I was not made to reshape worlds. Pretoria was. Madge was. And I? I was forever tugged between the two, foreverin their shadows and hoping that someday, I might find my identity in their absence.
“Pretoria,” I began again. “I am not working for you, not in Lorva or anywhere else. You are a thief.”
“My occupation is far more nuanced than that, as you yourself said. But I can see you care not for the details, so I shan’t tell you. Ottilie, you have had two years of independence, and how did you fare?”
I lifted my chin. “I have done very well for myself.”
“You have managed not to die or starve,” Pretoria corrected. “But if there is anything a proper fugitive learns—and I thought I had taught you—it is not to stay too long in any one place. But you have been here two years, running about with that shoddy detective, dancing on the train of Lord Stillwell’s robe. He might recognize you from all those diplomatic functions with Mumma and our papas, and then where would you be?”
I stared at her. What if shewasright? What if I had been here too long, and that was why Madge had turned up?
“I know you are waiting about for that mopey Bronze to come back from the war,” Pretoria continued, lowering her voice again. “But like I said when you and I parted ways, Lewis has a soft side, but he is uncommitted. He is discontent with the Guild, enough to help you escape, but he himself will not leave. He is a smuggler but pretends not to be a thief. He is a fiancé but will never be a husband, using your engagement to avoid any other. I am sorry you fell for him, dear. I did not intend that.”
I raised my chin, emotions cloistered. “I have no desire to marry him. He is not why I am still here.”
Not precisely, anyway.
“Then why?” Pretoria asked, genuine emotion slipping into her voice. “You are an Eventide Adept, my dear, one of a scarce dozen in the City States. No matter how hard you try, no matter where you attempt to make a normal life, the Guild will find you. If Harrow does not kill you first.”
I nearly told her then. Desperate to defend myself and prove my independence, I nearly admitted that I was in theprocess of fleeing, that Lewis had arranged for new identities and as soon as I was paid, I would be gone.
But I did not.
“Do you know anything about the artifact?” I asked, low and steady. “Anything at all?”
“No,” she replied, matching my expression and tone. “I did go by the office to leave my note, and I did snoop to see what you and that detective have been doing, but the results were so dull that I left within… say, a quarter hour?”
The server, about to stop by our table, saw the intensity of our exchange and abruptly diverted his course.
I stabbed my cake too hard, trying again to decide whether I believed her. This was Pretoria. She had sent me Lewis to ensure I was not paired with a proper Guild monster and she had arranged my rescue, but I had left her and settled in Harrow for a reason. She spent her time flitting from country to country, from crime to paramour to gods knew what else. Emeline’s death had unbalanced her, and for that I could not blame her. But I wanted a steadier life, one without choking collars at my throat or bounty hunters on my heels.
The Guild had driven Pretoria into a world of shadows, and she had become its queen. But I was not my sister.
“You look as though you are about to cry,” Pretoria broke into my thoughts. “Or vomit; they are similar expressions for you. Let me help you and your Mr. Stoke. Let me prove myself to you. And who is this cretin that has threatened you? I shall pluck out his eyes and replace them with lemons.”
I cringed and scrubbed my forehead. Nearby, the table of boisterous Kessans pushed back their chairs and began to depart.
That was what I should be doing. I should get up and leave, leave Pretoria and this city before Mr. Wake came for me, Zealots strung me up or the Guild dragged me north in chains. What else could I do, alone and without any leads?
That was not quite right though, I realized. I had yet to investigate Mr. Stoke’s house.
“I need time to think,” I said at length. “When can I see you again?”
“Tomorrow?” Pretoria offered, lifting a large, indelicate bite of cake to her mouth. “I am at the Hotel Cherron. We can breakfast in my rooms, and you can meet my husband.”
I choked. “Your husband? Pretoria.”
Pretoria popped the bite of cake into her mouth and gave me one of her disarming, double-eyed winks. “Yes, you heard me correctly. He is very handsome,” she said around a mouthful of chocolate. “Now where is that waiter? Sir!”
Mr. Stoke lived alone in a narrow rowhome on one of the nicer streets of New Harrow, where the classical pillars, smooth curves, and many arches of Old Harrow yielded to straight lines, star motifs, and steel-hearted brick buildings.
A group of children thundered past as I approached, chasing one little boy with a ball and screaming like a troop of monkeys. They toppled their way around a corner, passing a disgruntled older woman perched on a stool. The woman eyed me as I followed the children, merging onto the next street and diverting down an alleyway behind the houses.
Criss-crossing laundry lines dripped onto my hat as I unlocked the door of Mr. Stoke’s cellar with a key I had quietly procured in case of emergency. I descended uneven stairs into the murk and, after an intimate encounter with a series of cobwebs and a needlessly large spider, I dusted myself off in Mr. Stoke’s kitchen and closed the cellar door.
The kitchen was small, little more than a countertop and table and plastered walls. The bread was stale, the icebox warm, and the woodstove cold. There were no recent memories to be gleaned, and the older fragments I glimpsed were dull, daily things.
Mr. Stoke had not been home in days, that much wasevident. In the study, I discovered memories of smoking cigars, and found a pearl-handled revolver and box of bullets which I commandeered. Upstairs, the bed was neatly made. Mr. Stoke’s clothing was ordered in his wardrobe and a photograph of his sister—who died of influenza as a child—was set upon his desk.
