“Thank you. That was thoughtful of you.” I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye, already feeling my anger drain away. Try as I might, I never managed to stay cross with Thomas Wiltshire for long. It’s terribly hard to argue with perfection, and though no one is actually perfect, Thomas did a credible impression of it. He didn’t just look the part—impeccable taste, meticulous grooming, fine, aristocratic features—he insisted on being so eminently reasonable all the time, delivering his carefully framed thoughts in the poshest English this side of Buckingham Palace. The combined effect of it all was to make you feel as if any fault you found must surely be your own.
Also, he had an annoying habit of apologizing before you could even work up a proper head of steam. “I really am frightfully sorry, Rose. I had no idea there was so much involved in getting someone released on a relatively minor charge.”
“Paperwork?”
He snorted softly. “I believe the vernacular term is greasing palms. A great many palms, as it turns out.”
“Maybe if you’d showed up looking a little less”—I gestured at his obviously expensive attire—“a little less like you, there wouldn’t have been so many palms to grease. You might as well wear a sign around your neck that says free money.”
“You’re right, of course. An amateur mistake. I was in a hurry, believe it or not.”
“I take it you couldn’t reach Sergeant Chapman?” My favorite copper would have come for me straightaway, I had no doubt. And instead of greasing palms, he’d have banged some heads.
“I telephoned him at the station, but he’d most likely gone home for the night.”
“Well, it’s over now, anyway.” Weary to the bone, I slumped against the carriage window, watching idly as we turned up Broadway—and promptly became bogged down in traffic. At this time of day, New York’s busiest street was a jostling river of hacks and horsecars, with the occasional brave pedestrian darting through the gaps between them. I’d have to wait a little longer for the hot bath I was craving.
I could feel Thomas’s eyes on me. “Rose…”
“It’s all right. I’m a grown woman. I could have said no if I’d wanted to. I just wish it hadn’t all been for nothing.”
“Nothing? Why, on the contrary, it was a cracking success.”
I turned to find him wearing a sly smile. Reaching into his jacket pocket, he produced an unassuming chunk of rock.
“You got it?” I jerked upright, snatching the rock from his hands and turning it over in amazement. “How?”
“You did such a masterful job of creating a diversion that I was able to slip inside during the confusion. I daresay they still haven’t noticed anything amiss. Of course, it would have been a different matter had Drake not been out of town. He’d have known who you were and what you’d come for, and he’d have secured the stone straightaway. Happily, his servants were none the wiser, and it didn’t occur to anyone that you might have an accomplice.”
I examined the object in my hands. To all appearances, it was an ordinary stone, smooth on one side and jagged everywhere else, as though it had recently been broken. Which it had. This was a fragment of Flood Rock, a tiny island in the East River that had been blown to bits by the Army Corps of Engineers a year and a half ago, in the fall of 1885. What the army hadn’t known—what no one, not even in the paranormal community, had realized—was that Flood Rock was also a seal guarding a portal to the otherworld, the place where ghosts and shades and fae roam free. Blowing it open might have cleared the way for ships, but it also set loose a tide of spirits to wreak havoc on the city. Happily, the Pinkertons had managed to restore the seal before things got too out of hand, with most of New York none the wiser. We’d thought the matter settled until a piece of Flood Rock turned up on the black market a few weeks ago.
It was about the size of a fist and smelled a little like the sea, but if it had any power, I couldn’t sense it. “Do you suppose it’s even true, what they say about it?”
“We’ll have to conduct the proper tests, but I expect so. It’s well known that proximity to a portal greatly enhances supernatural attributes. It stands to reason that a piece of the seal would act as a sort of amplifier, magnifying the luck and magic around it. Imagine what a man like Edmund Drake could do with something like that in his pocket.”
I shivered at the thought. Thomas and I had seen firsthand what Drake was capable of last year, when he’d used his luck to hypnotize us into revealing the details of our investigation. If those powers were even stronger … “He’d be President of the United States by this time next year.”
Thomas wrapped the stone in a handkerchief and stowed it away. “I’ll take this to the Astor Library as soon as I drop you off. They’ll keep it safe in the special vaults until someone from the Agency arrives to secure it more permanently.”
“What about Mr. Wang? Won’t he be upset after all the work he put into tracking it down?”
Thomas arched a dark eyebrow. “And what about all the work we put into tracking down the thief, not to mention recovering the artifact? Besides, Wang must have known the Agency wouldn’t allow the stone to be sold to the highest bidder. It’s far too dangerous for that. I’m sure he’ll be content with a finder’s fee.”
“Let’s hope you’re right. I’d hate for him to be angry with us.”
“As would I. We cannot afford to alienate him. He’s the best there is.”
Aside from being a gifted apothecary, Mr. Wang presided over the most comprehensive stock of rare magical items in America. That, and his unrivaled network in the paranormal community, made him an invaluable ally.
But there was more to it than that. “He also happens to be our friend,” I said pointedly. “One who’s saved both our lives.”
“Of course. I didn’t mean to sound transactional. Perhaps it will soften the blow if we speak with him together. We can pay him a visit once you’ve had a chance to rest. You must be exhausted.”
“I am,” I admitted, fading back against the window. “But at least we got the stone. The only thing worse than spending the night in that place was thinking that it was all for nothing.”
Thomas reached over and took my hand, giving it a gentle tug until I slid a little closer. There wasn’t a lot of seat to slide along, and the move left us tucked snugly into one corner of the brougham. “I really am so sorry, Rose,” he murmured.
His eyes searched mine, and I felt the familiar flutter in my belly. He rarely took such liberties, especially after. By which I mean after that night in the parlor six months ago, when we’d shared our first and only kiss. Ever since, I’d thought of our relationship in terms of before and after. I suspected Thomas did too, but I couldn’t be sure, because of course we never, ever talked about it. What would be the point? We both knew there was no future for us, romantically speaking. Consorting with the likes of me would ruin Thomas socially, and get him fired in the bargain. As for me, I’d forever be known as the girl who got her job because she was involved with the boss. We weren’t prepared to ask that of ourselves or each other, at least not for now. And so we pretended the kiss never happened.