“What he said?—” Hel began at the same time as Sam said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to get caught?—” It seemed she was always being used against Hel. No wonder Hel hadn’t wanted to bring her to Ireland.
“None of this is your fault,” Hel said roughly, turning away from Sam. “What he said?—it’s true. I never should have let things get this far.” Sam’s heart cracked, that Hel thought Sam would so easily discard her, that she thought herself so easily discarded.
“It’s not your fault either,” Sam said, grabbing her wrist. Hel stopped. What her father had done, what he’d made Hel do, none of it was Hel’s fault. She’d been achild, that she’d gotten out at all was a miracle. “And even if it was your fault, I don’t care. But if you want me to leave?—”
Sam gave Hel’s wrist a squeeze and let her hand drop.
Almost against her will, Hel turned and caught it. “Stay.” Their palms slid against each other, fingers intertwining. Then, from somewhere deeper in the train, there came a mechanicalthunk.
With a curse, Hel let Sam go. Sam released a trembling breath. If all went well, there would be time for that later.
“Ruari is getting away.” Bullets flashed through Hel’s fingers, clacking as she reloaded her revolver. “Everything is going according to his plan.”
“Not everything,” Sam reminded her, smoothing her corset nervously. She was fortunate it was boned, given everything it had been through.
Hel drew in a shaky breath. “Are you ready?”
No.But Sam had to be. If anyone could best Professor Moriarty, Hel could. She truly believed that. But also, now that Sam had reunited with her grandfather, she was acutely aware of how hard it was to step outside your childhood when confronted with it. How hard it must be for Hel to believe that her fathercouldbe defeated. It was like the stories of elephants bound with heavy chains when they were young so that once they were grown they would never think to try, no matter how fragile the chain that bound them. They had defined it in their mind as impossible.
And perhaps it was. But that wasn’t their goal. Or at least, not their only goal. No matter what happened next, Sam had to get evidence of Professor Moriarty’s existence, or Hel would suffer the consequences of his crimes.
“Ready,” Sam said.
Hel shouldered open the door, her revolver leveled, Sam’s heart hammering in her chest, only to find the car entirely empty. Empty, that is, except for a single table and chair of scarred mahogany, like you might find in a snug at a pub, on which sat an older man in a grey suit, one leg crossed over the other. An alligator-skin suitcase lay at his feet, a cup of piping-hot tea on the table.
“Hello, Father,” Hel said, her voice flat, her revolver trained on him. Sam could see the resemblance, now that she was looking. It was there in the sharpness of his features, the canniness of his eyes, the discontent set of his mouth. Even the freckles that dusted his skin. He was shorter than Sam had expected, but then, he had been a giant in her mind.
“Helena. You’re late,” Professor Moriarty said, and picked up his tea. He took a sip and put the cup back down. “You’re losing your touch.”
The door slammed shut behind them. Sam nearly jumped out of her skin. Hel spun, cursing.
“Focus, Helena,” Professor Moriarty said, his voice a whipcrack, before softening. “I’m afraid your brother couldn’t stay for our reunion. But that’s no excuse for poor manners.”
It struck Sam suddenly what a coup this all was for him. The Vespertine was Professor Moriarty’s competition in matters of alchemy and monsters. With their upper ranks decimated, outed by Sam’s photographs, he might slide in and take over their operation. Or rather, manipulate people into that position.
“You’re the one behind Mr. Bishop’s ambitions, aren’t you?” Sam said, remembering the library brimming with forbidden magic Hel had mentioned. The Vespertine might not have access to such things, but Professor Moriarty? It would be nothing to him. “You ensured a book with a ritual that might capture one of the Tuatha Dé Danann found its way to him and that he’d uncover what he might do with it.”
He’s a whisper of information.
“He whispered the name of the Mórrígan in his ear as well,” Hel said. “Knowing what Miss Shinagh would do if her goddess were threatened.”
A nudge on someone’s baser instincts.
“Oh, I think you’ll find that Mr. Bishop came by the idea of the Mórrígan entirely on his own.” Professor Moriarty smirked. “Which would be awkward for the Special Branch, if the rumors about his occupation are true.”
“Then you’ll be the one who tempted him to it,” Sam said doggedly. “With an article or a book.”
“After which you knew you’d need someone to clean up the mess, so you summoned us,” Hel said.
A finger on a domino whose effects spiral out in unseen designs.
“That’s a very long way of saying I gave a man a couple of books and sent my daughter a proverb from the Bible,” Professor Moriarty said.
Sam knew they were right, and yet?—it was uncanny the way Professor Moriarty’s eyes didn’t so much as flicker. As if every emotion he chose to show was simply for her benefit, not his, like Jakob leaving the bells on his spurs.
“You’re responsible for everything that happened,” Sam said, fiddling with her corset nervously.
“I like to think people are responsible for their own choices,” Professor Moriarty said, steepling his hands. He had never sounded more like a crossroads devil. “It’s what makes people so interesting. Each person a puzzle of wants and fears and expectations?—a set of stories, if you prefer?—that they believe about themselves and others. Once solved, this makes them... predictable. After that, it becomes more a game of billiards. Understanding the shape of the board and the pieces on it. Calculate the angle and the right place to apply pressure, determine the amount of necessary force... You’d be amazed how the world races to meet your expectations. Wouldn’t you agree, Sam?”
