Page 21

“Long enough, if nothing goes wrong. But we will get only one chance.”

“The demonstration itself could provide cover,” Adeline said. “Chaos. Confusion. If we create enough of a distraction⁠—”

“They'll be focused on the spectacle,” Mira finished. “Not on someone slipping backstage.”

“Syra can hold glamours on our group,” Adeline continued. “Make us look like panicked audience members fleeing. By the time Elias realizes August is gone⁠— “

“We're already out.” Syra's expression was calculating. “Risky. But possible.”

“And if the suppression fails before we complete the bond?” I asked quietly.

“Then the corruption floods back while your magics are intertwined.” Beatrice didn't look away from me. “Best case, the bonding fails. Worst case, it damages you both. Possibly kills you.”

Of course.

Six stages. Five to ten minutes. One attempt. Racing against the suppression failing. And all of it contingent on August choosing me through the fog of months of corruption and control.

“And if we succeed?” I asked. “If we complete the bond before the suppression fails?”

“Then I can remove the corrupted magic from the pendant entirely. Give you both a clean focusing stone to ground with.” Beatrice’s expression softened. The first time I’d seen anything close to warmth in it. “And August will be free.”

“Two weeks,” Adeline said, already planning. “We train. We prepare. And we make sure that we get August out.”

I looked around the room—at these people who’d become more than allies, more than fellow fighters. At Marigold in the doorway, holding the frame the way she held everything, as if testing whether it would stay. At Beatrice, who'd given me answers I didn't want but needed. At Garrick, who'd gone quiet when it mattered, and Syra, who was already running calculations behind her eyes. At Mira and Adeline, steady as architecture.

“Let’s get to work,” I said.

The ghost-thread burned steady in my chest, and somewhere across the city, it answered.

CHAPTER 7

AUGUST

I'd been in London five days. Or was it six? Time no longer behaved properly. It slipped and pooled, refusing to hold shape, as though the hours themselves had lost interest in being counted.

The townhouse smelled of polish, soap, beeswax rubbed into every surface until the air itself was scrubbed raw. Whatever ghosts had once lived in these rooms had been scoured away with the same ruthless efficiency as dirt.

Elias had confined me to the second floor. A bedchamber, a study, and a sitting room whose tall windows were sealed shut despite their elegant brass latches. I had tried once—only once—to force one open.

The pendant had punished that attempt.

Fog rolled through Mayfair in slow waves. Carriages passed. People walked by wrapped in dark coats against January’s bite, alive in ways I couldn’t remember being. Indifferent to the fact that in ten days, I’d be put on display like a trained animal.

The Royal Opera House.

The thought should have provoked fear. Revulsion. Rage. Instead there was only a flat, dull acceptance—like the echo of emotion rather than the thing itself.

Perhaps this was what I had always been intended for. A tool waiting for a hand to wield it.

The door opened behind me.

I didn’t turn.

“Mr. Hawthorne.” One of the housemaids—I couldn’t remember which one. They all blurred together now, faces dissolving into uniforms. “Your father requests your presence in his study. He said⁠—“

“I will come shortly.”

“He said immediately, sir.”