“You mean Saville? Or you talking about God?”
Fletcher grinned, and Kane knew that if the good Lord saw it fit to grant either of them anything at all, it would be a one-way ticket to hell.
“I’m only joking. I passed off the revolver pretty quickly—Harrison was closer than I’d thought.”
“Ah.” Kane recognized the name as belonging to another of Saville’s confidantes. There was a short lull as he got to his feet, then poured two glasses of whiskey and set one in front of Fletcher. The alcohol burned his throat in a way he never particularly enjoyed, though something about the sensation relaxed him. Perhaps it was the promise of eventual inebriation.
“Cheers,” Fletcher said, then sighed. “I still haven’t learned anything about the damned boat, nor when it’s expected to arrive. The only time I’ve been in Saville’s office at the docks was when he was with me. And every ship already in the harbor looks the same.”
Kane nodded. He’d expected as much.
“Larkin and the other men don’t seem to like me,” Fletcher continued. “I was at Saville’s Piccadilly house yesterday and convinced one of the maids to talk to me, but she didn’t let anything slip.” He cast his gaze at the ceiling, taking a long swig of whiskey. “Maybe I should offer to work as a maid instead. No one pays attention to them.”
“Youwouldlook fantastic in an apron.”
Fletcher swatted Kane’s knee. “What does Ward want with this necklace, anyway? If it’s because of the dark market resale value, there are easier things to steal.”
Kane grimaced. How was he to know what went on in Ward’s mind? His demands were endless, often dangerous, and failure meant dire consequences. Although Kane didn’t think Ward would everkillhim, that didn’t mean the kingpin couldn’t hurt him in other ways. Fletcher-shaped ways, specifically.
Kane collapsed into the chair across from his friend, trying to ignore the deepening pit in his stomach. “Ward doesn’t tell me things like that.”
Not anymore. The older Kane got, the harder he fought against Ward’s demands, until the two of them had become engaged in an ongoing, relentless power struggle. He could never escape, though. It simply wasn’t an option. The kingpin would find Kane wherever he went, and in any case, Kane wasn’t sure he wanted to leave. Ward was the only family he’d had in years. The only parent he could remember clearly.
He hated the man, yet he needed him. He longed to impress Ward almost as much as he longed to kill him.
So Kane stayed, which meant Fletcher stayed as well. It was a fact that rendered Kane both relieved and paranoid. Fletcher was the one thing he couldn’t bear to lose. They’d been inseparable as brothers since the day Kane brought him into Ward’s crew five years ago, Fletcher then a homeless youth sent to London to escape the Irish famine. Ward quickly made it clear he had no love for Fletcher—not least because of his distaste for Catholics—but he let him stay nonetheless. At the time, Kane had thought it a kindness. Only in recent years had he come to understand the truth.
Fletcher was the perfect way for Ward to ensure Kane played nicely. He was unending leverage.
And Kane could never, ever tell him as much.
“Ah, well,” Fletcher said, shaking Kane from his thoughts. “Tomorrow’s a new day, and the Exhibition’s in just under two weeks. If we’re lucky, Saville might get us to help with the preparations. No way the Royal Commission is doing everything alone.”
Kane took another swallow of whiskey. The back of his throat had gone numb to the burning. “I can’t imagine he’d get us to help with something like that. For all intents and purposes, we’re hired hands. Dark market runners. I say we head to the main port tomorrow and see if we can learn anything for ourselves. Maybe some of the dockers will have information.”
Fletcher inclined his chin. “Good idea. I don’t much fancy having to steal the necklace once it’s on display in the Crystal Palace.”
“Don’t even say that.” The prospect already gnawed incessantly at him, such that Kane had begun to plan heists in his sleep. He closed his eyes and saw prison; he opened them and saw Ward. He wasn’t sure which was worse.
“At least it’s small. I heard one of the main exhibits is some kind of telescope, and that it’s as long as three men lined up head to toe. Can you imagine trying to steal such a thing?”
Kane managed a wry smile. It hurt his face. “I wouldn’t put it past Ward to ask.”
“Relax.” Fletcher refilled both their glasses, easily interpreting Kane’s expression. “We’ll get that godforsaken necklace. There’s nothing Kane Durante and Fletcher Collins can’t steal.”
His stoic confidence was contagious as he used their real surnames, and Kane drained his drink in a single swallow.
“You’d better be right about that.”
ZARIA
ZARIA SAT ALONE IN HER WORKSHOP, A VIAL OF BLACK LIQUIDrolling lazily across the table.
Six candles illuminated the space, flickering unevenly as she lit a seventh. This one she set before her, bowing her head until she felt heat on her face, a stinging caress. Using an eyedropper, she transferred the black solution into the flame. Aleuite, the substance was called. Once heated, it could be bonded to create a number of different alchemological compounds. Tonight she would use it to create a magical explosive. It was one of two dozen outstanding commissions that required her attention, and the sooner it came together, the sooner she got paid. Over half of the money from the revolver had already gone to George Zhao. Zaria owed him more rent than she cared to remember.
The thought made her cheeks burn. George let her stay here out of lingering respect for Itzal, but Zaria knew her presence frustratedhim. She wasn’t a gambler the way Itzal had been, but given the soaring prices of alchemological supplies—and her woeful inability to keep track of payment dates—she was scarcely any better where her finances were concerned.
Zaria shook the thoughts away. Her aleuite was ready; she only needed the primateria. She took the last of her soulsteel in trembling fingers, already craving and dreading the ache of creation in her bones. The powder dissipated upon touching the flame, which turned a more vivid orange, burning valiantly ever higher. She extinguished the rest of the candles in the room. Immediately, the darkness made the scent of must and ash seem heavier. It smelled like her childhood. Like hovering by Itzal’s worktable, watching in awe as her father’s deft fingers shaped wood and steel. Like his accented voice in her ear, muttering a warning that never managed to dissuade her.
