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The carriages are brought round, signaling the end of our evening. We congregate outside the club. Father, Tom, and Dr. Hamilton are deep in conversation. Grandmama has taken a tour of the club with some of the wives and hasn’t returned yet. I’ve wandered down to see the garden when I’m pulled into the shadows.
“Luv’ly evenin’, innit?”
The thug’s hat is low on his forehead, but I know that voice as well as the angry red scar marring the side of his face. Mr. Fowlson, the Rakshana’s loyal guard dog.
“Don’t scream,” he advises, taking my arm. “I just want a word on behalf of my employers.”
“What do you want?”
“Awww, coy is it?” His smile turns to a hard scowl. “The magic. We know you’ve bound it to yourself. We want it.”
“I gave it to the Order. They’re in possession of it now.”
“Now, now, you tellin’ fibs again?” His breath smells of ale and cod.
“How do you know I’m not telling you the truth?”
“I know more than you fink, luv,” he whispers.
The steel of his blade gleams in the chilly night. I look over at Father talking happily with Dr. Hamilton. He is very like the father I’ve missed. I would do nothing to upset that fragile peace.
“What do you want from me?”
“I’ve told you. We want the magic.”
“And I’ve told you. I don’t have it.”
Fowlson rubs the flat of the blade along my arm, sending a dangerous tickle through my skin.
“’Ave it your way. You’re not the only one wot can play games.” He glances toward my father and Tom. “Good to see your father out and about. And your brother. I hear ’e wants to make a name for himself in the worst way. Old Tom. Good old Tom.” Fowlson flicks a button from my glove with the point of his knife. “Maybe I should ’ave a lil chat wif ’im about wot his sister gets up to when ’e’s not payin’ attention. A word in his ear, and ’e could have you thrown in Bedlam.”
“He wouldn’t do that.”
“Sure of it, are you?” Fowlson flicks another button from my glove. It skitters along the cobblestones. “Oi’ve seen girls ’oo won’t buckle down given the old pick-and-mallet to the brain to cure their ills. ’Ow would you like spendin’ your days in a room there, looking out at the world through a lil window?”
The magic flares inside me, and I use all my strength to keep it down. Fowlson mustn’t know I have it. It isn’t safe.
“Give the magic to me. I’ll see it’s taken care of proper.”
“You’d use it for yourself, you mean.”
“’Ow’s our friend Kartik?”
“You should know more than I, for I’ve not seen him at all,” I lie. “He proved as disreputable as the rest of you.”
“Good ol’Kartik. When you see ’im next—if you should see ’im—tell ’im old Fowlson was askin’ after ’im.”
Kartik said the Rakshana assumed he was dead, but if Fowlson believes he is alive, then Kartik is in danger.
Suddenly, Fowlson sheaths his knife. “Looks like your carriage ’as arrived, miss. I’ll be seein’ you round. You can count on it.”
He gives me a little shove from the shadows. Oblivious to what has just taken place, Tom motions to me. “Come along, Gemma.”
The footman secures the steps.
“Yes, I’m coming,” I answer. When I turn back, Fowlson has gone, disappeared into the night, as if he’d never been beside me at all.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
