undergrounds | waves that swallow quick and deep

He does, and yet somehow he also feels he doesn't. He knows Nancy has sympathy in her heart, yet also viciousness. He knows she dislikes Sylvia Redbright, and Daybreak, but he also doesn't know how far she'd go.

Taking down the number he makes note of the others she mentions -- doorman, she says? Who is this witch, rich enough to have a doorman? How did they become friends with Nancy?

"We do have something that places you within Norrell's house," he offers, and he keeps his eyes down as he says it. Focusing on writing, collecting himself enough that when he lifts his eyes again his voice is still even. Even as his eyes beg her to pay careful attention to what he's saying. "Within his library, specifically. Have you been there before?"

If Lance digs, he'll find all the information he needs to prove Nancy's innocence. Larkin knows the story backwards and forwards- Both women were Midnight supporters, and Larkin had Nancy over for a glass or twelve of wine, thinking she should have a girls' night. Easy.

"...What...?" Her mouth is dry as she looks at Lance, her lower lip jutting out in disbelief. She thought she'd been careful. How could they place her there? But it didn't matter, because she had a chance to explain herself.

"Yeah- I have, actually. Norrell had Childermass solicit me." She doesn't need to tell him about Norrell's true reason to have her there. What's wrong with a little mud-raking now that the man was gone? Nancy looks away, hunching her shoulders like she's ashamed of it.

Solicit her? Lancelot's eyebrows shoot up at the statement, then furrow into a frown of confusion.

"Solicit you for..." he prompts, trying to establish if he has misunderstood in some way. Gilbert Norrell hadn't exactly struck him as the type to hire a prostitute, certainly not one of Nancy's type, but then again he could very well be wrong. He hadn't known the man personally at all, not spoken with him outside of public engagements.

Although the very idea makes him feel faintly ill.

Nancy was the only remaining one who had been in the room, who had been in that limo. She nodded, pressing her lips together like she wasn't proud of herself. She should have felt bad. But she really didn't. There was no reason to.

"I refused." Because she still had some amount of pride. "He wanted his manservant to watch."

He wanted--

Lancelot grimaces slightly, making a note of this regardless.

"When was this?" he prompts, trying to remain professional despite the ill feeling welling up all over again. If it is to be her reason why there is evidence she was there, after all, he'll need to confirm that too.

She presses her lips together, counting back. "A bit ago- I'm sure if you needed it, I could get you a more precise date. It's just not something I like to think about." Which was, for the record, completely true.

All the same, she shivers. "Just- the nerve of him, actively oppressing us and turning around and trying to pay me- I told him I may be a whore, but I have standards. Can- can I ask, Lance, what the evidence against me is?" Give her an opportunity to explain it. Whatever it is, she's sure she can spin it.

"I can't give away details of an active investigation like that," he says gently, but he looks uncomfortable nonetheless. Like he wishes he could help her. "If you can think of a more precise date, though, that would help."

He hesitates uneasily, trying to work out how to negotiate the conversation.

"We will be pulling footage from traffic cameras too, so, if there's one near your friends house that will help."

Although, equally, if there's one near Norrell's then it might not.

Nancy nods. "Of course." Shit. Shiiiit, traffic cameras. Hopefully Eames had thought of that- she'd speak with him immediately after this. Or, well, a little while after this, she didn't want to raise any further suspicion. `

"Lance," she asks after a moment, turning on the charm as much as she could. Her eyes are wide and she pouts just slightly, the picture of concern and worry. Fagin had always said she was quite an actress. "You don't think I did this... do you?" A personal appeal, to him as her friend. Not as a Guardian or an officer or anything. Just as her friend, the man who bought her chocolate to help calm her down, who carried her back to her apartment when he saw she was in trouble. He was a good person, and she knew that. She just had to appeal to that.

"There are no official suspects," he repeats, keeping his tone reassuring, because it's true -- and he can't say he'd be surprised if Nancy's Circle was involved in some way, which means he can't entirely rule her out. "Like I said, we're just talking to everyone. Protocol."

Nancy he especially can't avoid, especially since she's been placed in his house.

Nancy shakes her head, and takes a step towards him. "That's not what I'm asking, Lance." She looks up at him, imploring him to answer as himself. He surely had to have a personal opinion on the matter, and all at once she suddenly realized how much this actually meant to her.

She honestly wanted Lance to believe she was innocent. Because worse of being caught- actually legitimately caught, something she hadn't even considered before going in. She'd taken so many precautions, sure, but the idea of being caught wasn't something she even saw as an option. Because if he thought she did it... Then he'd know just what a terrible person she was.

And he would be right.

"Nancy," he says, in something of a low chide. "We don't even know what this is. All we know is Gilbert Norrell and Childermass are missing. I can't have an opinion on what may or may not have been done if I don't know what it is I'd be accusing someone of."

But, in his heart, Lancelot is plenty wary. Maybe she's telling the truth, and her story of visiting him before is why her hair is in his room, but... maybe she isn't.

It isn't that Lancelot thinks her capable of murder, not really, but he does think her more capable of aiding her friends in an elaborate scheme if she believed it was the right thing to do.

There's something calming in his voice. No, calming isn't the right word. But there's something that has her settle somewhat. She nods, lips pressed together. It's the first time she allows herself to look guilty.

"I know- I'm sorry," she admits, but she doesn't know, and she isn't sorry. Just a few more lies to add to the ones that she's been telling all night long. But she doesn't want him scolding her.

For a moment, she really is just a teenager.

waves that swallow quick and deep

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