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‘St Magnus-the-Martyr Church,’ Tom mused as they headed back down Narrow Street. ‘What could Eleanor be doing there in 1923?’
‘St Magnus used to be the entrance to Old London Bridge, right?’ Joan said.
‘By 1923, though, it’s just a church,’ Jamie said. He frowned, thinking; Joan guessed he was running through his mental archive. ‘I don’t know how Eleanor could change the timeline there. Whatever event or person she’s targeting, it’s not obvious to me.’
‘Did Ying say anything more specific than 1923?’ Aaron said. ‘Did he have a date?’
‘March fifth,’ Joan said.
Nick lifted his head. He’d been gazing down the long street, tracking a man begging for coins, hat in hand; a little girl scooping something from the street into a basket. His 1890s outfit should have been nondescript—half the street was wearing the same style: shirt, waistcoat, trousers. Nick’s physique, though, made his ensemble look unassumingly dangerous. ‘Why did your father and Astrid say this was inevitable?’ he asked Jamie. ‘That doesn’t make sense to me.’
‘I have some theories.’ Jamie glanced up at the thunderous sky from under the shelter of Tom’s umbrella.
Tom noticed the glance. ‘Let’s get a coach,’ he said.
They ended up jumping on an empty omnibus, drawn by two plodding horses and emblazoned with an ad for Borwick’s Baking Powder: The Best That Money Can Buy. It was rickety and old, but fully enclosed, and Joan saw Jamie relax as he took a seat. There was just enough room for them to sit three abreast, and they ended up with Tom, Jamie, and Aaron on one side and Ruth, Nick, and Joan on the other.
Joan found herself pressed tight against Nick. When Aaron toed at the thick layer of straw on the floor, his knees brushed against Joan’s. A tiny jolt went through her at his touch. She was still getting used to him being here, she thought.
‘What are you doing?’ Ruth said to Aaron.
‘Checking for fleas,’ Aaron said, as if that should have been obvious. ‘What’s the point of straw without strewing herbs?’
‘Insulation,’ Tom said. It was a tight squeeze for the six of them, and Tom barely fit into his seat. Frankie stood on one of his knees, with the easy balance of a boating dog. She watched the rain-smeared street rattle by, huffing a yearning whuff as a horse passed them.
Aaron examined a frayed hole in the blue velvet of the seat with horror. ‘If you’d given me half an hour, I could have arranged for decent transport.’
‘As if we’d let you send for an Oliver coach,’ Ruth said. ‘Half the Court would arrive with it.’
‘I’m not going to turn you in.’ Aaron’s tone was impatient, but his grey eyes turned to Joan as he said it.
‘I know,’ Joan said to him. A vulnerable look flitted across Aaron’s face, followed by wariness. Even after their conversation, he didn’t quite believe she trusted him. He still thought he might be hurt at the end of this.
Joan bit her lip. He wouldn’t be safe if he went after Eleanor. None of them would be safe. She pressed a hand against her breastbone, trying to ease the tightness in her chest.
Nick shifted beside her. ‘So what’s the plan?’
‘First up, sleep,’ Ruth said. ‘You two were unconscious for most of last night. You need real rest.’
As Ruth said that, the background ache of Joan’s body throbbed to the fore. She was tired. She wouldn’t be able to rest, though. Not with so much going on in her head. There was so much to plan.
Nick said what she was thinking. ‘I don’t think I can sleep. There’s too much we don’t know. We have to figure out our plan of attack. And we’ll need clothes for 1923 …’
‘We need to understand what we’re up against,’ Joan agreed. ‘What powers does Eleanor have access to? What resources does she have? And what are we going to do when we actually find her?’
‘We’re going to kill her,’ Tom said flatly.
‘Tom,’ Jamie said.
Tom had never looked more serious. ‘If I get the chance, I’ll do it myself.’
Jamie took his hand. ‘She probably doesn’t even remember me.’
‘That only makes me want to kill her more.’
Looking at their clasped hands, Joan had a flash of Jamie’s crooked, broken fingers from the previous timeline. Unlike Nick, Jamie remembered some of his torture.
‘Nothing’s going to happen until 1923,’ Aaron said in an even tone that reminded Joan of Ying trying to calm them. ‘That’s thirty-two years from now. There’s plenty of time to plan and rest.’ He perked up as he said it. ‘Does this bus leave Limehouse? There’s a decent place in Mayfair, run by …’ He trailed off at the unenthusiastic response from the rest of them. He muttered to himself, ‘Or I suppose we could just stay here with the fleas.’
