For himself, Mr. Kent had chosen the humble profession of circus owner, which he decided gave him license to wear a shockingly pink waistcoat under his black coat and an extremely tall hat. And finally, he’d given Sebastian a dark-green coat, a rather ugly orange waistcoat, and poorly matching pin-striped trousers, not to mention a scruffy beard and mustache—all part of his identity as a penniless poet.
“He’s simply too attractive, and it’s not fair,” Mr. Kent had given for his reasoning. Sebastian had just sighed, which admittedly fit his disguise well.
We looked absurd.
But the crowds around us on the roof seemed to be an equally eclectic mix, and we fit right in among the dockworkers swearing up a storm and the delicate ladies gasping in shock. The scents of all sorts of Londoners wound around us, smoke and perfumes, spirits and bread, but the air was mostly thick with anticipation. In the distance, we could hear the roar of the crowds along the Queen’s route. She was getting close. In response, the bodies behind us seemed to push in closer to get a better view.
My hand tightened around Sebastian’s in a steel grip. A crowd was the last place he wanted to be, and we were forcing him into the middle of the biggest one.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
One look from him answered my question. He ruffled his hair and shook his head. “I am trying not to count the people.”
I didn’t ask whether his worry was Captain Goode or himself. “If you do, we’ll be counting them as people saved,” I said, huddling closer to him, watching the stage.
Below us, a wooden platform had been erected in front of the abbey steps for the speakers. Workmen rushed about finishing the setup. Chairs were positioned, a pathway was cleared from the carriage drop-off below us to the stage, and armed guards were standing sentry every step of the way. Guards that would be useless against Captain Goode and the entire Society.
This was the closest we could get without putting ourselves in danger. Our best hope was to spot him from up here and stop him before he hurt anyone. Though Mr. Kent, Sebastian, and I were particularly helpless in this situation, Emily and Miss Chen more than made up for it. I knew the power they had over any objects that were in their sight. And Mr. Kent had procured two pairs of opera glasses for them to get a better view of the entire scene.
“Does anyone see him?” Mr. Kent asked.
Our group responded with a series of nos.
My hand fiddled with the pistol in my pocket, waiting for a different answer. Mr. Kent had obtained the revolver for me without any warnings or asking any questions, and I didn’t know if he believed I wouldn’t use it or that I wouldn’t have opportunity. But Captain Goode was down there, somewhere. He would show himself soon, and I would be ready.
“Here they come!” someone yelled.
The crowd grew less dignified and more frenzied as the speakers climbed out of their carriages and gathered up on the stage with the dramatic abbey entrance behind them. The first to take his place was Commissioner Henderson of the London Police, easily distinguishable by his muttonchops and bushy mustache. He was soon followed by the stout Home Secretary, Sir William Harcourt, and behind him, observing the crowd pensively, was our white-haired Prime Minister, William Gladstone.
The greatest roar of all rang out, and Sebastian stiffened at the sound of all these people. We both took in a sharp breath, watching the arriving carriage. It was a black so inky and dark it seemed to have every color shining brilliantly in it, each one waiting for its moment in the sun. The horses, too, were early-hours dark, and so sure of themselves, so perfectly muscled, I felt a betting man would put his life on them in a race. The driver came to a smart stop, and the guards on either side opened the door for the occupant the waiting crowd knew to be inside.
The Queen.
Victoria stepped out daintily, her small figure brimming with import. Her guards smoothly escorted her toward the stage, where she paused, and I could see a flash of indecision flit across her face. It was gone quickly, replaced with sober reflection. She climbed the steps, looked out across the crowd, and gave a small, somber wave. The roar increased, people waving hats and handkerchiefs furiously.
I looked down at the most powerful woman in the world—even more powerful than those I knew with strange abilities. The power to rule an empire spanning the entire globe, to change the course of history.
While the thunderous cheers for her proved her popularity, the silence all those people gave her was even more impressive. The crowd finally quieted. The stillness was eerie. Thousands of people, huddled together, with bated breath, waiting to be reassured about the world.
“A terrible event occurred four days ago.”
The words weren’t exactly discernible, but people turned to whisper them, and so they came back to us in waves, the crowd repeating her like schoolchildren at lessons.
“Make no mistake, those responsible will be arrested and brought to justice.”
People murmured approvingly.
“However, there is a dangerous, vicious rumor I must quash.” The air was brimming, almost vibrating with anticipation.
“This horrible tragedy was perpetrated by men. Not creatures, not something pagan or otherworldly. To believe such nonsense is the height of foolishness, blasphemy, and irrationality.”
The crowd shifted a little as the condemnation was delivered.
“When the persons involved are found, their punishment will be great. They will feel the full weight of the law upon them. But heed me: They are men. Not some fantastical, unnatural concoction of your imaginations.”
The relief rolled back, the Queen’s assurances seeming to bolster the people who had begun to imagine were-men and demons.
So that, of course, was when something strange happened.
It was a rumbling. Faint at first, growing louder and more violent by the second. It seemed to be coming from the abbey. The two towers over the west entrance shook and cracked, and everything around it started to vibrate. The wooden stage rattled. All the scaffolding. Our hotel building, one hundred feet away, even shook.
Two guards didn’t wait to see what would happen. They were halfway up the steps to the stage, heading for the Queen, when a sudden blaze of fire erupted in their path, sending them stumbling and falling back down. Now everyone on the stage leaped to their feet, looking for the threat, looking for help, looking for an escape. But none of those were visible beyond the five-foot-tall flames trapping them in.
The scene seemed to move in slow motion as the crowd behind us crushed me against the roof wall, straining to make out what was happening. I grasped the edges of the stone with one hand and held Sebastian’s hand firm in the other as I leaned out as far as possible, unable to believe my eyes. The crowds below swelled forward as well. Some of the guards struggled to keep them back while the others jumped into action, pulling out swords and rifles to attack the unseen perpetrator. The guards closest to the Queen attempted to put out the fire, but whatever they could find to smother the flames simply got engulfed, too.
Suddenly, a wave of gasps rippled through the crowd as a figure emerged from the smoke, floated above the stage, and set down in front of the abbey entrance. He was large, dressed in an old-fashioned black cloak, and he walked with a familiar, elegant gait. He ran one hand through his sleek, dark hair, and we got a better look at his face.
He looked like every Byronic antihero come to life.
My stomach dropped when I realized what I was looking at.
Another Sebastian Braddock.
“Death will come for you!” he roared for all to hear.