“Stop it,” he said tersely, his grip on her arm tightening to the point of pain. “You don’t want to make this difficult, Miss Mendoza, I assure you.”
Zaria glared at him through the rain. His top hat protected hisface from the worst of the downpour, but water sluiced off the rim and soaked his suit jacket. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
Pritchard’s lip curled, his retort interrupted by a sudden holler in the near distance. It took Zaria a moment to realize that whoever it was had yelled hername. She fought to pivot in the direction of the sound, glancing wildly over her shoulder as Pritchard continued his bid to force her into the stagecoach.
Then she saw him—Fletcher. He was sprinting toward them, a sodden, towering figure silhouetted by the gray buildings. His arms were outstretched as he pointed what could only be a gun. “Let hergo!”
Pritchard cursed under his breath, bodily maneuvering Zaria so that she was directly in front of him. Breathing hard, she tried to break away, tried to sprint to Fletcher, but the man’s hold was unyielding. “Stay out of this,” Pritchard called back to Fletcher. “This has nothing to do with you, fool boy.”
Zaria could see Fletcher deliberating, looking for a way he could shoot Pritchard without hitting her. Her hopes weren’t high as Pritchard fastened an arm across her chest and dragged her backward. She thrust her chin up, going limp, but it only seemed to make his task easier. He was using her as a human shield. In that moment, Zaria had never felt so weak and inadequate. It was impossible to kick at Pritchard from this angle, and she let out a keening sound of frustration at the exact time that a gun fired.
She went utterly immobile at the noise. At first, she couldn’t determine what had happened, panic and fury making her disoriented. Then, in the distance, she saw Fletcher crumple to the ground.
“NO,” Zaria screamed, fighting against Pritchard with renewed vigor, lashing out in an uncoordinated frenzy of limbs. “No, you son of a—”
The next thing she knew, all the world went black.
KANE
Kane shouldn’t have kissed Zaria again.
He knew that. Quite apart from the fact that it had been entirely the wrong time, he’d just spent the better part of twenty-four hours convincing himself that it was done. He’d spoken his truth, gotten to taste her the way he’d yearned to since that day in the workshop, and then told himself to disconnect. That brief moment was all they would have. It was all theycouldhave. No matter how hard Kane tried, he couldn’t conjure a scenario in which they could be together.
Zaria might believe she wanted him, but Kane knew it wasn’t enough. He was trapped in his role, and she would never be happy at his side. There was a reason he’d never seen Ward in any kind of romantic relationship. It was too dangerous, and no one in their right mind would willingly choose that type of life. Besides, he and Zaria were barely adults. This—obsession, if that’s what it was, would pass when they were no longer in close proximity. Zaria would findsomeone who loved her in the way of a regular, redeemable man, and Kane would find his way back to feeling nothing at all.
So why did he want so badly to claw his heart from his chest? Why did this kind of agony rival any alchemological dart?
He shouldn’t have been thinking about any of this. Not now, while he was watching the Royal Commission wrap up their meeting. It had to have been at least two hours. Kane’s entire body was sore, the wound in his torso most of all, but he barely felt it. He was too busy digesting the fact that he hadfailed.
Two hours of watching these men interact, and he still didn’t have a clue who the Curator might be. At first, he’d had high hopes—a small group of men had been arguing before the meeting commenced, but one of them left right after that and didn’t return, leading Kane to wonder whether the man had been a member of the commission at all.
Otherwise, the meeting had gone rather as he might have expected. The devices at the Exhibition were the main topic of discussion, and though there were a few moments of polite disagreement, none of the interactions suggested one member had a bone to pick with the others. Kane had been a fool to think he would be able to identify the Curator simply by seeing him. The culprit could be sitting here right now, smiling and nodding in agreement, not saying a word.
The deadline to deliver a name to Price wastomorrow. Kane didn’t have time to explore any other avenues. If he couldn’t find the true culprit, then he needed a scapegoat. He certainly wasn’t about to let it be him.
“Have we covered everything?” boomed the man who seemed to have led much of the discussion, dragging Kane’s attention back to the table below.
“Are we planning to feedThe Timesany more information aboutwhat’s happening at the Exhibition?” another man said. “At this point, the intrigue is substantial.”
That had Kane sitting bolt upright. He held his breath as the first man—Dilke, someone had called him earlier—shook his head. He was heavyset and proud-chested, his gaze acute even from a distance. “According to Mister Cole and the prince consort, the queen is unhappy enough as it is.”
An older fellow on the far end of the table spread his withered hands in disbelief. “But the publicity is driving ticket sales through the roof.”
“Be that as it may, it’s also drawing the attention of alchemologists who recognized the Curator’s symbol for what it is. The crown understandably doesn’t want to be connected to that. In recent years, they’ve already spent considerable time and resources tracking down those who know too much. Best not to inspire any rumors.”
Kane frowned. He’d been scanning the commission members’ faces at the mention of the Curator, but it was what Dilke had said next that really piqued his interest. The crown had been tracking down those who knew too much. Too much aboutwhat, though? And then, another thought: Was that what had befallen Ward’s predecessor? Had he been killed because—as that entry in the ledger suggested—he knew something he shouldn’t? It was interesting that these powerful men seemed to have no qualms discussing alchemology behind closed doors.
Dilke clapped his hands together as he stood. “If there’s nothing further, then this session is adjourned.” He set about proposing a time for their subsequent meeting, but Kane didn’t stick around to listen. He needed to find Zaria so they could leave this place ahead of everyone else.
He crept back to where he’d left her, confused to find the door slightly ajar. Zaria could be forgetful, but she was careful when itmattered. She would never have left it open on purpose. Apprehension bore down on him as he climbed the stairs two at a time, taking a swift look around when he reached the top.
Zaria wasn’t there.
It was possible she’d already gone back downstairs, of course. Surely she remembered the way. But when Kane returned to the storage room, narrowly avoiding being spotted by a member of the staff, it became clear she was not there, either.
“Durante.”
Kane whirled where he stood at the bottom of the stairs, relieved to see that it was only Jules half jogging toward him. “Where is she?”
