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It’s as if some fog has lifted, and I see clearly for the first time since this all began. I will not be intimidated, not by them. Not by anyone.
“And you will have nothing then,” I shout, sure and strong. “Nothing to shield yourselves from my power. And I will unleash it, sirs, like the hounds of hell, if you should harm one hair on his head!”
Lord Denby’s finger waits at the ready. The executioner’s knife also. For the longest moment, we all wait on the precipice.
“You’re a woman. You won’t do it.” He lowers his hand, and I don’t stop to think. I summon the magic and the knife becomes a balloon that slips from the man’s grip.
“Tom, run!” I shout.
Tom sits, confused, and Kartik makes a grab for him and pulls him away as I vibrate with the power I’ve suppressed for too long. It speeds out of me with new purpose. And no one’s eyes are wider than my brother’s as I send the walls crawling with flames. Phantoms swirl overhead, shrieking. It doesn’t matter that it’s only illusion; the men believe it.
“Stop!” Lord Denby cries, and the flames and the phantoms are gone. He stumbles to the railing. “We are reasonable men, Miss Doyle.”
“No, you’re not. And so I must speak very plainly, sir. You are never to approach my family again, or there shall be consequences. Do I make myself clear?”
“Quite,” he gasps.
“What about the realms?” Kartik calls out. “Do you forget that we have long been its guardians? Will you not come with us into the Winterlands?”
The men mumble to one another. No one comes forward for the ardous journey.
“Very well,” Lord Denby says. “I shall assemble some foot soldiers for the task.”
“Foot soldiers?” I ask.
Kartik folds his arms. “Men like Fowlson and me. Men who won’t be missed.”
“Yes, take Mr. Fowlson with you,” Lord Denby says as if suggesting a servant for hire. “He has a way with a knife. You’re a good chap, aren’t you, Folwson?”
Mr. Fowlson accepts the statement like a blow he will not return. His jaw clenches.
“As it is my choice, I shall have Mr. Fowlson. We understand one another. And he does have a way with a knife,” I say. “Untie my brother, if you please.”
Mr. Fowlson loosens Tom’s bonds. He shoulders Tom’s limp body, and we move toward the door.
“The blindfold!” a man bellows.
I throw it on the floor. “I don’t need it. If you wish to wear it, be my guest.”
“Gemma! What the devil is going on? What did you do?” Tom demands. He’s beginning to unravel, and action must be taken.
“Hold him still, will you, please?” I say to Kartik and Fowlson, who take hold of Tom’s arms.
“Here now! Unhand me at once!” he insists, but he’s a bit too groggy to struggle.
“Thomas,” I say, removing my gloves, “this will hurt you far more than it will hurt me.”
“What?” he says.
I give him a good, clean punch to the mouth, and Tom is unconscious.
“You’re a hard one,” Fowlson says to me, propping my brother up in the carriage.
I settle my skirts over my legs properly and pull my glove neatly over my aching hand. “You’ve never taken a carriage ride with my brother when he is in such a state, Mr. Fowlson. Trust me, you will thank me for it.”
When Tom has recovered his senses—what sense he has, that is—we sit near the embankment. The streetlamps cast pools of light onto the Thames; they run like wet paint. Tom’s a mess: His collar sticks out like a broken bone, and the front of his shirt is spotted with his blood. He holds a wet handkerchief to his bruised face while stealing glances at me. Each time I meet his gaze, he looks quickly away. I could call on my magic to help me here, to blot all traces of this evening and my powers from his mind, but I decide against it. I’m tired of running. Of hiding who I am to make others happy. Let him know the truth of me, and if it’s too much, at least I shall know.
Tom moves his jaw gingerly. “Ow.”
