“What the hell is this?” she growled at Pritchard, who watched her impassively where he stood by the grand double doors.
He flashed a satisfied smile. Looking at him now, Zaria didn’t know how she’d ever believed him a well-mannered gentleman from upper-class stock. It was evident in the way he moved that he was no stranger to violence. This wasn’t the stiff, falsely pleasant bloke she’d encountered in the stagecoach that first day—this was a man you didn’t want to turn your back on.
He reminded her of Kane, she realized abruptly. He was acon.
Pritchard approached the sofa, his hands clasped in front of him. “How are you, Miss Mendoza?”
“How am I?” Zaria resisted the urge to spit in his direction. “Not great. You shot me, if you’ll recall.”
“Ah, yes.” Pritchard patted his waistband. “Your aleuite revolver was a clever idea, truly.”
Zaria narrowed her eyes. Pritchard doubtless had some knowledge of the dark market, but she hadn’t thought he would recognize the gun for what it was. She’d only come up with the design a couple of weeks prior. “If you knew what it was, then you never intended to kill me, did you?”
He chuckled. “Of course not. Besides, do you really think you were the first person to create such a thing? I’ve been working with aleuite for nearly as long as you’ve been alive. It’s more versatile thanmost people think, if only they’re willing to experiment with it. How do you think I managed to keep you unconscious this long?”
“You’re an alchemologist.”
His shrug was blasé. “Guilty.”
“So youarethe Curator.”
Pritchard laughed again, this time with a smug edge to the sound. “Goodness, no.”
Something about the way he said it snagged Zaria’s attention. “Then it has to be Vaughan. Who are you, really? How did you come to be a member of the commission?”
Pritchard sighed through his nose. “My father was a chairman of the East India Company. He recently passed, so I took his position.”
Zaria stilled. The East India Company was one of Britain’s most powerful—and horrible—corporations. She didn’t know much about history, but shedidknow that the company was responsible for inciting numerous overseas wars in their bid to force territories to become colonies of Britain. Colonies whose art and culture were now being exhibited in the Crystal Palace by their usurpers. “So evil is hereditary in this case, is it?”
She could tell she’d struck a nerve by the way Pritchard’s nostrils flared. Apparently done with their conversation, he stalked even closer, stretching out a hand. “Give me your arm.”
“Myarm?”
“I’m not going to ask a second time.”
Still Zaria didn’t move, fear overtaking her. Pritchard beckoned with his outstretched fingers. “You can do as I say, and receive the explanation we both know you’re so desperate for, or I can shoot you again, and you can go into this blind. It’s your choice.”
She leaned away from him. “Go intowhatblind?”
“You have three more seconds to make your decision.”
Biting the inside of her lip, she thrust her arm out, feeling horribly vulnerable. Before she could comprehend what he was doing, Pritchard jabbed a syringe into the crook of her elbow, eliciting a gasp. She yanked her arm back, her gaze blurring with panic as she examined the tiny red pinprick where he’d injected her. “What was that? What did you justput in me?”
“It’s harmless,” he reassured her. “Now, if I were you, I’d try to relax. She’ll be in soon enough.”
“Who will?”
Zaria might as well not have spoken. Pritchard was already on his way to the door, his steps purposeful. She repeated the question, lurching to her feet only for her legs to give out.
The door slammed as Zaria collapsed to the floor, bewildered. Had her limbs gone numb after too many hours of immobility? They didn’t seem to be tingling the way she might expect had they fallen asleep. Rather, it was as if the connection between her brain and body had simply been… interrupted.
Panic surged as she realized her arms, too, were being leached of their strength. She used one final bit of effort to drag herself back to the sofa and propped her body against it, breathing hard. Obviously whatever Pritchard had injected her with was causing this, but what was it? Andwhy?
Then she heard the door open.
Although her limbs had failed, Zaria found she was still able to turn her head, and she watched as a lovely blonde woman swept into the room.
She was slim and keen-eyed, perhaps twenty or so years Zaria’s senior. Her hair was the color of spun gold, piled in an intricate-looking knot atop her head, and her dress was a deep red with velvetembellishment. Of three things, Zaria was immediately certain: This woman was wealthy, self-assured, and cold as ice.
