Recently, the market had expanded to include curiosities, which the wealthy collected and displayed for no reason other than they found them interesting and wanted to appear worldly. Skulls and bits of exotic animals, alchemological compounds, and items pilfered from faraway places the British Empire had brutally colonized… It was often a detestable practice, curiosity collecting.
Tonight, Covent Garden was quiet. Shop doors were shut, and gas lamps illuminated silent, swift-moving individuals. Although the rain was scarcely more than a light spray, it trickled down the back of Zaria’s neck like a physical foreboding. She kept her guard up, stepping carefully on the slick cobblestones as she struggled to match Maisie’s pace.
“Are you finally taking me to meet Vaughan?” Zaria couldn’t help wondering aloud.
The other girl’s laugh was curt. “Unlikely.”
“I’m starting to wonder if he even exists.”
“Oh, he exists. He just does things a little differently than Alexander Ward did. Ward was all about presence. Everyone knew hisface, even if they rarely saw it. Vaughan prefers to act from behind the scenes.”
It took a moment for the words to register. When they did, Zaria’s mouth went dry. Maisie, noting her sudden silence, raised a brow. “Come on. Did you really think we wouldn’t find out about Ward’s death?”
No. No, of course Zaria hadn’t thought that. But it did make her more nervous about what she was going to walk into. “So I suppose Vaughan doesn’t have much use for me after all, then. What is he planning to do? Kill me?” The words came out bitter and detached. “Turn me over to the coppers?”
“I think you’ll find you remain more useful than you realize,” Maisie said. “Particularly given your relationship with the new kingpin.”
Every muscle in Zaria’s body seemed to go rigid at once. “The new kingpin?”
“Surely you’re not surprised. With a role like that, I imagine people were eager to replace Ward before his body had cooled.”
Zaria barely heard her—she was too busy trying to reason with herself. Kanecouldn’tbe the kingpin. He may have been Ward’s favorite once, but he’d killed the man, for God’s sake. “It can’t be him.”
“Kane Hunt?” One side of Maisie’s mouth lifted, though she kept her gaze straight ahead. “Why can’t it be? It’s not like people weren’t expecting him to swoop in. Based on his reputation, he’s just clever enough—justmadenough—to take up that mantle.”
If what Kane had said was true, then the other crew members would never accept him as Ward’s replacement. He was too young. Too volatile. He had limited allies apart from Fletcher, and now he didn’t even have him.
Zaria wondered what Fletcher was doing now. Whether he’dever forgive the boy who’d secretly gambled with his life and called it love. Their last conversation replayed in her mind often—mainly the warning Fletcher had imparted.
Kane, when he’s angry, is dangerous, but Kane when he’s grieving? That’s a catastrophe.
Heaven knew Devil’s Acre had enough catastrophes to deal with already. Zaria gave a shake of her head, trying and failing to think of an appropriate response. Luckily, it didn’t seem to matter—Maisie grabbed Zaria’s collar, forcing her to a halt before an acid-green shop front. The sign above it bore the wordsNEALE’S EMPORIUM. “This is it.”
Zaria frowned. She’d been by the place before but had never had occasion to enter. The curtains were drawn, no light emanating from behind them. The front door was peeling. Another sign pinned at eye level declared the placeCLOSED. “Not to state the obvious, but I don’t think they’re open.”
Maisie ignored this, rapping her knuckles against the painted wood in a sequence of triplets. A moment later, there was the telltale click of a dead bolt. A tall man in his midthirties appeared in the doorway, smiling grimly at them in a way that suggested recognition. Despite the cool evening, sweat beaded on the brown skin of his brow. “Evening, Miss Ó Coileáin.”
“Mister Neale,” Maisie said, removing her gloves. “Pritchard already here?”
The man gave a brusque nod. “Aye.” He stepped aside, holding the door open so they could enter the crowded shop. Zaria was immediately met with the strong smell of herbs and dust. The emporium appeared to offer everything from clothes and shoes to soaps and various tonics, but Maisie didn’t spare the shadowed shelves a glance.
Neale led them over to a nondescript door behind the cashregister, opening it with a shrill creak of hinges and beckoned them into the adjacent stairwell. Apprehension prickled Zaria’s spine as she descended the steps, and not only because Maisie was right on her heels. Beneath the emporium, she was astonished to find an enormous room of velvet drapes and low murmurs. Tables and chairs had been arranged in separate clusters, several of them occupied by small groups deep in quiet conversation. The raucous noise Zaria usually associated with pubs was absent.
She was surprised by how little similarity it bore to the store upstairs. In one corner, a grinning man passed drinks across a mahogany bar. Crates were stacked against the wall behind him, presumably full of wares yet to be sold. It was, by all appearances, a fully functioning pub. A second business operating secretly beneath the floor of the first. Cast-iron sconces lit the large space with a wavering glow barely bright enough to identify the other patrons’ features, and the floor was carpeted in a deep maroon pattern.
Zaria knew London boasted dozens of havens for people to conduct dark market business, though she’d never needed to visit such a place. With her father’s unfinished commissions, she had enough to contend with, and any new clients knew where to find her.
Or they had, at least. Now that the pawnshop was gone, nobody would be able to find her. It was probably for the best.
“He’s over there. Table in the back left,” Neale said, pointing.
Maisie nodded. “Thanks.”
Zaria followed their gazes. Indeed, Evan Pritchard sat alone at a table in the corner, clad in another pressed suit and high-collared shirt. His expression was impervious as he watched them approach. Zaria forced her chin high. If they were meeting in public, she couldn’t be intoomuch danger, although she doubted Pritchard was as alone as he appeared.
“Miss Mendoza. How nice to see you again.” A flask of wine sat before him, his own glass already full. “Please sit. A drink?”
She shook her head, sliding into a chair across from him. Maisie did the same. It was interesting—sound didn’t appear to carry in here the way it usually did. Zaria attributed it to the velvet drapery around the seating, at least until she spotted a device hanging from the ceiling by their table. To anyone else it might have been inconspicuous, barely noticeable, but she recognized the metallic sphere and mesh covering for what it was: a muter. Using alchemology to play with sound frequencies, the device emitted a low-level noise that made speech nearly incomprehensible when it was farther than an arm’s length away. They were admittedly intriguing, but Zaria had never been commissioned to create one, given that an alchemologist in the north of London specialized in them.
