have prepared him for this. Sorrow settled firmly on his chest and he crumpled beneath its weight, wrapping his arms around himself as if he could somehow stop everything from falling apart. But it was too late - he was here and William was dead and Louis was alone, the three of them torn apart forever. And all of it was his fault. His body shook with a fresh wave of sobs. Always, always my fault.
Time passed, ceaseless and indifferent. He watched numbly as the shadows in the room gradually lightened, tears pooling on the side of his nose and running down his chin in a seemingly endless stream. Perhaps if I stay here for long enough, he thought, I’ll sink into the floorboards and disappear, too.
He flinched as a brisk tapping noise at the window broke the silence. Strange; the sound wasn’t steady enough to be rain, and his quarters were too high up for anyone to reach. He did his best to ignore it, but the sound became progressively more insistent until he could bear it no longer. To his surprise, the source was a little white bird that had perched on the window ledge, its beak pressed to the glass. It hopped from one foot to the next as he approached the window, as if suggesting he get on with opening it. Despite himself, the faintest twinge of curiosity stirred in his chest.
But the shutters refused to yield beneath his grasp no matter how hard he rattled and pulled. The bird tapped on the window again as he sagged against the wall, his palms stinging from the effort of trying to pry it open.
“I know,” he said, putting his head in his hands. “I’m sorry. It’s locked, and I don’t have the key...”
The key.
Albert reached into his pocket to retrieve Mycroft’s bizarre parting gift. It couldn’t be. But sure enough, its teeth seemed to match the tiny hole at the base of the shutters perfectly. He stared at it for a moment, unsure whether he wanted to laugh or cry.
When he had finally pushed the window open, the bird hopped obligingly onto the windowsill with a slightly reproachful coo. Took you long enough, it seemed to say, its dark eyes glittering like beads.
“Sorry about that,” he said, extending a hand toward it. “Truce?”
The bird fluttered its wings pointedly in response, its feathers shimmering in the sunlight. It was only then that he noticed the cylindrical tube nestled against its back. A message roll. Albert’s heart climbed into his throat. Though he could think of a few people who might write to him, only one of them actually knew where he was. He retrieved the message roll with trembling hands and carefully pried off the cap. Within was a tightly bound roll of pages, as well as a note in a familiar, impatient scrawl.
I thought it fitting that Charlie be the one to deliver the works of his namesake. Mycroft had written. Hopefully this helps to pass the time. More to come.
“Charlie? I gather that’s you,” Albert said to the bird as he unrolled the rest of the message. “But what on earth could he have meant by…oh.”
He rubbed at his swollen eyes, certain that they were betraying him somehow, but the paper in his hands didn’t vanish. Impossibly, Mycroft had sent him the first ten chapters of A Tale of Two Cities, the pages carefully pried from their bindings. Had he somehow guessed what the story meant to him? Albert thought of the words they’d exchanged in the darkness and felt another sob rise in his throat.As if sensing his distress, Charlie hopped onto his lap with a chirrup and pecked affectionately at his fingers.
“Tell me something,” Albert sniffed, brushing his tears from the precious pages before they could smear the ink. “Will there ever be a way for me to make this right?”
The bird fluttered its wings once, but did not answer.