Maisie let out a disbelieving snort, and Pritchard silenced her with a look. To Zaria, he said, “Vaughan is well aware of your capabilities. That’s part of the reason he was so disappointed. There are precious few alchemologists in London as it is, which I’m sure you know, and most are highly specialized. You, though—you can create a wide variety of items, like your father. That’s why he’s willing to give you a second chance.”
Rather than feeling relieved, Zaria tensed in her seat. “What do you mean?”
“Did you think Vaughan wouldn’t recognize aleuite when he sees it?” Maisie cut in. “Everyone’s talking about what went down at the Exhibition. They’re already trying to pass it off as a malfunction withone of the displayed steam engines, but anyone with dark market connections knows what really happened.”
“You caused quite the stir, Miss Mendoza,” Pritchard said smoothly. Then, in response to her look of horror: “Yes, Vaughan knows it was you. I understand the Waterhouse exhibit was left in quite a state, too.”
“Howdoes he know all this?”
“That’s not important.”
Zaria brought her teeth together, then spoke through them. “I’d never even heard of your employer until I saw his name in my father’s list of commissions. His alias, that is,” she amended, remembering how Kane had looked into the matter and discovered nobody involved in the dark market went by that name.
“Regardless, Vaughan knows what you’re capable of, and you interest him.” Pritchard tilted his head to one side. Deciding how much to tell her, no doubt. “You see, he’s made considerable strides when it comes to his status in this city. One might even call him the kingpin of the Covent Garden area.”
“You mean Seven Dials,” Zaria said, referring to the slum in London’s West End. She’d rarely had occasion to go there, but she knew it wasn’t dissimilar to Devil’s Acre, which meant Vaughan was undoubtedly the Alexander Ward of that area. The thought made her uneasy. “So you’re part of his crew.”
Maisie’s expression tightened further, but Pritchard smiled again. “Something like that. As I said, considerable strides. My employer’s influence is growing, Miss Mendoza. He’s clever. He understands an asset when he sees one, and he isn’t so quickly moved to violence. A relief for you, I would imagine.”
Zaria gave a noncommittal shrug, unable to ascertain where this was going.
“If one wants to extend that sphere of influence to the dark market, it’s imperative that one participate in it, no?”
“I suppose.”
Maisie let out a harsh sigh. “Get to the point, Evan. She’s obviously not going to make it there on her own.”
Pritchard waved Maisie’s words away, his impassive gaze locked with Zaria’s suspicious one. “Vaughan is aware of your allegiance to Alexander Ward, and his offer involves changing that allegiance. Rather drastically, I might add.”
“I’m not—” Zaria began, then stopped herself. Admitting she was not, in fact, connected to Ward might well mean the difference between getting shot and leaving this stagecoach alive. In the same vein, it didn’t strike her as prudent to reveal that Ward was currently dead beneath the rubble of the pawnshop. “I’m listening.”
“Mister Vaughan wishes to continue to grow his influence even further. As a result, what he requires most is information.”
Zaria had been shifting in her seat, fingers roaming the vertical stitching. At Pritchard’s words, however, she froze, a harsh laugh bursting from her lips. “Are you asking me tospyon the dark market kingpin?”
“I wouldn’t call it spying.”
“Just because you wouldn’t call it that doesn’t mean it’s not.”
Pritchard leaned forward. His smile was a brittle, ingenuine thing. In that moment, the polite, amicable demeanor slipped away, and Zaria realized she was looking at a man who could be very dangerous indeed. “We’re aware of your relationship with Kane Hunt, Miss Mendoza. And although he may try to maintain a low profile, we know he holds a considerable amount of influence among Ward’s crew.”
“Then why don’t you askhimto spy for you?” Zaria bit out. “Why don’t you ask one of the other crew members? Why me?”
“Because Mister Vaughan doesn’t want Mister Hunt or any of the other members. He specifically requested you, and there’s a reason you might want to please him.”
That made Zaria’s insides turn cold, as if ice water had been shot into her veins. When she replied, it was through a dry mouth. “And that reason is what, exactly?”
Maisie rolled her eyes, and Pritchard surveyed Zaria in a way that suggested he thought she was being purposefully obtuse. “Why, he could reveal your culpability in what happened at the Exhibition today. Am I correct in assuming you don’t want that?”
The necklace in her pocket suddenly seemed to weigh a ton. “You don’t have any proof.”
“Do you truly believe we need it? Mister Vaughan is a powerful man in London. And you? You’re a girl who lives in a slum and deals in illegal items.” Pritchard’s lips twisted. “Whose word do you think the authorities will give more weight?”
Was it possible, Zaria wondered, to so thoroughly detest a man you’d only just met? Either way, she couldn’t let Pritchard’s ultimatum rattle her. She had a primateria source. And although that was the only thing she’d taken from the Waterhouse exhibit in her haste, she and Jules still had plans to leave this city behind. All she had to do was appease Pritchard in this current conversation, then get the hell out of London before Vaughan could wise up to the fact that Ward was dead, Kane hated her, and this entire scheme was moot.
Still, she made one last-ditch effort. “Look, I just really don’t think I’m the best person for the job.”
Maisie pivoted her entire upper body to face Zaria. Her dark eyeswere disdainful, and one hand still clutched the gun in her lap, barrel facing outward. “When Vaughan wants you to work for him, you say yes. There is no other option. You take the job, and you thank God for the opportunity.”
