“Yes. Though it’ll be a bit out of place at our first stop.”
—
MADAME VOLTIANA’S SHOP WAS STILL FULLY operational, even with the ward down. People might need to barter on street corners for grain or tobacco, but high-society ladies couldn’t be expected to do without exquisite tailoring. Dressmaker dummies clothed in elegant, headless fashion waited by the door to greet customers. There were fewer seamstresses working at Voltiana’s now, but the purple-skinned faerie was all smiles and enthusiasm when Eliza, Maria, and I arrived, and all business as I was measured for a new gown.
Madame Voltiana clapped her bony hands while she admired my reflection. “You will look as marvelous as I can make you. You’re too tall, of course, and not shapely enough, but with my design no one shall be able to tell!”
Lovely. The faerie pinched me while she measured my hips and waist and adjusted my posture. Eliza sat on a plush sofa, choosing between two brightly colored swatches of silk. Maria, who’d been plopped down beside her, studied her surroundings as if she’d stepped onto another planet.
For all of Madame Voltiana’s cheerful insults, the shop was a welcome bubble of femininity. In here, it seemed, the war had not come.
“Wait until you see the color. It will be a confection of molten red and rich Indian orange. You will look like a tongue of flame,” Voltiana cooed. “I could make your gown like the phoenix, so that at midnight it would burn. Of course, you’d be walking around naked afterward, but we all must suffer for art.”
“Since it’s Lady Eliza’s birthday, that might be too attention-grabbing,” I said carefully. Voltiana could be swayed by her muse, as she called it, and forget reality.
“Maybe burgundy for me?” Eliza lifted one of the silk pieces. “Or royal purple.” She showed them to Maria. “Which do you think?”
Maria blinked, then picked up a piece of silk that was bright peacock blue. “This one’s nice,” she said, utterly lost. Eliza clucked her tongue.
“It’s lovely, but not my coloring.” She held up the purple and beamed. “Yes. This one.”
“Oh my lady, you should be in light colors. You are young as the springtime,” Voltiana trilled, jabbing me with another pin. I bit my tongue.
Eliza had made up her mind. “Royal purple. I want it to make an impression. You never know who’ll be in attendance.” She smiled knowingly. “George will probably have several young men as candidates.”
I flinched, and this time it had nothing to do with Voltiana’s pins. Blackwood hadn’t told his sister he was still writing to Aubrey Foxglove? If he didn’t have a talk with her soon, I would.
After the fitting, we were climbing into Blackwood’s carriage when I gasped and struck my forehead. “Maria, we need herbs from the market, don’t we?”
“Aye,” Maria said, sounding incredibly stilted. “How could we have forgotten that? Oh, woe.” She woodenly put her hands on her hips. She was an excellent warrior—an actress, not so much.
“It’s just nearby. Eliza, why don’t you go home to tea?” I closed the carriage door with a decisive click.
“What are you up to?” Eliza asked.
“Not a thing,” I said, giving a smile that I hoped was convincing. Eliza did not appear convinced.
“Be careful, then. Whatever you’re doing.” She frowned, and the carriage rolled out of sight. I felt a twinge of guilt. I’d have been happy to take her along, but I didn’t want to make her lie to Blackwood. Besides, who knew what dangers we might find?
Maria and I hurried down the street, arm in arm. “Keep your hood up and your head down,” she said. “In case any should recognize you.”
London was so different than it had been only a few months before. Barricades of sandbags and gravel were being erected along the streets, precautions that would slow certain Familiars but not do much to stop an Ancient. The air smelled permanently of smoke and sweat.
Before, the faces of the wealthy had been relaxed, while those outside the ward’s protection had a pinched and harried look. There was no real difference now. Wealthy women in brightly ribboned bonnets and poor patchworked beggars each wore the same haunted expression. Though tearing down the ward had been the right thing to do, I couldn’t help but feel ashamed.
More tales of R’hlem’s attacks arrived every day, doubling in savagery. Eighty sorcerers had died in a single night on the outskirts of Sheffield—there were whispers that they’d all been flayed alive. Every death now made me recall R’hlem’s words: I will show you horror. Give me Henrietta Howel.
That’s why we’re here, I reminded myself as we raced across a muddy street. We’re going to make these weapons work. We’re going to show R’hlem what horror truly means.
Finally, we came out onto a broad thoroughfare. Piccadilly was a large circle, avenues feeding it like veins running into a heart. The old un-warded trade hub, Ha’penny Row, had been ruthlessly smashed during Korozoth’s attack. Now all the tradesmen and merchants came here to buy and sell.
I purchased a pair of dubious meat pies, and Maria and I ate quickly while the city roared around us. Hansom cabs and wagons, horse-drawn omnibuses with rusted tin hoods and barouches tore through the roundabouts and roads, narrowly avoiding collisions. I’d never heard such a din in my life, as all around us bodies of rich, poor, and every station in between sweated and pressed and coughed and shoved from one side of the street to another.
While Maria sucked gravy from her fingertips, I led us down Piccadilly toward Bond Street. The arched entrance to Burlington Arcade soon appeared on our right. It was a long, covered walkway with shops on either side. It had been a fashionable destination before the ward fell, where ladies shopped for perfume or candied fruits. Now the elegant stores shared space with panhandlers and oyster sellers.
“Let’s see,” I said, pulling out the flyer and threading my way through the crowd with Maria in my wake. The paper said shop fifty-nine, but when we arrived, all we found was an empty ruin. The windows were broken, the door boarded up. Paint peeled in long, curling strips. No one had entered in years.
I chewed my lip in frustration. Had I deluded myself into thinking that the magicians had risked everything to set up shop in their old home? The chest had malfunctioned, most likely. That, or I’d misunderstood what it had wanted to tell me.
“You’ve got the squinty-eyed look.” Maria jabbed me with her elbow. “Shouldn’t be so quick to give up.”
“What would you suggest we do?”
“Try the blade bit.” Maria tugged a thread from her skirt. She thought there was a glamour here, though I felt no magic. Well, why not? I took Porridge, sliced myself much less deeply this time, and coated the thread in blood. Maria held it as I concentrated, cut, and…
My hands tingled as a gash appeared in the air by the door. Maria clapped her hands in delight.
“I love that blade bit,” she crowed, stepping through the cut. I followed, and behind me the tear sealed itself back up. What had once been a deserted shop was now a long, crooked alleyway. Magicians, it seemed, had a Burlington Arcade all their own, and it thronged with people.
The place made me think of a house that had long been shuttered and abandoned, and whose windows were only just now being thrown open, its hallways swept, the cloths taken off the furniture.