Was that it, then? Had Professor Lachlan been right about the stone’s properties? He said they were unique—singular. Maybe Ishtar’s Key had disintegrated because it was already there, waiting for her in the past.
But if that were the case, had he known this would happen, that she might be trapped here? And if he had, why hadn’t he warned her?
The whole situation felt like another one of the Professor’s tests, which meant it was another chance to prove herself to him. Only this time, her life—her very future—was at stake.
The thought only made her that much more resolved. If she could get the Book, she could get the earlier version of the stone as well. Once she had it in her possession, she could return to her own time. She could make sure Dakari was okay.
Another wagon clattered past the open mouth of the alley, the wooden wheels rattling and the muffled clip-clop of hooves disrupting the stillness of the night. In theory, she had been trained with all she needed to fit into the past, to blend with the people there and do what she was meant to do. But theory and reality felt like such different things from where she stood now, alone in a dark alley, listening to horse-drawn carriages clattering down streets that should have held the soft rumble of engines and blaring horns of automobiles.
But worrying about her fate wasn’t doing anyone any good. ?The city might have changed dramatically, but she hadn’t. She could still put the plan into action. She would make her way to the Haymarket and find Bridget Malone, as Professor Lachlan had instructed. She helped girls with magic find places to use their skills, places that weren’t the back rooms of brothels. If the rumors were right, the madam worked for Saunders specifically. Esta just had to get Bridget’s attention.
The only way to go was forward, as always.
Looking up and down the street, Esta got her bearings. Even though the streets looked so different, her own city was still there, pulling her in the direction she had to go and, with a little luck, toward Bridget Malone.
A SMART MOUTH
The Haymarket
By the time Harte turned onto Sixth Avenue, he could see the glow of the Haymarket ahead. It was the best-known—and most notorious—dance hall in the city. Inside, those who lived above Houston Street rubbed elbows with waiter girls from the slums, music played long into the night, and for the right price, the private stalls on the upper floors could be used for any entertainment a paying customer wanted.
Not that he needed any diversions of that type. He knew well enough what attachments like that could do to people. He’d seen what it did to his mother and knew firsthand how love and infatuation had made her desperate enough to throw everything away—including him.
He wasn’t that little boy anymore, though. If the evening went to plan, he might be able to leave all those memories and regrets far behind him.
Stepping out from the shadow of the elevated tracks that ran above the entrance of the dance hall, he climbed the three steps and passed through the narrow entryway. Even before Harte was completely inside, the bright notes of a newly popular ragtime tune and the discordant buzz of the crowd assaulted him.
The moment he stepped through the door, a girl with white-blond hair took his overcoat. She was so young, not even the paint on her face could cover her greenness. She was eager—new, perhaps. But he knew the innocence beneath the powder and paint wouldn’t last for long. Not in a place like the Haymarket.
Harte gave a tug to straighten his sleeves. “Mr. Jack Grew is expecting me,” he said, imbuing his soft voice with the same compelling tone that made his audiences lean forward to listen. He gave over his hat—but not his gloves. Those he tucked into his jacket.
“He’s not arrived yet,” the girl told him, her cheeks burning scarlet. Another mark of her doomed innocence.
“Let him know I’m at the bar when he does?” He slipped the girl a few coins.
He made his way through the crush of bodies, hating the too-potent spice of perfumes that were barely able to hide the stale odor of sweat beneath. It reminded him too much of how far he’d come, of those mornings his mother would stumble home smelling the same.
Shaking off the memories, he found a space at the crowded bar and ordered, tipping the woman who poured his drink more than necessary when she served him. Her eyes lit, but he turned from her, making it clear he wasn’t interested.
The first floor of the dance hall was already crowded. Women in brightly colored silk gowns with painted smiles clung too closely to the men who led them across the floor. The minutes ticked by as he nursed his drink. When it was gone, he didn’t order another. Half an hour past when they were to meet, Jack Grew still hadn’t shown.
The hell with it.
He wasn’t staying. He probably shouldn’t have come in the first place. Ever since Shorty had given him the warning, nothing about the night felt right, and Harte hadn’t survived so long by ignoring his instincts. He’d go back to his apartment, run a steaming-hot bath in the blessed silence, and wash off the grime of the day. He could deal with Jack some other time.
Harte placed the empty glass back on the bar, but as he made to leave, he felt the unmistakable warmth of magic nearby.
Impossible. No one would be stupid enough to use their affinity in the Haymarket, not when many in the room had ties to the Ortus Aurea. Not when the entire hall was monitored by the watchful eyes of Edward Corey’s security guards. Corey, the owner of the Haymarket, played both sides. He had close ties to the Order, but it was rumored that he also used Mageus as guards, people who were willing to rat out their own in exchange for a fat paycheck each week.
But there it was again—the rustling of magic calling out to him and anyone else nearby with an affinity.
Harte scanned the crowd. On the edges of the room, it was clear Corey’s men had sensed it as well. Already, they were on the move, searching for the person who’d brought the contraband power into the ballroom.
In the periphery of Harte’s vision, a flash of deep green caught his eye at the same time that he felt another flare of warmth. He turned and found the source of it—a girl smiling up at her much older dance partner, while her fingers dipped nimbly into his pocket.
Harte was halfway across the dance floor before he realized she didn’t look like the other girls. She was young, which wasn’t unusual in her line of work, but her face wasn’t covered in the usual powder and paint, and her eyes didn’t have the weariness of a woman who’d already given up. Her clothes, a gown in deep hunter velvet, fit her slender figure too well to have been ready-made. Clearly, she came from money, but from the way she was maneuvering her right hand into her dance partner’s pocket without him noticing, she was no novice dip. It was an intriguing combination.
By the time her partner looked up at him, Harte had already taken hold of the girl’s wrist, effectively drawing it out of the man’s pocket and stopping the couple’s dance.