The Snubbing Post, down by the river in Vauxhall, was a useful sort of place when the whole of London was looking for you. The pub was centuries old, its small windows opaque from years of pipe smoke within and traffic fumes without.
In the upper room, six people sat around a large table.
One person was missing, and Midsummer was trying not to feel anxious about her absence.
Renie had been given clear instructions on how to find the place. But the kid was now quarter of an hour late. Well, Renie was a law unto herself. She’d surely be along soon.
Her uncle Wesley was here, as was Speaker Dawson. The other three were Midsummer’s most trusted slavetown contacts: Emily from Exton, down in Devon; Mac from Auld Reekie, the slavetown of Edinburgh; and Bhadveer from Portisbury, the hellhole between Bristol and Cardiff. They were smugglers – of goods in, and people out. Occasionally, they were saboteurs – of faulty equipment, or the careers of brutal guards.
But open revolt had never been on their to-do lists. Could Midsummer change that?
‘I’ll get straight to it,’ she told them. ‘The Blood Fair was monstrous. Whispers in parliament say that what comes next will be worse. We need to end this.
‘Meilyr Tresco and Dina Matravers are dead. My dear uncle, who was Chancellor, is dead. Not one of us Equals has got it right or done enough. I need to apologize for our arrogance in thinking this was our fight to win. Because Jardine is justifying his clampdown on all of you, because of us.’
