The blare of a horn snapped me back to myself. I located my feet just as the mage who had been with the carriage driver made a grab for my arm.
His hand did not land. I danced aside and shot him in the knee, turned, and did the same to the second mage, the one who had been on the back of the carriage. I blinked rapidly then—a quick snap of eyelashes as I processed what I had done. Brutal. Efficient.
Just as the Guild had taught me to be.
I threw the pistol aside with a curse and bolted into the evening crowd.
A NOTEUPON: AFFINATES
Entwined Affinates, while they possess no willful magic, still keep the tendencies of their class and with them, the dangers. A Silver Affinate might enjoy notable physical strength. A Starlight Affinate’s innate sense of time may result in an admirable punctuality, but also acute awareness of their surroundings. A Copper Affinate may be particularly disarming, charismatic, and charming—and manipulative.
Do not be taken in, dear lady.
FROMTHEVIGILANTLADYTRAVELLER:
A GENTLEWOMAN’SGUIDE TO THEWORLD
My first destination was Old Harrow, with its warrenlike streets and convenient shadows. I approached Pointer’s Bridge, my steps swift and my gaze vigilant.
Just as I reached the entrance to the bridge, I saw a carriage clatter up. The driver had barely reined in the nervous horses before my escort, Howell, stepped out onto the sidewalk. His movements were slow but deadly with rage and intent. The light of a streetlamp washed over him as his gaze swivelled, through some preternatural sense, right to me.
“Silvers,” I cursed under my breath, and bolted onto the bridge.
More carriages passed, wheels clattering, hooves flashing. Prettily dressed couples strode arm in arm. A motor car coughed exhaust into the breeze, gusting it right into my face.
Footsteps pounded at my back. I wove past a startled couple and hurtled over the crest of the bridge.
A horde of merry makers blocked my path. I diverted into the street.
A tram bell rang frantically. I looked up into the vehicle’s glaring, orange lamps, and lunged back towards the sidewalk.
An arm laced around my waist.
My mind was still blinded by the streetcar, but my body knew what to do. I turned into the movement, grabbingmy attacker’s wrist and driving my shoulder right into his stomach. I charged, propelling him backwards into the bridge railing with a vengeful cry of exertion.
For half a second, we struggled against the rail. He was stronger, not simply because he was a large man but because of his innate Silver strength, and it took only that half second for him to spin us around, making to pin me against the rail instead, stomach first.
I let him. It was a risk—if he had found bare skin and Leeched me just then, it would all have been over. But I was dressed for the weather, every bit of skin covered, and he had only brute strength.
Strength which I turned against him. Surprise flashed through his eyes at my sudden lack of resistance, then all I saw of him was a blur of clothing as I took his weight by one arm, hinged forward and, in one great and glorious effort, hurled him over the railing and into the river.
I straightened, panting, swaying. My hat was askew and partially over my eyes, accompanied by a swoop of unpinned hair.
Belatedly, I heard the satisfyingsplashof Howell hitting the river. I cracked a breathless laugh.
“I say,” a staring bystander said, gaping at me around his prodigious moustache. He had a bicycle beside him. “That was remarkable.”
“Thank you,” I panted. Shouts came from up the bridge now. Staring pedestrians parted with alacrity as two more Guild thugs stormed into sight.
Below, in the river, a furious bellow marked Howell’s position.
I pushed my hat and hair out of my eyes and made for the moustached bystander. He recoiled as I gathered up my skirts, stuffed them into my sash, and mounted his bicycle without a word.
“Thank you,” I puffed again, tearing my hat away. I bit the hatpin—now my only weapon—between my teeth and handed him the hat. “Reparations. Sell it,” I explained around the pin, and escaped into the warren of Old Harrow.
***
I took a winding and perplexing route into Old Harrow, spent a good quarter hour stashed under a bridge watching for pursuers, then made my way to the hotel where Pretoria had taken up residence: Hotel Cherron. It was in the center of Old Harrow, its lintels and corners decorated with ethereal, windblown statues and its windows glistening with the light of gaslamps.
