Page 57 of The Devouring Time

This isn’t France, though. And I’m not helpless.

I reach into the dark space deep inside, even as I step into the open. I don’t know if the ability to conjure cold is some artifact of the Swarm taking over my body, or something I learned in the strange city in the jungle, but it comes far more easily than before. Ice slicks the concrete loading dock, and frost races over the barrel of the gun, biting the exposed skin of the man holding it.

He cries out and flings the weapon away, as if it were a snake. Adrian runs toward me, nearly tripping over the rails. The door to the warehouse swings open again, and armed men run out, slipping on the icy concrete as they do so.

I lock eyes with Adrian—he’s still too exposed, and now so am I. I’ve bought us time but that’s running out too fast.

The dark-haired woman from the speakeasy, who was bent over a book when we saw her inside, steps out from a nearby doorway. In her hands she holds a large square of knitted cloth and a knife.

A shot rings out, striking the railroad gravel at Adrian’s feet.

The woman lifts her cloth in one hand and slashes through the careful stitches.

Wind roars forth, a gale that howls impossibly out of the destroyed knitting, directed at the gunmen on the dock. The ice was already treacherous; when the wind strikes them as well, they’re flung from their feet to the ground or into the wall. Shouts and cries of shock and anger come from the flailing mass of arms and legs.

Adrian makes it back to me, and I grasp his arm with shaking hands. A moment later, the woman sprints up, holding onto her cloche hat with one hand and the knife with the other. The ruined knitting lies abandoned on the ground behind her.

“Come with me,” she orders breathlessly.

39

The bootleggers won’t be down for long, and neither Adrian nor I know this city well. The woman seems to be on our side, at least for the moment.

I exchange a look with Adrian; he must come to same conclusion, because he nods. “Lead the way.”

She dashes down the alley, the pleats of her skirt giving her more freedom of movement than the dress’s silhouette would suggest. A few turns, and we’re back in the tangled streets that seem typical of this older, more run-down part of town. The woman clearly knows them well, despite being better dressed than most of the other people we’ve seen so far in the area. She cuts through a space between buildings so narrow our shoulders brush the brick to either side, heads down a block, and crosses an unexpected courtyard almost completely walled in by old tenements.

A few minutes later, we emerge onto what looks like one of the town’s major streets, running alongside a river. Factories line much of it, but there’s a trolley stop for the workers. As luck would have it, the trolley is just pulling up. We hop aboard with the other passengers, pay our fares, and find seats.

“Miss,” Adrian begins, but she holds up a hand.

“Not here.” Her voice brooks no argument. “I have somewhere we can talk without being overheard.”

The thought of following a stranger to an unknown destination gives me pause…but she didn’t have to save us. She might be on our side, or at least, not on that of the Timekeepers. The other cult keeps trying to kill me on sight, so it seems unlikely she’s with them, either.

And she used magic. A different sort than my clumsy attempts, but magic still. Maybe she can help me understand it, control it better.

Adrian’s thigh is tense against mine where we’re pressed together in the seat. But he must be following the same logic as me, because he doesn’t argue with her. We ride the trolley until it leaves the factory district behind and reaches an area of shops, banks, and department stores. She beckons us off at a stop in front of a stationery store, then walks briskly down the block until pausing in front of one of the shops.

It appears to be a women’s clothing store, judging by the mannequins in the windows wearing evening dresses and what I assume must be costumes meant for upcoming Halloween parties. Gold letters on the door advise us we’re about to enter Rath’s Raiments.

“In here,” she says. The glassy eyes of the disturbingly lifelike mannequins seem to follow me inside.

The air within smells faintly of incense and more heavily of roses. It’s a small, but very tasteful shop, its contents clearly meant for ladies interested in fashion. A tableau of mannequins to one side consists of a bride in a lavish gown, surrounded by women and girls in pastel frocks. The scent of roses must come from the bouquets in their waxen hands.

A woman with graying hair is talking with a small group of ladies near the bridal display; when we enter, she shoots a glance at the woman we’ve been following, presses her lips together slightly, then apparently decides to pretend she’s completely unaware of our presence. Our rescuer leads us through a staff door into a large room filled with bolts of fabric, sewing machines, reams of lace, dress forms, and all the other things I imagine a dressmaker’s shop would need.

Another door lets onto a narrow flight of stairs. We climb two stories before she leaves the stairs for a short hallway, which ends in another door.

“Here we are,” she says, and unlocks the door. It opens onto a cluttered sitting room, the walls covered in bookshelves, the small table piled with magazines. Two tabby cats cuddle in one of the chairs; they open sleepy green eyes to take us in, then resume their nap, clearly unimpressed.

The woman sheds her overcoat and bag, into which I assume she tucked her knife, as I haven’t seen it since the alleyway. I take a moment to observe her—she seems to be in her mid or late twenties, dark hair cut in a bob. She wears a wool dress in tan plaid with a wide belt and pearl buttons. Her shoes are brown leather sport Oxfords, their rubber soles worn enough to suggest she does a great deal of walking.

“It’s safe to talk here,” she says. “Now, have a seat and tell me who you are.”

I hesitate—revealing my name didn’t go over very well with Dr. Dane, though it seems unlikely the Swarm in my body went around alienating every single person in town.

She lets out a gusty sigh and perches on the edge of the table, almost knocking over the magazines in the process. “Fine. A lot of my clients are reluctant to talk at first—not that you’re my clients, of course, unless you want me to embroider a charm in your handkerchiefs or knit you some scarves to hold the wind.”