Chapter Text
They don’t get to him in time, exactly- it takes three days. But they get to him before the worst can happen.
We must do this carefully, Miranda insists, pressing her hand to James’ chest to calm him. You're one man, James, she tells him. If you rush in there and draw your sword not a single one of us will make it out of London alive. Then she says: I have another way. James scoffs at her, disbelieving and scornful of the idea that anything less than brutal violence is an option now. But he listens. Together they smooth out her plan until it sounds like something they might pull off.
Corrupt men, Miranda remarks bitterly, ransacking the house for the most valuable things in it, can always be bought. One only needs to offer a higher price. And she charms their way into a carriage, into Bethlem, and then she bribes Thomas’ way out of it, and James has promised not to fight but he knows that if she fails he will go in there and wreak havoc.
She doesn't fail.
When she emerges from that hell she isn’t smiling but there’s a ferocity in her eyes James has never seen before, a gleam that says: We prevail. Beside her Thomas is pale and shaken but free and alive. They don’t have time for a reunion. Thomas is furious with their recklessness - James can see it in his clenched jaw and wet eyes - but he doesn’t ask questions, doesn't point out how many things could have gone wrong, how many still could. None of them are willing to indulge in the luxury of terror until they’ve seen this hell through.
With night falling it’s too late for them to head to the port, and even if they did, Thomas would be recognised. Instead they head north, out of London, and with nothing left to bribe with they cannot rely on the corruption of men anymore to keep them safe during the week-long journey to the border. Instead they rely on the kindness of strangers. James seems to know instinctively who to trust and who to pass by, and time and time again people risk themselves to help them, or at the very least point them in the right direction. Time and time again Thomas thinks: this is a miracle. Then he corrects himself: miracles are God-given. This we formed with our own fallen dust and flesh.
They cross the border into Scotland on horseback, exhausted, ragged and desperate. Thomas says: I think I would have died in there. His beloveds, glancing at one another, say nothing.