Читать книгу Stranger: - Zoe Archer - Страница 11

Gemma hurried to keep up with Catullus Graves’s longlegged strides as they cut through the streets of Liverpool. She had no idea where he was taking her, but he seemed to know exactly where to go. Gemma darted a quick glance behind. None of the thugs followed, though Astrid and Lesperance remained vigilant as they trailed after her and Graves.

“Those men,” she panted. Damn those weeks of travel, leaving her softer and less conditioned. “They were sent by the Heirs?”

“Yes.” Clipped and alert, he didn’t spare Gemma a glance. But he didn’t release her, either. His hand was an unbreakable hold around her wrist. “And they saw you.” This he said with anger hard in his voice. Anger at her? She had just helped him.

When a train station loomed into view, Gemma tried to dig her heels into the pavement. “Don’t send me away.”

He didn’t slow, her resistance proving useless against his strength. “I’m not,” he growled. “We are taking a train to Southampton, and you’re coming with us.”

So prepared was she to argue her case, she thought she misheard him. “What?”

On the steps leading into the station, he finally did stop, swinging around to face her. Behind his spectacles, his eyes were deepest brown, gleaming with fury and resolve. “I was a damned idiot,” he snarled. “I let one of those bastards see you, and now your life isn’t worth tuppence.”

His anger was for himself, not her. But she couldn’t allow that. “He only saw me for a second. Surely that’s not enough.”

“For the Heirs, it’s all they need. It won’t take much for them to learn who you are, and know that you fought on the side of the Blades. That means your life is imperiled.” He paced up the stairs to the station, with her still in tow. “The safest place for you now is with me.”

A fast chill ran along Gemma’s spine to think that she was now the target of a ruthless band of powerful, magic-wielding men. She’d experienced danger before—including a trio of unruly fur trappers desperate for female company, though they were less inclined to pursue her after she shot one in the hand and nearly emasculated another. There had been many other brushes with risk. But nothing like this. Nothing where she truly felt her life was threatened.

Graves would keep her close, keep her safe. There was no doubt in him. While she was in his care, he would ensure no harm would come to her.

Inside, the station teemed with activity, almost as chaotic as the docks. Gray sunshine poured in from large skylights, illuminating the cavernous station and people swarming along platforms, where huge, shining black trains waited and steamed. None of the thousands of people here had any idea that a war was being fought for the world’s magic. But they might learn, when she wrote of it.

If she lived.

Graves stopped in the middle of this industrial and human maelstrom. Astrid and Lesperance caught up, and the Englishwoman shot Gemma a suspicious glance.

“She’s coming with us, then?”

“One of them saw her.”

Astrid nodded with grim understanding, though it was clear from her severe expression that she didn’t care for Gemma’s presence.

Well, Gemma didn’t much like Astrid Bramfield, either. “You aren’t the only woman who knows how to fight.” She had proved it, minutes ago.

“Good.” But there was no faith or gratitude in the Englishwoman’s silver eyes.

“Miss Murphy’s shown she can be trusted,” Lesperance said.

“She’s demonstrated she can swing a rope,” countered Astrid. “That doesn’t mean she’s trustworthy.”

“She’s still coming with us,” said Graves.

“And standing right here,” added Gemma. She didn’t care for being talked about like a unmatched, smelly shoe.

“I’ll purchase the tickets.” Graves finally released Gemma’s wrist to move toward the ticket counter, and she found she wanted his touch again.

“Wait!”

He swung around at her cry. She closed the distance between them. When she reached up to his face, he pulled back with a frown.

Gemma licked her thumb and rubbed it over his cheek, where the thug’s hook had cut him. The contact of wet skin to skin was a visceral charge. “You had a little blood on your face,” she breathed in the close space between them.

The air of hard authority fell away from him for a moment as his frown disappeared. He swallowed, tried to speak, then, finding no words, turned and strode toward the ticket counter. His long, dashing coat billowed behind him as he paced away.

Gemma watched him, saw the crowds part ahead of him, deferring to his natural air of command. She had seen the swift, confident grace of his movement in combat, the speed of his mind and body working together to create a man of devastating potency. Yet, with her, he became cautious, uncertain. What a paradox, one that fascinated her not as a journalist, but as a woman.

She broke her gaze to find Astrid Bramfield studying her. Gemma sent a challenging look right back. Yet, for some reason, the Englishwoman’s gaze was more contemplative than critical.

A few minutes later, Graves returned and handed each of them tickets. “We’ll have to change trains a few times, but we should reach Southampton by tonight.”

“And then?” asked Gemma.

“And then,” he said, “we will convene with the rest of our friends, plan our attack strategy. Nothing can be gambled when so much is at stake. And you will remain in Southampton under guard whilst we battle the Heirs.”

“Under guard,” she repeated, glowering. “You mean, held prisoner.”

He did not blink at her accusation. “Call it what you like. But you will be safe.” He turned away. “We have a train to catch.”

The world rushed by, smokestacks and suburban developments giving way to farmland and fields. Gemma sat at the window, watching England as it unfolded around the rushing train, her mind filling with images and words as it always did whenever she observed something new.

A tame place, she decided, compared to home. Everything she saw out the train’s window seemed old, weighted down with millennia and history. Green, gentle hills and low stone walls. Farmhouses and biscuit-tin villages. She tried to picture the magic that must exist beneath this cultivated country, the magic the Heirs of Albion would seize for themselves to ensure England’s dominance.

Yet when Catullus Graves sat opposite her in the train carriage, thoughts of secret wars for magic fled from her mind. She couldn’t look away from him. He’d cleaned the cut on his face and now presented the image of an elegant gentleman traveling. One would hardly suspect that not an hour earlier, he’d been fighting in a Liverpool street like a born warrior. But Gemma saw the small powder burns on his left hand and knew that his outward sophistication made up one small part of the whole.

Gemma openly studied him now.

He was abstracted, deep in contemplation, with that ever-present line between his brows. She wondered what he thought about: The Heirs? A new invention? Her?

His distracted gaze drifted to the window, then, restless, moved over her. And as soon as that happened, he suddenly remembered that she was in the carriage, too, and his demeanor changed.

He focused on the landscape speeding past, almost as if too shy to look at her. He’d been so imposing at the train station, and then, moments earlier, he’d been the picture of a brooding general on the eve of battle. Now he was diffident. They were alone in the carriage, Astrid Bramfield and Lesperance having gone to the dining car for something to eat. The air, as it often did when she and Graves were alone together, became charged.

A somewhat awkward silence stretched between them, with the clatter of the train as a steady undertone.

“Did you really make that shotgun shell with the net in it?” she asked.

He turned to her, guarded. “I did.”

“I’ve never seen anything like that. It was remarkable.”

He flushed slightly at her praise, and tugged at the cuffs of his perfectly aligned shirt. “A very simple device, I assure you.”

“Not to me.”

“Inventions and mechanical devices are something of a family trade.”

She was amazed at his genuine humility. “They should be proud of you, then.”

He gazed at her with hooded eyes. “You are still going to remain in Southampton, Miss Murphy.”

Gemma snorted. “I’m not trying to flatter you into letting me stay with you, Mr. Graves. My compliment is sincere.”

“Ah.” He was abashed. “Well … thank you. And, if I may say, Miss Murphy—”

“Go ahead and call me Gemma,” she said. “Calling me ‘Miss Murphy’ is too formal, especially after I saved your bacon today.”

“You didn’t ‘save my bacon,’” he said, indignant. “I was perfectly in control of the situation. But,” he added at her noise of protest, “you did lend a hand in that fight, and for that, I do thank you.” He made a small bow, one hand pressed to his chest.

She found herself mollified. The man could speak so beautifully. Gemma felt she could listen to him describe the digestive systems of jellyfish and she would be enthralled.

“In fact,” he went on, “I cannot think of another woman, who wasn’t a Blade, who could handle herself as admirably.”

The variety of blandishments Gemma received from men often involved her looks. All surface, no substance. Her appearance had nothing to do with her, or who she was, not truly.

“I don’t think anyone’s ever complimented me on the way I swung a heavy rope in a brawl.” When he made choked noises of apology, she added quickly, “It’s the best compliment I’ve ever been given.”

“Really?” He blinked at her.

“Usually I get some nonsense about my eyes or my hair or other trifling things.” She made a dismissive gesture with her hand. “But, to be praised for how I fight—that means something. So, thank you.”

“Oh.” He fidgeted with the lapel of his coat. “You’re … welcome.”

Then, because she had come so great a distance for so much, she went on. “That’s not the first time you’ve mentioned these people I believe you called the Blades of the Rose. Who are they?”

He tensed, either because she was prying into secrets or because her question had reminded him of the ever-present threat.

Whichever it was, she wanted an answer. “Mr. Graves—

Catullus—”

Her using his given name startled him. And, judging by his indrawn breath, it wasn’t entirely unpleasant to hear Gemma call him thusly. She actually liked it, herself. The shape and feel of his name in her mouth, with its hard opening consonants falling into a soft ululation. A metaphor, perhaps, for the man who bore the name? A hard exterior concealing something much more sensitive beneath.

“You have told me about the Heirs of Albion,” she said. “You have told me about the world’s magic. But there is more. I know that the Blades of the Rose, whoever they might be, are also involved.”

Still, he hesitated.

Gemma leaned forward, earnest. “You say you want to keep me safe—”

“I do.” His voice was firm with resolve.

“Then prove it, and tell me all. How can I begin to protect myself if I do not know everything? Without full understanding, I’m just fumbling around in the dark, at risk from the Heirs as well as my ignorance.” She refused to play the flirt and charm information from him. If Catullus was to open up to her, it must be because he saw something within her to trust and value. She could not respect herself to resort to cheap ploys, and she needed that self-respect. Without it, all that she worked so hard for was valueless.

For some long moments, they stared at each other. She watched him assess her, his perceptive gaze held with hers, as if he sought to delve into her innermost thoughts.

Strangely, she did not resent this. For the first time in years, she actually welcomed a man into her mind, knowing instinctively that if anyone was to truly understand who she was as a person—not a woman, not a journalist, but the true and most essential part of herself—it would be this singular man, Catullus.

So she let him look, holding herself open to his scrutiny.

Peculiar. She hadn’t realized she needed this kind of openness until now. Hard lessons had taught her to keep her deepest self in reserve. Too many times, she’d left herself open, vulnerable, and been wounded by careless, heedless men. Men like Richard. She evolved into a hard-edged reporter and thought herself all the better for it.

She’d been wrong. Some part of her still yearned for closeness, for connection. And that need revealed itself now as she let Catullus Graves gauge her.

After many lifetimes, he gave a barely perceptible nod, reaching an internal decision. Gemma’s breath left her in a rush, and she only then realized she had been holding it.

“Magic exists in many forms,” he said with his rich, deep voice. “Sometimes it’s in families, such as yours; sometimes a single person can possess it. But it is also found in objects that are scattered across the globe. They are potent objects whose powers can run the gamut from the benign to the malevolent.”

“Like the club that thug was using in Liverpool,” she volunteered.

“No—that was a simple charm on an ordinary item. The objects I am speaking of hold vast power. These objects,” he continued, “are known as Sources, and Heirs search the globe for them, seeking to add the Sources to their arsenal, crushing anything and anyone who stands in their path.”

The idea was beyond horrible. “Something has to be done to protect the Sources,” Gemma objected.

“Something is done,” Catullus said. “By me and Astrid. And people like us. The Blades of the Rose.”

The name on his lips sent a shiver through Gemma, as though hearing a long-forgotten enchantment.

Catullus saw the name register with her, then went on. “It is the sworn mission of the Blades to safeguard Sources around the globe from the Heirs, and others like them. This battle we’re heading into now with the Heirs …” He watched his hands curl into fists. “It will be the biggest any of us has ever faced. We’ve never gone up against the Primal Source, but we have to before the Heirs solidify their power. We have no idea if any of us will survive. But we have to fight. All Blades fight not just for magic, or England, but for everyone.”

“A noble calling,” Gemma murmured, but her blood was chilled. He spoke so easily of the possibility of being killed! “Like frontier lawmen.”

“Or errant knights.” He allowed a small smile to tilt his mouth, amused either by the accuracy of their descriptions, or their complete misread. Yet, given the inherent nobility in his bearing, Gemma hopefully suspected the former.

“But the Primal Source I heard you speaking of,” she continued, “what, exactly, is it?”

“The Source from which all other Sources arise. The origin of magic, and repository of mankind’s imagination. Whoever possesses the Primal Source has at his or her disposal the greatest power ever known.”

“And now the Heirs of Albion have it,” Gemma recalled.

“Have it, and unlocked it.” Catullus scowled out the window, mind almost visibly churning. “Several months ago.”

She saw the focus in him, the determination and intent. This war with the Heirs was his life—and possibly death.

“Unlocked?”

“Accessed the Primal Source, allowing its power to be felt all over the globe, in all magic.”

“That explains it, then,” Gemma murmured. When he raised an eyebrow in a silent question, she explained, “Around the same time you said the Primal Source was unlocked, something changed with the Key of Janus. I could open more than just physical doors.”

“Meaning what?” he asked.

“Mental doors.” Gemma pressed a fingertip to her temple. “When I ask someone a question, they must answer me. That’s how I was able to follow you three all the way from Canada. I asked anyone you might have met along the way, and they told me exactly what I needed to know. Including the ticketing agent at the New York harbor, and “— she cast a slightly apologetic glance at Catullus—” your friends, I’m afraid.”

“Ah,” he said, mouth wryly tilting. “That’s what I felt when you asked me questions. As if a gate inside my mind wanted to spring open and reveal itself to you.”

“What I don’t understand,” she wondered, “is how you were able to resist it. No one has, until now.”

“I have been a Blade of the Rose for years,” he answered, dry with understatement. Gemma could see plainly in the way he held himself that he was a veteran of at least two decades. She had seen him fight just that morning, with the skill of a hardened soldier. “I have been exposed to magic many, many times. No doubt I’ve developed something of both a sensitivity and resistance to it.”

“Or perhaps your mind is simply too strong.”

He raised a wry brow. “Entirely possible. However,” he added, stern, “I don’t want you to use that magic on me, Astrid, or Lesperance again.”

“I won’t,” she said at once, and felt for the first time stirrings of misgivings about the usage of her magic.

Dwelling too much on her own use—or abuse—of magic wasn’t a pursuit Gemma wanted to engage in overmuch. She steered the conversation back to more relevant topics. “Tell me more about what I … overheard … outside your cabin, that the Heirs sought Astrid because of her knowledge of the Primal Source. They don’t know how to use the Primal Source?”

“Not fully,” answered Astrid, coming with Lesperance into the carriage. The Englishwoman sat down beside Catullus, with Lesperance lowering himself down next to Gemma. Even though Lesperance’s attention was fully given to Astrid, Gemma could feel from the man waves of energy, as though he was barely containing some great force within. He did not speak much, but still cleaved a presence into the world.

She would have found him fascinating, this Canadian Indian in European clothing, far from his own home. He clearly loved the flinty Englishwoman, Astrid Bramfield, as she loved him in equal measure. Doubtless Lesperance had a story to tell, one she would have gone to great lengths to discover. Yet, even this intriguing man could not hold her attention when Catullus Graves was near.

She forced herself to focus. They were discussing the Primal Source.

“But,” Astrid went on, “as you heard when eavesdropping, that doesn’t mean the Primal Source will not work on its own. Even without direct guidance, the Primal Source will act upon the Heirs’ wishes.”

“Which means disaster.” Gemma felt herself turn ashen and cold, thinking about what that meant. If the Primal Source was as powerful as these people believed—and Gemma didn’t doubt their veracity—then whatever it unleashed upon an unsuspecting world would be devastating. Just the scale of lives that could be lost in the ensuing catastrophe turned her stomach.

“Whatever is coming, the Blades will face it,” Catullus said, resolute. “We’ll fight until the threat has been eradicated.”

“Or until there are none of us left,” Astrid added. Lesperance, grim-faced, reached across to grip her hand, but did not deny this possibility.

Gemma stared at Catullus, no doubt eyes wide as apples. “With your own magic?”

Astrid and Lesperance shared a quick glance before Catullus said, “Not precisely. One of the ways in which Blades protect magic is to use none of it themselves, not unless it is given to them by birth or gift.”

“That’s ridiculous!” Gemma protested.

His gaze frosted. “Ridiculous or not, it is our code. To use magic that isn’t ours is to risk becoming like the Heirs, greedy for more power. So we take pride in our difference.”

She knew something of pride. “There are only three of you,” she noted.

“There are more of our numbers. Not as many as the Heirs, but enough to make a go of it.” He nodded toward the window, where the countryside sped past. “They’re gathering in Southampton now.”

“Where I’ll be held captive,” Gemma added.

“Only for your protection,” he clarified. As if that made it better.

“Until when?”

“Until it is safe.”

“When might that be?” she pressed.

His eyes fixed on her before sliding away. “I don’t know.”

Taking risks was something she did as if by biological compulsion. As a child, she alone out of three sisters and four brothers dared to go inside the abandoned house on their street. Later, at the age of eighteen, after giving her virginity to Robby Egan, instead of accepting his offer of marriage, Gemma left home and moved into a boardinghouse close to the Tribune offices, determined to become a journalist and not a young wife. She once followed a fire engine on horseback when several huge warehouses went up in flames so she might report on the destruction firsthand. She disguised herself as a charwoman to observe the late-night dealings in a local politician’s office.

Hell, she even trekked out to the Northwest Territories in search of a story, and then journeyed alone all the way across the continent and the Atlantic Ocean. She could no more stop herself from taking a risk than most people could keep from sneezing. It was a necessity.

Yet when Catullus insisted that she must go to and remain at the Blades’ Southampton headquarters, she knew better than to try to evade his escort. Only someone pickle-brained would attempt to slip away. The Heirs were aware of her. She had already seen a minuscule portion of what they were capable of. Gemma had no desire to be confined in Southampton, but she had even less desire to be dead.

So, when she announced that she was heading to the dining car for a bite to eat, and Catullus insisted that he join her, she didn’t take umbrage. In fact, she was glad for the company.

For his company, in particular.

They sat at a neat little table spread with a white cloth, and, at Catullus’s direction, plates of cold sandwiches and cups of hot tea were brought by a solicitous attendant. Gemma watched with badly concealed amazement as the attendant eagerly jumped to accommodate Catullus’s wishes.

“You seem shocked by something, Miss Murphy,” he remarked.

“Gemma,” she corrected.

“Gemma,” he said, and gave a little smile at her name.

She felt herself dissolve like a sugar cube in tea. Then shook herself to awareness. “It’s very different here in England than it is at home.”

“How is that?”

No way to be delicate about it. “You wouldn’t have been seated in a dining car on an American train.”

Yet he did not look angry or surprised by her blunt comment. He tipped a small silver pitcher of milk into his tea, and it looked like a child’s toy in his large hand. Yet, for all that, he had a precise, polished way of moving.

Still, when he spoke, his voice was reserved, almost cool. “And you prefer the American policy.”

“God, no!” Gemma stared, horrified. “I find it …” She couldn’t find a word strong enough. “Disgusting.” That barely covered the depth of her feelings. “What damned difference does it make what the color of someone’s skin is?”

A man and a woman, seated nearby, gasped at her coarse language and vehemence.

She ignored them. Other people’s opinions didn’t matter. But his did.

Relief, then, to see his gaze thaw. And restrained approbation take the place of coldness.

“I’m glad you don’t share your countrymen’s views,” he said.

She felt compelled to defend her home. “Not all Americans are like that. But,” she conceded, “some are. And their intolerance disappoints me.”

“I experienced it when I was in America.” He took two meticulous spoonfuls of sugar and stirred them into his tea. She could watch his beautiful table manners for hours. “Not only on trains, but in hotels, restaurants. And I had to book passage on a British ship to come home. Almost all the American companies wanted me to travel third class or steerage.”

“I’m … sorry.” She reddened, embarrassed by her countrymen’s bigotry.

“It stunned and upset me, at first,” he admitted. “I’m not used to that kind of outright prejudice.”

“It hasn’t been that long since the War.” Ten years, though that didn’t make it right.

“Yes, but this was in the civilized North,” he said, but there wasn’t any rebuke for her in his voice.

“I do love my country,” Gemma said, looking out at the passing English landscape, a rush of green and gray so unlike the wide cornfields of Illinois. “And it also embarrasses the hell out of me, sometimes.”

He raised his teacup and smiled over its rim. “I know a little about conflicted feelings for one’s homeland.” His expression darkened. “We’re on a train speeding toward a battle with men who claim to uphold Britain’s finest virtues. The Heirs say they want the advancement of our nation—but the cost is too high. The world may pay the price. Soon. Within days. If the Blades cannot stop them.”

She shuddered, thinking of how close everything was to disaster. Days. And yet she and Catullus sat on a train, passing towns and farms that had no idea what war brewed. Her family in Chicago—they were wholly unaware that their lives could be completely torn apart. But Gemma knew, and she felt the weight of responsibility begin to settle on her shoulders.

“Do the Heirs truly want everything to become English?” “To them, the height of civilization is England. And I don’t believe that this country should serve as the world’s model.”

“So there isn’t perfect equality in England?”

A rueful laugh, and then a sip of tea. Despite the many turbulent thoughts filling her mind, she could not help but watch his mouth upon the delicate porcelain. He closed his eyes for a moment, the clean angles of his face lit with sensuous pleasure. The sight entranced Gemma, made her imagine things she had no business imagining. To distract herself, she took a bite of her sandwich. How did they get the ham so incredibly thin?

“Ah, even on a train,” he sighed, opening his eyes, “one can’t get a finer cup of tea than in England.” “I like coffee better,” she said.

He shook his head over her barbarism. “No wonder our nations made war against each other. Twice. But, to answer your question, there is no perfect equality. Even here. It’s not as overt as in America, but, trust me “—and here his expression sharpened again—” skin color does make a difference. I’m judged before I speak, before I act.”

“I know a little about being prejudged,” she said, echoing his earlier words.

He fixed her with an inquisitive look. “Female journalists are so uncommon?”

“Not so rare if they want to write about feminine things—clothes, food, babies.” She felt her mouth twist, though she fought against bitterness. Gemma had no quarrel with clothes, food, or babies, but she didn’t want to write about them. So many other things snared her interest. Richard hadn’t understood that. Hadn’t understood her, despite his claims to the contrary.

“And if they write about the Northwest Territories?”

“There is no ‘they.’ There’s only me. So far, I’m the only one.” She leaned forward, lowering her voice as if letting him in on a secret. “Most people think I’m a bit crazy.”

Catullus leaned forward as well, velvety eyes dancing as he whispered back, “Me too.”

They shared a smile, something for the two of them alone. They remained like that for a small while, warming themselves with this unforeseen gift. The ever-present threat faded briefly as they discovered unexpected similarities linking them, a connection neither of them could have predicted. Outwardly, they had nothing in common, nothing bridging the sizable gap between them. Yet Gemma learned well from her journalist’s work that most things of value did not dwell on the surface, but took a careful eye and patience to uncover.

Here, then. This man—inventor, adventurer, his skin a different color than her own—he spoke to her and of her work without judgment, as though they truly were equals.

Suddenly, Catullus pulled back, glowering. Gemma thought that his forbidding expression was for her, until she saw his gaze fixed behind her. She turned slightly in her seat to see what angered and alarmed him.

Two men were coming into the dining car. Gemma quickly assessed them. One was of average height, a bit stout, with a neatly trimmed moustache. The other was taller, dark haired. Both had the pale skin of the upper ranks, with the snooty demeanor to prove it. Even on the steamship, none of the other passengers belonged to this class. This was her first time ever seeing the British gentry. They moved into the dining car as if it, and everything they saw, were their possessions.

Gemma, democratic, disliked them on sight.

An attendant approached them, gesturing toward an empty table. They began to pepper the man with questions, which the attendant stammered to answer.

She turned back to Catullus, and now he looked downright dangerous. He tore his gaze from the men and forced himself to look out the window, as if the view fascinated him. “Get up slowly,” he said between gritted teeth. “Don’t draw attention to yourself. Make for the other exit and head straight to our compartment.”

Gemma’s heart kicked. “It’s them, isn’t it? The Heirs.”

“Yes, now go. While the attendant has their attention. And don’t look at them.”

She rose up from her seat as casually as she could, all the while aware of the men behind her. Catullus followed suit, and set a handful of coins on the table. Gemma almost smiled. They were trying to evade the deadly Heirs of Albion, and he was still leaving tips. A true gentleman.

She and Catullus had just reached the door at the other end of the car when a man’s voice hissed loudly, “It’s Graves and that woman!”

Neither Gemma nor Catullus wasted any time. He threw open the door, pulled her through to the next car, then slammed the door. Through the glass, she saw the men running toward them.

“Blast,” Catullus growled. “Can’t lock the door. Run.”

Gemma went as fast as she could, plunging down the aisle of the second-class car as confused passengers watched from their seats. She heard Catullus close at her heels.

Through another carriage, and another. At her back came the sounds of the adjoining doors opening and slamming shut, men’s footsteps hurrying toward her and Catullus. She glanced quickly at some of the passengers watching the spectacle. Couldn’t someone help?

She reached another door. Two cars down was their compartment. Once they reached it, she wasn’t sure what was going to happen, but reach it they must. At the least, Astrid and Lesperance could lend a hand. Four against two offered better odds.

Gemma pulled open another door and started up the aisle, but turned when she did not hear Catullus behind her. He stood on an empty seat beside the door, bending to keep from knocking against the luggage rack overhead. She saw at once what he meant to do. His position kept him hidden from the advancing Heirs.

The men entered the carriage, and Catullus leapt. He slammed a fist into the jaw of the stout man, who stumbled back and into the path of his companion. The two Heirs tangled for a moment, lurching.

“What the devil?” cried a middle-aged passenger, observing. “No brawling on the train!”

“My apologies,” Catullus said, sprinting toward Gemma. He took her hand, and they both ran together.

Within a moment, they arrived at their private compartment. Astrid and Lesperance, huddled close, hands interlaced and speaking in low, intimate tones, broke apart at the entrance of Gemma and Catullus.

Lesperance looked at both their faces and rose to standing. “Heirs,” he said immediately.

Astrid swore, also seeing the truth. She too leapt to her feet.

“Must’ve gotten on the train at Shrewsbury.” Catullus grabbed his baggage as well as Gemma’s battered little carpetbag. “Have to get off now.”

No one argued. With movements so swift as to be almost instantaneous, all the bags were collected and the compartment vacated.

“That way.” Catullus indicated they move toward the front of the train.

As everyone hurried away, Gemma dared to venture, “The train’s moving, you know.”

“Counting on it.” Catullus kept throwing glances over his shoulder, to see if they were being followed. And, damn it, they were. The Heirs had recovered their footing, though one of them already sported a swelling jaw, and cut through the narrow, rocking passages of the first-class compartments.

Gemma didn’t know how long English trains were, and was afraid to find out. Once she and the Blades reached the engine, she had no idea what they planned on doing. Maybe throw the Heirs into the furnace?

She collided with Lesperance’s solid back as he stopped short. Gemma braced her hands against him to right herself.

“Accident,” she muttered when Astrid glared at her.

“What’s the matter, Astrid?” Catullus asked behind Gemma. “Why’d you stop?”

Astrid rattled the solid door in front of her. It didn’t even have a window. “Locked.”

They all glanced back to reverse their course, but just then the Heirs appeared at the other end of the carriage. No way back, couldn’t go forward. Trapped.

“Get to the side,” Catullus growled. “I’ll kick it open.”

But Gemma’s restraining hand held him back. “Not necessary.” She quickly edged forward until she stood in front of the locked door.

And opened it.

Both Catullus and Lesperance chuckled in appreciation, and then they all hastily entered the carriage ahead. Catullus slammed the door shut behind them right before the Heirs caught up.

The two Heirs pounded on the locked door, shouting threats so crude, even Gemma blanched. And then one of the Heirs began to throw himself against the door. It rattled hard, threatening to open.

Gemma looked around. She and the Blades were in what appeared to be a mail coach, with heavy canvas bags filled with letters lined up on the floor and on racks. No windows, no external doors. Two hinged hatches were set into the ceiling, allowing thin slivers of sunlight to filter into the tightly crammed coach.

“And now?” she asked Catullus.

“Now,” he answered, looking up, “we make our departure.”

“Sod this,” snarled Draycott. He drew his pistol and shot the lock off the door.

“Careful!” Forton threw up his arms to shield himself from flying wood and metal.

But Draycott didn’t spare Forton a glance as he threw open the door. He stepped into the coach with his pistol ready.

He and Forton found themselves in a mail coach crowded with sacks of letters and wrapped parcels. And no Blades.

“Where are they?” Forton bleated.

“How the bloody hell should I know?” Draycott scowled at the empty coach. When he reported back, Edgeworth would be furious. Two of the most important Blades had been in their grasp, and slipped away. Again.

And where the devil had they gone to? They had disappeared, and Draycott almost believed that the Blades had broken their own fool directive to never use magic. With an oath, Draycott shoved his way past Forton out of the coach, never seeing the unlocked hatch above him.

“Tuck in your arms and legs,” Catullus shouted to her. “And let yourself roll.”

Gemma, balanced on the junction between the mail coach and the next carriage, eyed the speeding ground with a combination of terror and excitement. The bags had already been thrown off, and both Astrid and Lesperance had leapt off soon after. If they’d survived, she had no way of knowing.

Her choice was either to go back into the mail coach and risk the Heirs, or throw herself off of a racing train.

At her hesitation, Catullus took her hand and gave it an encouraging squeeze. “I’ll be right beside you,” he shouted. “Trust me.” And he actually winked at her before tucking his spectacles into an inside coat pocket.

She actually did trust him, and having him beside her did give her confidence. So, with a nod and a smile, she crouched, readying herself.

Her movements made him smile, admiring. Then he, too, prepared himself to leap.

“On my count,” he yelled. “One … two … three … jump!”

Gemma threw herself into the air.