PROLOGUE
Moonlight fell in shattered increments across the floor of the Crystal Palace.
The exhibits were dark, echoes of the day’s excitement and chatter having long since faded into obscurity. The bustle of innumerable patrons had given way to stillness; even the steam-powered machines had ground to a halt. The only noise came from the dull, intermittent thud of polished black boots as the coppers made their rounds.
There was more security than originally planned. The Exhibition had closed early that day—openingday—giving time for shards of glass to be swept away and the aleuite smoke to dissipate. The queen and prince consort had been less than pleased to receive the news: A priceless artifact, stolen from right under the commission’s noses during broad daylight. The ire of George Waterhouse, the Irish jeweler who’d supplied the necklace that now was missing. Mostinfuriating and disturbing of all, however, was what they knew about the thief. The means by which they had pulled off their daring heist.
Alchemology. A collision of magic and science that had proven impossible to understand—let alone regulate—and thus had been outlawed in Europe for the better part of the century. Alchemologists didn’t often rear their heads amid polite society, thus sparing most from giving the illegal study much consideration, but England’s rulers knew enough to recognize the devilry when they saw it. The Royal Commission for the Exhibition had been left humiliated and bewildered, every member with the same questions on their tongue: Who could possibly have managed to pull off such a feat? How had they gotten in and out without anyone being the wiser? Perhaps most curious of all,whyhad they taken a single item? The necklace had been far from the only priceless piece in the Waterhouse exhibit, yet the rest of the jewelry remained untouched.
It was convenient, then, that these questions distracted commission members and police constables alike as they circled the unlocked display, paced the exterior of the building, and stood at attention beside the gaping hole where a panel of glass had yet to be replaced on the ground floor of the Crystal Palace.
They didn’t see that while one item might have been missing from the Exhibition, a new one had appeared. They wouldn’t know its function, nor that it had been carefully placed and meticulously designed. They couldn’t possibly understand that in due time, everything—everything—was about to change.
Not yet.
But they would.
ZARIA
THREE DAYS EARLIER
Zaria Mendoza had been held at gunpoint far too many times for one day.
It was an absurd thought to have as she approached the stagecoach waiting at the end of Horseferry Road, but her mind had long since stopped processing things logically. The fear settling in her chest was accompanied by a not-insignificant amount of resentment. First she’d stolen from London’s Great Exhibition, betraying Kane in the process. Then she’d returned to the pawnshop only to find Alexander Ward waiting there. Andthenshe’d watched Kane kill Ward—the man he’d both hated and loved—only to come unhinged and set the pawnshop on fire.
All of that was to say, the last thing she needed was for the stint she’d pulled on a former client to catch up with her.
“In.” The girl at Zaria’s back jammed the barrel of the gun between her shoulder blades. Zaria started, eyes fixed on the gloved hand ofwhomever was waiting inside the stagecoach. Mister Vaughan, no doubt. The man to whom she’d delivered a faulty explosive. He was holding the stagecoach door ajar, and though she couldn’t yet see his face, she could only imagine the expression there. After everything, was this to be the end for her? It seemed almost unbearably unfair.
She clenched her fingers more firmly around the necklace in her pocket. Though she hadn’t yet taken it out, she could tell what it was by the way it seemed to pulse against her skin. Somehow—for some reason—Kane had given her the primateria source. It didn’t make any sense. He was adept at sleight of hand, sure, but Zaria couldn’t recall being close to him in the moments after he’d snatched the necklace from Ward’s cooling body. More to the point, why would he want her to have it? After everything she’d done, she couldn’t see a single reason for Kane to help her.
Because the sourcewouldhelp her. It was why she’d snatched it from under his nose in the first place. It was the only way she could keep practicing alchemology without destroying herself in the process, and Kane knew as much.
She was still reeling as she sank onto the firm leather seat of the stagecoach, the girl with the gun clambering in behind her. With her broad shoulders and muscled arms, she was more imposing than the slight man who now sat across from them.
“Miss Mendoza.” The man removed his hat and extended a hand. “A pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.”
Zaria shoved her apprehension aside, arranging her face into an expression of cool confidence. It was the demeanor she adopted whenever she engaged in business dealings, and though it was certain to be of little help here, she let it wash over her with practiced ease. Finally relinquishing the necklace, she grasped the man’s gloved fingers. “Likewise. Mister Vaughan, I take it?”
The man’s smile was tight-lipped, not quite reaching his blue eyes. He looked to be in his forties, with prominent features, pale skin, and dark hair that was starting to gray. If the stagecoach hadn’t marked him as someone of status, his outfit would have done the trick; he was dressed according to the latest fashions, his black ensemble uncreased and well-made. Zaria disliked him at once.
This fact was only cemented when he said, “You’ve found yourself in all sorts of trouble now, haven’t you?”
She didn’t answer, glancing out the tiny window. Gray clouds still billowed into the air above Horseferry—eighteen years of her life and work up in smoke alongside George Zhao’s smoldering pawnshop. The acrid scent of it infiltrated the stagecoach.
“I’m Evan Pritchard,” the man continued. “Mister Vaughan’s most trusted, as it were. Don’t roll your eyes, Maisie,” he snapped, attention suddenly flicking to the girl at Zaria’s side, whose lips were pursed. Collecting himself once more, Pritchard folded his gloved hands in his lap. “Vaughan is far too busy to chase after those who have disappointed him. And youhavedisappointed him, Miss Mendoza. An explosive meant to destroy only organic matter—is that not what he commissioned from you?”
Zaria inclined her chin. “Yes, but—”
“You can imagine his disappointment, then, when the detonation of the faulty device caused quite a scene. And if there’s one thing my employer doesn’t like, it’s being disappointed.”
“My intention was not to disappoint,” Zaria said, keeping her voice measured. “The explosive wasn’t faulty. I know what I’m doing, Mister Pritchard. But alchemological supplies are expensive, and I didn’t have the soulsteel required to properly complete the job. I knew I wouldn’t be granted another extension, so I delivered what I had.”
“Which was nothing but a regular bomb,” the girl—Maisie—snapped. A pink flush had crept into her lightly freckled cheeks. “You’re lucky I didn’t shoot you the moment I tracked you down. Do you know how it mademelook? Delivering a device that didn’t work as promised?”
Zaria had a vague recollection of Maisie inspecting the commission the night she’d come to collect it on Vaughan’s behalf. It was obvious then that the girl was familiar with alchemology, even if she hadn’t been able to identify any issues. And why should she? Zaria was careful. She knew how the dark market worked, and how the most impressive magical items were those indistinguishable from their nonmagical counterparts.
“Oddly enough, your reputation didn’t factor into my decision,” Zaria retorted, irritation prickling along her spine. She knew it wasn’t smart, speaking this way to someone holding a gun, but she was just sotired. “Like I said, I didn’t have the supplies I needed. It had nothing to do with my inability to create what Mister Vaughan was asking for. Please pass along my sincerest apologies.”
