Page 116 of When the Sky Breaks

Smoke from steamships hung heavy in the air, and the white, domed port administration building was streaked with soot. The wind shifted a few degrees, blowing the reek of the graving docks our way. My stomach rebelled immediately, and I leaned over the railing and vomited into the harbor. Ansel had disappeared into the crowd, no doubt negotiating something with luggage or train fares. But Neal rubbed my back, offered a handkerchief, then water. And then he went stiff. I looked up to see Guinevere Marchmont heading down the gangway, eyes fixed on the two of us.

“High Lady Wilson,” Guinevere said as she approached.

“Mrs. MacCairn,” I corrected her instinctively.

“Mrs. MacCairn,” Guinevere continued. “I just wanted to offer my sincerest apologies for my outburst.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“It was uncalled for,” Guinevere said.

“You called me a whore,” I muttered. “I’m your sovereign.”

Guinevere looked sheepish.

“Don’t stay in touch,” I replied. “Please?”

Guinevere simply nodded and ducked away, trailed by a string of porters with her luggage.

Ansel reappeared a few minutes later, brandishing not one but three sets of train tickets.

“Do you feel well enough for research?” he asked immediately.

“With the cold? And a real bed?” I replied. “Most likely.”

“We’ve got options. All first class—obviously.” Ansel spread out the tickets on top of our trunk. “London has the best libraries. But no official Outer Court outpost, which means hotels. Edinburgh has the big Outer Court headquarters plus the universities. It’s also where I’ve told all my contacts to report back with news of the cults. Or if you’ve decided you’re tired of travel and want to reach our final destination as quick as possible and let the staff dutifully trek back and forth from the mainland, I’ve got tickets for Glasgow—we can catch a ferry to Islay.”

“Edinburgh,” I replied instantly. “I’m tired of hotels. I want any updates we can get from your informants. We can make some progress before we properly set up shop in Islay.”

“I’ll send word ahead, we’ve got an archivist up there who can start digging,” Ansel said.

“We have archivists?” I asked. “And you’re just telling me this now?”

“We have everything up in Edinburgh, lass,” Ansel replied.

“Should’ve moved back ages ago,” I muttered.

The Outer Court outpost in Edinburgh was old, older than Ansel. The original structure dated back to the 1300s, built by my great-granduncle with extensive remodeling done at the turn of the previous century. Ansel had sent dozens of telegrams prepping the staff. And so when we arrived there were no formalities, no awkward parades of servants, just a hot meal, a bed with silk sheets—apparently brought in from France after I’d mentioned how much I liked them in New York—a pile of updates from the Outer Court intelligence agents researching the cults, and our lead archivist Marta.

The only sticking point? Alexi. The same Inner Court nobleman who’d crashed Neal’s and my wedding back in Santa Fe was now squatting at a hotel three doors down, showing up daily with a new list of intrusive questions and reasons why the staff should let him in.

He had not, in fact, been let in.

It was far less aggressive a tactic than Iksura had been employing back in the States and I wondered if word that her legal claim was unfounded had somehow reached the Inner Court already.

Settled, with resources and time and relative safety, it was time to research the portals in earnest. So Ansel and I spent the morning after our arrival combing through memos from our field intelligence agents and folios from Marta. Neal had disappeared with the outpost Steward hours ago after sending Alexi away yet again.

The Inner Court nobleman did seem to be on orders from Iksura. But those orders were different from the dozens of letters we’d had since my father’s death. He was to “keep an eye on any developments” and “see if he could foster friendship.” So far his only achievement was a set of broken fingers from trying to catch the door before a particularly disgruntled porter slammed it in his face when he showed up earlier than usual and refused to leave.

“There’s documentation here,” I said. “So the cops aren’t sweeping it under the rug like back in New Orleans. Discarded animal carcasses in strange places. Disturbances late at night. She even found records of people being denied employment due to ‘occult tattoos.’ Marta’s thorough. I’m impressed.”

“I think New Orleans was a fluke,” Ansel said. “City that already had too much comfort with occultism from hoodoo. It leapt onto something that just festers elsewhere and turned it into the dominant culture.”

“Define everywhere?” I asked.

Ansel spread the memos over my desk. “I’m seeing reports from Hyderabad to Greenland and anywhere you can name in between.”

“Greenland?” I asked incredulously.