Edward Archibald Tuttle stood outside the Stone’s Throw, frowning at the time.
It should be open by now, but the bolts were still thrown, the windows shuttered, and everything within seemed strangely still. He checked his pocket watch. It was after noon. How odd. Suspicious, he thought. Nefarious, even. His mind spun over the possibilities, all of them dark.
His family insisted that he had too vivid an imagination, but he held that the rest of the world simply lacked the sight, the sense for magic, which he, obviously, possessed. Or at least endeavored to possess. Or, truly, had begun to fear he would never possess, had begun to think (though he would not admit it) did not exist.
Until he found the traveler. The renowned magician known only as Kell.
That single—and singular—meeting had rekindled his belief, stoked the fires hotter than they had ever been.
And so Edward had done as he was told, and returned to the Stone’s Throw in hopes of finding the magician a second time and receiving his promised bag of earth. To that end, he had come yesterday, and to that end, he would come again tomorrow, and the next, until the illustrious figure returned.
While he waited, Ned—for that was what his friends and family called him—spun stories in his head, trying to imagine how the eventual meeting would take shape, how it would unfold. The details changed, but the end remained the same: in every version, the magician Kell would tip his head and consider Ned with his black eye.
“Edward Archibald Tuttle,” he’d say, “May I call you Ned?”
“All my friends do.”
“Well, Ned, I see something special in you. …”
He’d then insist upon being Ned’s mentor, or even better, his partner. After that, the fantasy usually devolved into praise.
Ned had been playing out yet another of these daydreams while he stood on the steps of the Stone’s Throw, waiting. His pockets were weighed with trinkets and coins, anything the magician might want in exchange for his prize. But the magician had not come, and the tavern was all locked up, and Ned—after whispering something that was equal parts spell and prayer and nonsense and trying unsuccessfully to will the bolt from its place—was about to pause his pursuit for the moment and go pass a few hours in an open establishment, when he heard a crash behind him in the street.
Horses whinnied and wheels clattered to a halt. Several crates of apples tumbling out of a cart as the driver pulled back sharply on the reins. He looked more frightened than his horses.
“What’s the matter?” asked Ned, striding over.
“Bloody hell,” the driver was saying. “I’ve hit him. I’ve hit someone.”
Ned looked around. “I don’t think you’ve hit anything.”
“Is he under the cart?” went on the driver. “Oh God. I didn’t see him.”
But when he knelt to inspect the space beneath the carriage, the spokes of its wheels, Ned saw nothing but a stretch of soot—it was, strangely enough, vaguely person-shaped—across the stones, already blowing away. One small mound seemed to move, but then it crumbled inward and was gone. Strange, he thought with a frown. Ominous. He held his breath and reached out toward the smear of charcoal dust, expecting it to spring to life. His fingers met the ash and … nothing happened. He rubbed the soot between his thumb and forefinger, disappointed.
“Nothing there, sir,” he said, getting to his feet.
“I swear,” said the driver. “There was someone here. Right here.”
“Must have been mistaken.”
The driver shook his head, mumbling, then climbed down from the cart and reloaded the crates, looking under the cart a few more times, just in case.
Ned held his fingers up to the light, wondering at the soot. He had felt something—or thought he had—a prickle of warmth, but the feeling had quickly faded to nothing. He sniffed the soot once and sneezed roundly, then wiped the ash on his pant leg and wandered off down the street.
II
Kell and Lila made their way to the docks, invisible to passersby. But not only invisible. Intangible. Just as the ash had passed through them at the ruined inn, and Kell’s hand through Lila’s shoulder, so did the people on the street. They could neither feel nor hear them. It was as if, beneath the veil, Kell and Lila were not part of the world around them. As if they existed outside of it. And just as the world could not touch them, they could not touch the world. When Lila absently tried to pocket an apple from a cart, her hand went through the fruit as sure as the fruit went through her hand. They were as ghosts in the bustling city.
This was strong magic, even in a London rich with power. The stone’s energy thrummed through Kell, twining with his own like a second pulse. A voice in the back of his head warned him against the thing coursing through his body, but he pushed the voice away. For the first time since he’d been wounded, Kell didn’t feel dizzy and weak, and he clung to the strength as much as to the stone itself as he led Lila toward the docks.
She’d been quiet since they left the remains of the inn, holding on to Kell with one hand and the timepiece with the other. When she finally spoke, her voice was low and sharp.
“Before you go thinking Barron and I were blood, we weren’t,” she said as they walked side by side. “He wasn’t my family. Not really.” The words rang stiff and hollow, and the way she clenched her jaw and rubbed her eyes (when she thought he wasn’t looking) told another story. But Kell let Lila keep her lie.
“Do you have any?” he asked, remembering her biting remarks about his situation with the crown. “Family, that is?”
Lila shook her head. “Mum’s been dead since I was ten.”
“No father?”
Lila gave a small humorless laugh. “My father.” She said it like it was a bad word. “The last time I saw him, he tried to sell my flesh to pay his tab.”
“I’m sorry,” said Kell.
“Don’t be,” said Lila, managing the sharp edge of a smile. “I cut the man’s throat before he could get his belt off.” Kell tensed. “I was fifteen,” she went on casually. “I remember wondering at the amount of blood, the way it kept spilling out of him. …”
“First time you killed someone?” asked Kell.
“Indeed,” she said, her smile turning rueful. “But I suppose the nice thing about killing is that it gets easier.”
Kell’s brow furrowed. “It shouldn’t.”
Lila’s eyes flicked up to his. “Have you ever killed anyone?” she asked.
Kell’s frown deepened. “Yes.”
“And?”
“And what?” he challenged. He expected her to ask who or where or when or how. But she didn’t. She asked why.
“Because I had no choice,” he said.
“Did you enjoy it?” she asked.
“Of course not.”
“I did.” There was a streak of bitterness woven through the admission. “I mean, I didn’t enjoy the blood, or the gurgling sound he made as he died, or the way the body looked when it was over. Empty. But the moment I decided to do it, and the moment after that when the knife bit in and I knew that I’d done it, I felt”—Lila searched for the words—“powerful.” She considered Kell then. “Is that what magic feels like?” she asked honestly.
Maybe in White London, thought Kell, where power was held like a knife, a weapon to be used against those in your way.
“No,” he said. “That’s not magic, Lila. That’s just murder. Magic is …” But he trailed off, distracted by the nearest scrying board, which had suddenly gone dark.
Up and down the streets, the black notice boards affixed to lampposts and storefronts went blank. Kell slowed. All morning they had been running notices of Rhy’s celebrations, a cycling itinerary of the day’s—and week’s—parades and public feasts, festivals and private dances. When the boards first went dark, Kell assumed that they were simply changing over stories. But then they all began to flash the same alarming message. A single word:
MISSING
The letters flashed, bold and white, at the top of every board, and beneath it, a picture of Kell. Red hair and black eye and silver-buttoned coat. The image moved faintly, but didn’t smile, only stared out at the world. A second word wrote itself beneath the portrait:
REWARD
Sanct.
Kell slammed to a stop, and Lila, who’d been half a step behind, ran into him.
“What’s the matter?” she asked, pushing off his arm. And then she saw it, too. “Oh …”
An old man stopped a few feet away to read the board, oblivious to the fact that the missing man stood just behind his shoulder. Beneath the wavering image of Kell’s face, an empty circle drew itself in chalk. The instructions beside it read:
If seen, touch here.
Kell swore under his breath. Being hunted by Holland was bad enough, but now the whole city would be on alert. And they couldn’t stay invisible forever. He wouldn’t be able to lift a token, let alone use it, as long as they were under the veil.
“Come on.” He picked up his pace, dragging Lila with him until they reached the docks. All around, his face stared back at them, frowning slightly.
When they reached Fletcher’s shop, the door was shut and locked, a small sign hanging on its front that read RENACHE. Away.
“Do we wait?” asked Lila.
“Not out here,” said Kell. The door was bolted three ways, and likely charmed as well, but they didn’t need to be let in. They passed straight through the wood, the way they had half a dozen people on the street.
Only once they were safe within the shop did Kell will the magic to release the veil. Again it listened and obeyed without protest, the magic thinning and then dissolving entirely. Conviction, he mused as the spell slid from his shoulders, the room coming into sharper focus around him. Holland had been right. It was about staying in control. And Kell had.
Lila let go of his hand and turned back to face him. She froze.
“Kell,” she said carefully.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Put down the stone.”