Ten seconds later she was on the sidewalk and blending in behind some office workers, while the cab raced on. The police followed about half a minute later, snarling up the traffic as they claimed the right of way, forcing other cars to the sides of the street.
Irene took a moment to catch her breath. The streets here weren’t as busy as the ones she’d left, which meant less potential cover to reach the New York Public Library. And the streets were wider. On either side the buildings reared up like cliff faces, as smooth as fractured mica. At street level there were shop signs, restaurant signs, people going in and out, lights, noise, action – but above her, the whole of New York seemed to be watching.
There wasn’t time for a complete costume change – the police, the mobs and Hu’s men were too close behind her. She needed some way to hide. She needed divine inspiration. She needed a miracle.
The raucous noise of a brass band and stamping feet became audible even through the squealing of tyres and blaring of car horns. On the opposite side of the street a group was marching, banners raised and heads held high. The slogans on their signs declared VOTE DRY, ALCOHOL IS POISON, LIPS THAT TOUCH LIQUOR SHALL NEVER TOUCH MINE and similar sentiments.
For a moment Irene wondered if this was just a little too convenient. Coincidences like this might occur in a high-chaos world, but were less likely elsewhere. But the papers had warned of temperance marches across the city today. It was ideal.
She made her way across the road and folded herself into the rear of the column. She bowed her head, trying for an expression of sincere devotion to the Cause. Other pedestrians were either pausing to mock the group or avoiding even looking at them. And at this moment, that was precisely what Irene wanted. She opened and closed her mouth in time to the hymn the marchers were singing and hummed along with the chorus.
The sun was setting in the distance in a triumphant glow of reds and oranges as the march drew to a stuttering halt in front of one large building – not too far from her destination. Several of the more muscular-looking women quickly assembled a makeshift podium from planks and boxes that they’d been carrying. There were clear class divisions among the protesters: the upper-class ones stood back and gave the orders, while the lower-class ones did the actual work. Some things didn’t change, no matter how many worlds you visited.
A couple of police cars rattled by, but to Irene’s relief they didn’t stop.
But before she could make a break for the library, a hand tapped her shoulder. ‘Haven’t seen you here before,’ the woman next to her said.
‘I don’t recognize you either,’ Irene answered, smiling pleasantly as she assessed the other woman. She was neatly and smartly dressed, but not expensively, and she was wearing glossily buckled high heels rather than something that would have been comfortable to walk in. ‘Do you work near here?’ she guessed.
‘I’m a legal secretary at Sallust and Floddens,’ the woman said, offering Irene her hand to shake. ‘Lina Johnson. Pleased to meet you. Love the coat. You’re English?’
‘I can’t really hide it,’ Irene admitted. She ran through her mental list of aliases. If the name ‘Rosalie’ had made it into the newspapers, it would be unsafe to use it. ‘Clarice Backson,’ she said, falling back on an earlier pseudonym. At least she should be safe from any dragons recognizing it. ‘On holiday from England. When I saw the march, I felt I had to join in. I hope you don’t mind.’
‘Mind? I should think not!’ another woman chimed in. ‘If more women were willing to stand up for their beliefs, we’d have a better America. We need more citizens like you.’
There were approving nods around her. Irene was just congratulating herself on her blending skills when she recognized a couple of George the Dude’s men approaching. And they were looking at the women.
‘Perhaps you’d tell me about how you’re operating here,’ she said to her questioners, turning her back to the mobsters. ‘Give me some suggestions I can take back home.’
The ensuing surge of comments meant that she could keep silent, hiding her telltale English accent as the mobsters passed. But her throat was dry with nerves. The worst thing was being so close to the New York Public Library. Having her goal within sight made it that much harder to hold her position. She hoped Kai and Evariste were having an easier time.
‘You ought to be one of the speakers,’ Lina Johnson suggested. ‘You could tell us how our British sisters are fighting the good fight!’
‘Oh no,’ Irene said quickly. ‘I’m not a good public speaker.’
But the idea had unfortunately caught on. ‘You just need to speak from the heart, Miss Backson,’ another woman said firmly. ‘Stand up there and tell them God’s own truth.’
‘No, really, I couldn’t possibly . . .’ Irene said. It wasn’t working. She was being shoved through the crowd by her admirers, towards the podium. Strong-minded women with a cause accepted even fewer excuses than the average gangster, when it came to getting what they wanted, and what they wanted right now was Irene making a speech. ‘I don’t think . . .’
Then she saw the gangsters coming back towards the group of marchers. And Hu was with them.
Irene rapidly reassessed her possible options: she was out of time and out of luck. Her best option now was stalling for any delay she could gain.
‘. . . but if you say so, I suppose I could try,’ she said, and let herself be pushed forward.
Irene took a deep breath and stepped up as the previous speaker stepped down. She was only a couple of feet off the ground, but the sea of faces looking up at her in the sunset light made her stomach swim with vertigo. Or perhaps that was just stage fright. Now that she had a better point of view, she could see more of George’s men – looking dangerously alert.
They hadn’t noticed her yet. Oh well, Irene decided, she might as well make this last for as long as possible.