Benedict fell dumbstruck for an instant before swiftly composing himself and resuming their plans as if nothing else had been spoken.
Darwin went along and adjusted the brim of his hat just low enough to shade his face, yet not so low that it slipped perilously forward.
Both strode along until Benedict halted at the corner and waved down a hansom cab.
With a courteous nod, Benedict gestured for Darwin to enter first.
The young man swallowed hard, his foot unexpectedly hesitating midswing as if it had struck an unseen wall.
"Is something the matter?"
Darwin shook his head and briefly scanned the street before stepping into the cab.
Relief washed over him when he realized the driver was not the same man from whom he had "forgotten" to pay, prior to their first confrontation.
"Near the old court on Fareland street," Benedict instructed upon settling into the seat.
The cabby, a proper Victorian cabman with piercing blue eyes, grunted in reply before yanking the reins.
As the horse pulled them forward, Benedict looked across at Darwin. "We haven't practicied disguising just yet, so there's no need to conceal yourself."
Darwin feigned an almost deliberate obliviousness, as though Benedict's remark had swept past his ear.
However, with each passing second, the air within the cramped, horse-drawn cab grew denser, pressing in against the snugly drawn layers of Darwin's coat and scarf.
After a few minutes, he was compelled beyond mere courtesy and cleared his throat, offering the slightest concession.
"It suddenly feels rather stifling."
He tugged the scarf down an inch, however, not so much heeding Benedict's advice as creating just enough space to speak more freely.
"That'll do," he said. "I'm not inclined to parade my features in public."
Benedict clicked his tongue thoughtfully. "I'm perplexed. I've noticed no imperfection on your countenance. Indeed, I dare say a stranger might find your symmetry quite dashing."
Before Darwin had a chance to respond, he was jolted by an abrupt lurch of the cab.
Benedict pitched forward in his seat, but managed to steady himself by gripping the front bench.
With a chuckle, he tugged himself upright and smoothed out the wrinkles from his trousers.
"A wayward cobblestone, no doubt," he muttered beneath his breath.
Once he was steadied as well, Darwin cleared his throat and resumed his earlier thread of conversation.
"I assure you, rookie, my preference does not stem from insecurity about my appearance, should you suspect as much."
Benedict's brows arched faintly, betraying a shred of surprise in his expression.
"No? Then, might I inquire as to the true cause? Is it simply that you find crowds disagreeable?"
Darwin exhaled a sound that resembled a soft chuckle, his eyelids lowering as if amused by an inside jest.
"That accounts for part of it. Yet my reason—"
The wheels struck another treacherous rise in the road, prompting the cab to rock forward abruptly.
Both men instinctively braced their boots against the floorboards, shoulders stiffening to resist the forward pull.
Benedict released a sharp breath and brought a gloved hand to his brow.
"Hah… best we resume this discussion upon arrival."
Darwin veered his eyes toward the cab's small window.
By doing so, the outlines of passing lamps slipped across his features, defining his facial contours.
In the silence, he began to feel a tinge of regret stir in his mind.
'Perhaps I ought to have preferred the other driver… though I daresay he'd have barred me from his carriage.'
The remainder of the journey passed in mutual silence.
As the cab rattled onward, its wooden frame sighed under each turn and rut, until at last the road beneath them smoothed, and Darwin deduced, by the gentling of the wheels, that they must be drawing near their destination.
Benedict alighted first, striking his boots on the cobblestones with a dull thud.
Darwin followed a moment later, with a slightly less sure step as he adjusted to stable ground once more.
As Benedict passed the cabman his fare, he accepted it with a toothy grin so broad it lent the fellow a guise of near-ignorance.
"Just a few streets more," Benedict remarked, setting his hands to his hips as he cast about.
A faint tension crossed his brow as he tried to regain his bearings amid the maze of several lanes.
Not far off, Darwin let out a low and drawn hum before voicing an unexpected observation.
"I hadn't only just noticed, but it strikes me that as you walk, your right heel lags half a pace behind your left. Old injury?"
Benedict's eyes widened for a breath before easing in recognition.
"...Mn, I tore my Achilles during a field pursuit some months past. Technically, we aren't sanctioned to give chase without the Chief's directive or the Nightingales' dispensation, but I was a bit less experienced then, and… overly zealous."
They rounded a corner into a narrow lane hemmed in by looming brick tenements.
The gaslight struggled to penetrate here, leaving shadows thick enough to become unseen.
"The Nightingales?"
"Do you recall when I mentioned the Hemlocks possess distinct branches, each retaining a direct tether to the whole?"
Darwin pressed his lips into a thin line and inclined his head in affirmation.
"The Nightingales are one such branch. They oversee the detainment and housing of 'special' prisoners. While they seldom undertake fieldwork of the sort we are assigned. However, their ranks are composed almost entirely of highly disciplined guards that have been trained to a degree one might call exceptional."
Darwin leaned forward, listening intently to the lad's words.
He weighed the significance of what he had just learned: if the Hemlocks wielded less authority, were they therefore lower in rank, or merely restricted in certain powers?
Guards in a prison seldom venture beyond their posts: their field work consists mainly of watching what lies within. But who bore ultimate responsibility if someone escaped?
That larger question loomed.
Darwin knew little of the Nightingales; their reputation for high‑level security intrigued him, yet he wasn't even certain how high their caliber might be, or whether any guard could realistically breach it.
From all accounts, the Nightingales existed precisely to fortify what a normal prison cell could not.
"Is that why they hold greater sway in legal affairs? Their training surpasses that of others?"
"In part, yes," Benedict replied evenly. "But it also stems from the breadth of experience among their superiors. There exists no formal hierarchy between the branches, if that is your suspicion. Power is distributed unevenly. My uncle, though long in their employ, admitted he could not fully decipher the structure. Even he feels that it defies any measurable classification."
Darwin lifted a gloved hand and tapped his index finger against his palm in measured thought.
'So the Hemlocks are of recent foundation… and he implied that a Chief's influence depends upon tenure or perhaps reputation. But which?'
Circling his true inquiry, he gave partial voice to his musing a moment later. "Have you yourself encountered the Chiefs of either faction?"
"It is not uncommon to cross paths with Chief Garland upon Hemlock grounds. He is known for a rather conspicuous presence amongst his subordinates. As for the Nightingales…" Benedict's voice faltered briefly as he took a moment to ponder. "I have met but two of their guards beyond prison walls, and both spoke of their Chief as if he were a phantom. Even within, it is said, few have laid eyes upon him."
Their pace slowed as Benedict came to an abrupt halt before a broad wooden gate; it was simultaneously solid but lacked grandeur.
It was only then that Darwin realized how far they had strayed, and that the streets behind them had already vanished one by one.
All the while, Benedict muttered under his breath, speaking so hushed that Darwin caught only scraps of his contemplations.
"What was the name again… it began with a D, I'm certain of it…"
As he pondered, Benedict reached for the gate's latch.
With a deft flick, he unfastened it and swung the aged timber inward.
The hinges gave a plaintive groan, revealing what appeared to be a modest square, hemmed in by rows of low, timeworn buildings.
A single narrow path ran straight ahead, its flanks interrupted by haphazard alleys that extended immensely.
Darwin tailed closely as both emerged further inside.
He let his gaze wander thoroughly over each shred of the vicinity.
To their right, the first alleyway disclosed the side of what seemed to have once been a bakery, with boarded windows.
Though he had roamed nearly every corner of the town in his boyhood, this quarter was wholly unfamiliar.
The more he endeavored to summon a memory of that place, the more an oppressive unease coiled within his chest.
It was then that Benedict abruptly threw up a hand, stabbing his index finger into the air as if to punctuate a revelation.
"So it was! They had spoken of the Nightingale's Chief by the moniker, 'Doctor.'"