The prisoner carriage was a small, dark, rattling box. The air inside was stuffy, smelling of old leather and the damp wool of the constables' uniforms. Light filtered in through a single, small window, its thick iron bars casting striped shadows that shifted with every lurch and sway of the vehicle.
Augusta sat between Constable Davies and Constable Miller, her hands bound in her lap with heavy iron manacles. To an outside observer, she looked like a broken woman—her expensive silk dress was still damp and wrinkled, her hair was a mess, and her head was bowed in what appeared to be a posture of defeat.
But inside, her mind was a whirlwind of calculations. She was waiting.
The two men, settled in for the long ride to the Criminal and Justice Division, were busy discussing a recent case that had the city talking.
