“Goodbye, Tillie.”
I sat back in the coach, letting the shadows inside hide my face and calm my threads. One of my handlers climbed in across from me, the door clicked shut, and the carriage began to move.
I did not look back at Madge, or wave goodbye. I could not. The shutters on the carriage windows were closed.
I allowed a span of time to pass as I corralled my thoughts and worries. It was easier, now that I was on my own again, away from Madge and the Golden House. Whatever had spurred the sudden change of plans, I was away from it. I had eaten, slept, and washed, and the heels on my boots were hard enough to crack a skull.
It was time to escape.
We trundled away from Golden House. I noted each jostle and turn, marked our speed, and bided my time.
My escort, meanwhile, adjusted the tight fabric of his trousers across muscular thighs, sucked his teeth, and settledback with spread knees, pistol glinting under one arm. He was perhaps forty, with short hair neatly parted in the usual style.
He met my gaze with a squint. “Do not do it.”
“Pardon me?” I asked, feigning affront.
“Make an attempt for my pistol,” he said. “I am a Silver. I will subdue you.”
I held out an ungloved hand. “Can you do it anyway? It seems unconsciousness would be preferable to your company.”
He scowled, reached into his pocket, and produced a pipe. He lit it with the click of a lighter, momentarily filling the carriage with a wavering warm, orange light. Then he blew a long stream of smoke into my face.
I screwed up my nose and fought not to cough. I reached to open the window.
He lifted a foot, of all things, and planted it over the latch. He continued to survey me from this lounging position, puffing and waiting. The smoke thickened.
I leaned back, eyebrows high. “You are no gentleman.”
“Mr. Moran doesn’t like gentlemen,” my escort said. “Too many scruples for his line of work.”
“I see.” I watched him. “What is his line of work?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know,” he leered.
I considered pressing the topic, but escape felt more relevant at that point. My internal clock was ticking. “What is your name?”
“Howell.”
“Well, Mr. Howell, I wish I could say I am sorry, but I find I am not.”
His gaze narrowed.
“You should have been better informed before taking this assignment,” I said, and, rocking back on the seat, kicked him with both booted heels. Between his legs.
He curled up like a squished spider, limbs coiling, head bowing. His pipe dropped. He hardly made a sound, just a long, thin wheeze.
I lunged across the carriage, snatching up his falling pipe by the bit. Reaching around him, I grabbed his pistol. Naturally, he tried to stop me. It was a valiant effort, considering howdirect my kick had been. I did not allow him to touch my skin—my neck, my face. I flicked the burning ash into his eyes and stuffed the bowl of the pipe into his mouth. He spasmed, wailing and choking breathlessly.
The carriage door was locked from the outside, unsurprisingly. But the window was less secure. I smashed the shutters open with an elbow.
So it came to pass that as the carriage trundled through the darkened streets of Harrow, I squeezed out the window and fell flat onto my back on the cobblestones.
I had no time to be winded. In a flash, I saw the carriage wheels trundling right towards my temples. I rolled.
Another figure landed next to me, bellowing for the carriage to stop—a second mage, apparently having been riding with the driver—while a third leapt off the back of the contraption. She landed practically on top of me, only to stumble backwards as the horn of a motor car blared.
I took half a second to check my surroundings. We were still in New Harrow, heading west. The last of the sun had descended over a skyline of roofs, chimneys, and smoke ahead of us, while to the east the Grand General’s crystalline palace glittered on its hill, overlooking all. It looked bloodied and bruised, in the last of the setting sun. A knife covered with gore.
