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Which door leads out? Kartik. I look to him. For a moment, he wavers. Then, his eyes travel to the door on my left. He gives a tiny nod, and I know he has betrayed them and shown me the way.
"Wha' are you abou' over there, boy?" Jackson shouts.
It is enough of a distraction that I am able to push through the door with Kartik on my heels. He shoves the door closed.
"Gemma! The blade--hurry! Through the latch there!"
I stick the blade through the iron latch, blocking the door. I can hear them banging and shouting on the other side. It will not hold forever; I can only hope it will hold long enough for us to get away.
"This way," Kartik says. We've come out onto a dark London street. Snowflakes mix with the black swirl of gaslit fog, making it hard to see very far. But there are other people out. I recognize this area. We're not far from Pall Mall Square and the most exclusive men's clubs of London. Those were the men's voices I heard!
"I'll hold them off until you can get away," Kartik says, breathless.
"Wait! Kartik! You can't go back," I say. "You can't ever go back."
Kartik bounces on his heels, his legs torn between standing here and running back, the way a child runs to his mother to say Sorry, sorry for what I did, now please forgive me. But the Rakshana are not forgiving. Kartik's only just realizing what his rash act means. By helping me, he has thrown away any chance of joining them as a member in full. He has turned his back on the only family he knows. He is without patronage, without a home. He is alone, like me. Fowlson and Jackson rush out onto the sidewalk, looking wildly left and right. They spot us. Miss McCleethy follows. Kartik still stands as if he doesn't know which way to turn.
"Come on," I say, looping my arm boldly through his."We're going for a walk."
We do our best to blend in with the people bustling about on the streets, the men leaving their clubs after dinner, cigars, and brandy; the couples on their way to the theater or to a party.
Behind us, I can hear Fowlson whistling a military tune, something I've heard English soldiers sing in India.
"I wouldn't have done it," he says.
"Just walk, please," I say.
"I would have let you get away."
Fowlson's whistling, dishonestly pure, cuts through the street noise and traffic to chill my very bones. I glance behind us. They are getting closer. I face forward to see a greater horror: Simon and his father are just leaving the Athenaeum club. They must not see me here. I drop Kartik's arm and turn back.
"What are you doing?" he says.
"It's Simon," I say."I can't be found out."
"Well, we certainly can't go that way!"
I'm in a panic. Simon steps out from under the watchful eye of the Athena statue atop the club's grand entrance. He is headed our way. His carriage waits at the curb. Someone steps from a hansom, paying the driver. Pushing another couple out of the way, Kartik opens the door for me.
"Duchess of Kent," he says, smiling at the outraged man and woman."She's needed at once at Saint James's Palace."
The man sputters and shouts, drawing the attention of people on the street, including Simon and his father. I duck out of sight.
The furious man demands that I leave his cab. "I must protest, madam! It was rightfully ours!" Please, please let me have it. Fowlson's sighted us. He's stopped his whistling and quickened his step. He'll be to us in a matter of seconds.
"What seems to be the trouble?" It's Lord Denby's voice.
"This young woman has taken our cab." the man sniffs."And this Indian boy claims she's the Duchess of Kent."
"I say, Father, isn't that Mr. Doyle's former coachman? Why, it is!"
Lord Denby squares his shoulders."Here, now, boy! What is the meaning of this?"
"Should we call for a constable?" Simon asks.
"If you please, miss," the man says imperiously, offering his hand through the window as I struggle to stay out of sight. "You've had your fun. I'll thank you to leave our cab at once."
"Come now, miss," the driver calls."Let's not 'ave all this trouble on such a raw nigh'."
