Fletcher shrugged, staring back into the flames. A large crowd had begun to gather, and the air around them was rent with shrieks and urgent chatter, but neither of them paid it any mind. “He’s not dead. He will have escaped.”
Kane, he must have meant. Zaria frowned, realizing she’d subconsciously come to the same conclusion. She peeled Jules’s hand away from her bicep, lacing her fingers through his and squeezing. His mouth was a tense line as his gaze bored into Fletcher.
“Kane’s like a cat that can’t help but land on its feet,” Fletcher continued, “even when he wants to let himself break.”
Zaria followed his bleak stare, watching the flames lick up what remained of the pawnshop. At some point, the golden orbs had detached from the entrance, and one of them rolled across the street to settle a short distance from where they stood.
“I just don’t understand,” she said. “Ward didn’tneeda primateria source. He’s already powerful. There has to be more to it, especially given what he was willing to do. I mean, I thought he favored Kane. Why would he hurt him by threatening your life?”
“Ward may have thought he loved Kane,” Fletcher said sharply, “but his love was toxic. He used pain and threats to get what he wanted. Kane loved Ward, too, even though he shouldn’t have. I don’t think he could help it. This… this will destroy him, Zaria. He’llself-destruct, and he’ll try to take everyone and everything else down with him. Kane, when he’s angry, is dangerous, but Kane when he’s grieving? That’s a catastrophe.”
Zaria swallowed past her raw throat. She thought of the boy who’d played the pianoforte at the Exhibition. The way he’d pressed his lips to her throat like she was something delicate and infinitely precious. The rueful sadness in his eyes when he pulled away. She thought about the story of the little boy who’d watched his parents die in front of him and how hearing it had made her burn with a furious protectiveness.
But she could not protect Kane. Nobody could—least of all himself.
She was spared from having to respond by the appearance of George Zhao covered in soot and looking as distressed as she’d ever seen him. He fought his way through the crowd, chest heaving as he wheezed and cursed at those who stood in his way. Jules inhaled sharply and released Zaria’s hand, sprinting toward his father, only to stiffen with uncertainty when he reached him.
“My boy,” George rasped, more a declaration to the crowd than a greeting to Jules. And then the man Zaria had never once seen show any outward affection threw his arms around his son.
She smiled faintly as Jules hugged George back. She felt at once filled with joy and like her insides were being forced through a very small opening. It hurt to watch when all she had to remember her own father by was currently smoldering around them.
“Did you know?” Fletcher’s low voice sounded by her ear, and Zaria started. She hadn’t realized he’d moved closer.
“Did I know what?”
“That Ward told Kane he would kill me.”
“Yes,” she admitted heavily. She was so tired of lying. “I don’t think he wanted to tell me, but he needed me to understand why the job was so important to him.”
Fletcher snorted, dragging a hand through his unruly hair. “And you double-crossed him anyway.”
Zaria winced. “I didn’t feel good about it. But alchemology killed my father, Fletcher. It drained the life right out of him. If I wanted to continue his work in any capacity, I needed that primateria source.”
“So you knew it was a source all along.”
“No. I only learned of it the night I met up with Cecile.”
“The woman who died,” Fletcher confirmed.
It hurt to hear the words. Zaria was still trying not to dwell on the events of that particular evening, but the memories prodded at her relentlessly. In a roundabout way, Cecile had given her life for that meeting, and what difference had it made? She felt like such a pivotal part of Zaria’s life, and in the end, she was just as Fletcher said—a woman who had died.
“Yes.” The word seemed to stick in Zaria’s throat. “That’s the one.”
The pawnshop continued to slowly burn—no fire brigade would come to put it out, though locals were already endeavoring to assist with buckets of foul water. Nobody cared if the slum burned. Zaria stared into the flames until they burned an imprint behind her eyelids, listening to the soft crackle of the weakening joists. Jules and George had joined the extinguishing effort, and the latter was yelling instructions while his son ran back and forth delivering buckets. At this point, the pressing concern was ensuring the fire didn’t spread to the neighboring houses.
“Hope you didn’t have anything explosive in that workshop of yours,” Fletcher said, watching the scene play out.
She cut him a sidelong glance. “I’d be a pretty shit alchemologist if I didn’t have flame-resistant containers.” Before she could think better of it, she blurted out, “Aren’t you angry with me?”
“For what?”
“The bit where I let Kane pass out and stole the necklace from under his nose comes to mind.”
Fletcher’s responding laugh was hollow. “If I’m being honest, I’m so angry at him that you’re not really my main concern. Besides, we were going to double-cross you, too.”
“You were?”
“Yeah. Kane never had any intention of stealing the other Waterhouse jewels.”
