Zaria gritted her teeth against the wails of children and bellows of the intoxicated, squinting through the smog and darkness. The nearest train station wasn’t too far from here, with steam engines traveling in and out of London fairly often, thanks to the popularity of the Exhibition. She kept close to Jules, neither of them speaking, taking care not to disturb the makeshift clotheslines strung between encampments.
It was strange, knowing they might never return to this place. Part of Zaria wondered if she should feel melancholy about it. Instead, however, her blood seemed to sing with relief as they reached the edge of the slum, that ever-present sense of claustrophobia ebbing. She relaxed her shoulders. Pale light from the waxingmoon filtered between the rooftops, and the road was empty, save for a single stagecoach trundling around the nearest corner.
The moment it passed, an audibleclicksounded from behind them.
Zaria turned slowly, panic careening into her at the familiar noise. It was the sound an alchemological gun made when a bullet clicked into the chamber. Jules was already frozen, hands raised, his horrified gaze meeting hers.
“Well,” a casual voice said. “Isn’t this something.”
Zaria knew who she would see even before her brain processed the sight. Maisie stood with her gun raised, lips curving upward in a way that managed to be devoid of humor. This time, she didn’t have Pritchard with her: Instead, she was accompanied by a scruffy middle-aged man whose brawny build suggested his function was to intimidate. He peered at Zaria and Jules in a way that Zaria immediately disliked, his brown eyes narrowed.
“I have to say,” Maisie continued, “I thought Vaughan was being paranoid when he told us to monitor the outskirts of Devil’s Acre. I didn’t think you wereactuallystupid enough to try and leave London.” She inclined her head at Jules. “And making your friend come along? Whatever would his father have thought when he discovered you both missing?”
Although Jules had never met Maisie, Zaria suspected her words made it easy enough for him to guess who she was. His expression darkened into a deep scowl. “Don’t speak of my father.”
Maisie was unperturbed, adjusting her nondescript gray bodice with her free hand. “Oh, I think you’ll want to hear what I have to say about him, Julian Zhao. He’ll be fine if you go home right now, sit tight, and say nothing about whatever Zaria’s told you.”
“Don’t threaten him,” Zaria snapped, but Maisie ignored her.
Jules swallowed perceptibly. “And if I don’t?”
The other girl shrugged. “You’re not of any particular use. I suppose I’ll have Shaw kill you right here, then head to Mirko Petrov’s and dispose of your father as well. Weapons,” she added, directing the barrel of her gun at Zaria and then back to Jules.
Of course Vaughan knew they were staying at Petrov’s. Gritting her teeth until her jaw ached, Zaria withdrew her own revolver and tossed it to the ground at Maisie’s feet. The large man—Shaw, she supposed—reached over and grabbed it, then did the same to Jules’s knife.
“Good,” Maisie said. “Now, what will it be, Master Zhao?”
“Go,” Zaria told Jules at once. His gaze was wide with indecision, and she tried to look less dismayed than she felt. “I’ll meet you back at Petrov’s later.”
“Will she?” Jules demanded of Maisie, who huffed a sigh.
“Do I look like I make those kinds of decisions? Vaughan will decide what happens next. If I were either of you two idiots, I’d remember that he knows far more than you might think. He has eyes all over the city.” Maisie’s own eyes flashed as she said this. “You might as well accept that you have no chance of leaving London. And speaking of chances, this is your last one.”
Zaria’s stomach seemed to plummet. “What do you mean?”
Maisie held up an index finger. “The faulty explosive.” She held up a second finger. “Trying to skip town after explicitly being told not to.” Finally, she flicked up a third finger. “One more strike, and you’ll find yourself in a world of trouble. Understand?”
Zaria nodded slowly, casting a sidelong glance at Jules, whose nostrils flared.
“Be grateful I’m even bothering to warn you,” Maisie muttered, then squared her shoulders. “Enough. Shaw, escort Master Zhao home, would you?”
She appeared to be daring Jules to argue. He didn’t, instead casting one final, fearful look in Zaria’s direction before allowing himself to be led away by the hulking man.
Zaria let out a silent breath, some of the tension leaving her muscles. She hated it, watching Jules melt into the shadows of the narrow street, but she had to believe it was better than whatever she was about to face. If Shaw was going to hurt her friend, he could have done so already. Right?
Maisie pressed her gun between Zaria’s shoulder blades, forcing her to take a step forward. “Move. In case you’ve forgotten, you’ve got a report to make tonight.”
ZARIA
Maisie led Zaria north, following the general path of the Thames. Although they were a few blocks from the riverbank, the stench of it was perceptible, carried over on the wind as it picked up strength. Even the streets around Parliament weren’t immune, and Zaria pursed her lips to keep the smell from infiltrating her mouth.
“Where are we going?” she eventually asked as the general filth and misery of Devil’s Acre gave way to the opulent wealth of upper Westminster. The differences between London’s various neighborhoods were vast and striking.
“Where do you think?” came Maisie’s unhelpful reply from behind her.
It was only a short time later that Westminster gave way to the Covent Garden area. Right—they would be headed to the Seven Dials slum, an area that Zaria generally made a concerted effort to avoid.
By day, the Covent Garden markets were a sprawling cacophony of sellers and buyers, of shops and bodies and sweat. During weekend evenings, however, the area would oftentimes develop into a hub of dark market activity. It was not, of course, a market in the traditional sense: There were no stalls displaying wares or voices clamoring for a buyer’s attention. Rather, the name simply described unsavory deals conducted by unsavory folk. While alchemology remained the dark market’s focus, it encompassed all manner of illegal dealings. Like her father before her, Zaria only took commissions based on written correspondence and private meetings, but she knew her less talented counterparts were known to seek out work here, sometimes meeting with several potential clients a night.
