“Why in the world would I want diamonds?”
“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “But the younger girls have set up some sort of spirit board to commune with your spirit.”
“But I’m not dead!”
“Presumably, that’s why it’s not working very well. You instructed them to crawl through the house at midnight bleating like sheep.”
“You instructed them to do that.” Penelope laughed. “She hid behind the door and whispered at them until they were terrified.”
Gretchen folded her arms mutinously. “They made me angry.”
Emma hugged her. “Thank you.”
“I’ll do it again when you’re back at lessons so you can see them too,” she promised. “I’ll pretend to be some ghost or another.”
“What did Mrs. Sparrow say?”
“Nothing, actually,” Penelope replied. “And she didn’t punish Gretchen for the sheep thing either.”
“They’ll start using soothsayers and the like to find you,” Cormac said regretfully. “It won’t be long now. So whatever you mean to do, we’d best do it quickly.” He lifted the miniature iron-wheel pendant hooked to his cravat pin as it glowed in warning. “Very quickly.”
He handed out bundles of banishing powder and other assorted amulets. “Take these,” he said grimly. “I have a feeling we’re going to need them.”
Chapter 51
Emma was stretched out on the roof again counting stars when the breeze kicked up.
And up.
She clutched at the shingles but the wind was too strong.
The Sisters had found another victim.
Emma knew the force of the wind would toss her right over the side if she didn’t get herself firmly planted on the ladder. She finally hit the ladder with her toe and let herself roll sideways until she could get a proper grip on it. It was rickety and not entirely sturdy. The wind didn’t care. She lowered herself slowly, trying not to think about the fact that there was a girl dying somewhere at this very moment.
She finally made it to the ground but there was no moment to stop. The wind kept pushing at her, relentless and inexorable. Her hair whipped into her face, her skirts tangled around her legs. She let it push her, hoping she might finally catch Daphne in the act, save some poor witch, and exonerate herself in the process.
“Oi,” someone shouted, confused. “What the bleedin’ hell’s going on over there?”
All it would take was for a single witch to see her and summon a Keeper. She’d be chained, her magic stuffed in a bottle, and left to run as mad as her mother. Rain pelted down for a cloud-thickened sky. She fumbled for the Feth-Fiada saltwater-soaked ribbon Cormac had pressed upon her. It was the same kind her Aunt Bethany had used. It felt like a hundred years ago. She could barely recognize herself in the lonely, uncomfortable girl she’d been then. She dropped the ribbon and when it hit the ground, a cloud of fog seeped into the street and over the pavement.
“Allo,” the same voice said, more uncertainly this time.
The fog would cover her for a little while. Even through the haze she realized where she was going.
Rowanstone Academy.
“You can’t be serious,” Emma muttered, wrapping her hands desperately around the fencepost. It didn’t help. The wind would not be denied. Until she plowed right into another person. They both squeaked, grabbing at each other for balance.
“You!” Emma cried out.
“You!” Daphne shot back.
They eyed each other warily and with a great deal of distaste.
“You have some nerve coming back here,” Daphne finally said. “I’m calling for Mrs. Sparrow.”
Before Emma could reply—or turn on her heel and run away—the wind returned. A sudden gust knocked them together. They fell against the side of a carriage, half-hidden in the thickening fog. The door creaked open and a hand fell limply out. The witch knot was bloody and unfurled.
Emma pushed her storm-knotted hair out of her face impatiently. “Who is that?” she whispered.
Daphne darted forward, going so pale so quickly Emma thought she might faint. Daphne yanked the carriage door open fully. There was just enough light falling through the fog to show Lilybeth sprawled on the cushions. Her blue eyes stared blankly. Daphne shook her shoulder desperately. “Wake up!” She shook again. “Wake up, I said!”
Lilybeth’s curls escaped their pins from the violence of Daphne’s grip, but she still didn’t wake. Emma touched Daphne’s arm. “She’s not asleep.”
Daphne made a strange sound and released her friend abruptly. “She can’t be dead.”
“She has the Greymalkin mark,” Emma said gently. “What was she doing in there?” She swallowed, her throat tightening.
“She fell asleep in the carriage on the way back from the concert. We tried to wake her up but she’s the worst after a nap. She sleeps like the dead.” Daphne stifled a sob. “Sophie sent for a footman to carry her out but I was starting to worry.”
“Where’s the footman?” Emma asked. “Hello?” She called out loudly. It was hard to see through the fog. No one replied. Daphne looked furious. “Perhaps he’s been injured?” Emma suggested.
“If not, he will be very soon.”
“And where’s the Keeper?” Emma pressed, glancing around nervously. “Shouldn’t there be one on guard? How could this have happened?”
There were bruises on Lilybeth’s throat and her dress hung oddly, as if something was poking out of her side. Emma frowned. “The Sisters don’t usually leave marks like that, do they? I thought that as spirits they could only drain, not do direct physical violence.”
Daphne followed her gaze, stupefied. “Lilybeth fell off a horse and broke that rib.” Her brow furrowed. “When she was six years old.”
“It doesn’t make sense.”
“I know. She got those bruises three years ago when … well, never mind. They’re not recent, anyway.”
As if to prove Daphne right, Lilybeth’s sleek Siamese cat–familiar darted away, red as a burning ember in the white fog. Daphne reached out to touch her friend’s hand, but stopped herself. She glanced at Emma, looking younger and more confused than Emma had ever seen her. She wasn’t just a spoiled debutante with a sharp tongue. She was a girl who had lost a friend.
“I thought you were the murderer,” she admitted, frowning.
“And I thought it was you,” Emma returned, equally dumbfounded. She gave another wary glance around. The fog was still too thick to see much more than the outline of the school gates and the turret. A carriage rumbled by, wheels creaking and hooves echoing.
“You should go,” Daphne said, surprising Emma. “Before I call for help.”
“Will you be all right?”
“Of course I will. I’m not the one being chased by the Order.”
“Daphne?” Emma paused at the gate. “Why are you helping me?”
“Because I saw you walking into the school. There’s no blood on you and I saw you come through the gates so I know you didn’t kill Lilybeth. But if the Order catches you and blames you, the real murderer will walk free.” Her eyes glittered. “And that is not going to happen.”
“Thank you,” Emma said quietly. “And now we know why we’ve been at so many of the murders. I was mistaken about you, but I was right about one thing,” she said when Daphne just stared at her. She nodded to the school looming in the misty shadows. “The murderer really is one of us.”
Chapter 52
Emma planned to keep running until she was safely tucked into some dark corner where no Keeper would ever think to look for her.
She was doing just that when the first pigeon fell from the sky. It landed in front of her with such a thunk she shrieked and leaped out of the way. She wasn’t sure what she was expecting; a ghoul, an iron dagger, another body. Not a dead bird with the Greymalkin knot blazed on its feathered chest, and its neck twisted at an unfortunate angle. She took a few more steps, staring at the sky and she tripped over a rat.
His long tail was also twisted into an awful imitation of the Greymalkin mark.
And then someone seized her shoulder and yanked her into the alley.
She struggled, scratching and kicking and contorting herself to use her elbows as weapons. Her captor grunted, doubling over, but he didn’t let go. He pressed her against the wall, securing her hands to the bricks.
This was it.
She was going to be taken back to the ship.
Dark eyes glowered at her from under the brim of a fine hat. A white cravat glowed in the dim light. She knew that jawline, that wicked mouth.
Cormac.
She bit him.
He snatched his hand off her mouth. “You bit me!”
“You scared me half to death,” she said accusingly. “I thought you were a Keeper.”
“I am a Keeper.”
“Maybe,” she allowed. “But you’re not one of them.”
“Now you sound like Moira,” he said. He still had her pinned between the bricks and his body. “What are you doing out here? Shouldn’t you be hiding behind a chimney pot somewhere?”
“I was dragged to the school by a whirlwind,” she said. “Lilybeth.”
“Damn it,” he said harshly. “I wondered.”
“Is that why you’re here?”
“Someone sent up flares. But when I got there the place was full of Keepers. All muttering your name.”
She winced. “Bollocks.”
“Strangely, Daphne was most insistent that she didn’t see you anywhere and that she was the one who found the body.” He arched a brow.
“She’s helping me,” she admitted. “She thought I was to blame just as I thought she was to blame. Lilybeth was her friend.”
Cormac scrubbed his face. “This is a right mess.”
“It gets worse,” she said, taking his hand. “Come with me.” She led him to the mouth of the alley and pointed at the rat.
“Not again,” he muttered. “We followed a trail of these to the academy just last week.”
“So I’m right about the murderer being a student at least,” Emma said. “Why else would it lead to the school?”
“We thought it was someone at Ironstone,” he admitted. “The Order has been testing the lads ever since.”
She peered down the sidewalk. “There, another bird,” she said. “The Sisters must be on the run.” She tried to dart out of the alley but he grabbed her arm and swung her back.
“What are you doing?”
“Following them!” She shook him off. “Come on, before we lose the trail.”
“Are you completely insane? You’ve seen what they can do. And you know they must be searching for you now they’ve had a taste of your blood,” he reminded her. With the last of her mother’s spells fallen away, she was vulnerable.
“It doesn’t matter,” she insisted. “Do you really think we’re likely to get another opportunity like this? Don’t be a prat, Cormac.” She hurried down the sidewalk, keeping her face concealed in her hood. The magic of the cameo was fading and she didn’t want to be recognized, not as a Lovegrove, a Hightower, or a Greymalkin.
Cormac was at her side, muttering. “Did you just call me a prat?”
“Just help me look,” she said, but she was smiling faintly.
They found another rat.
The trail took them through Mayfair, toward the dark shadow of Hyde Park. Candlelight glowed behind mullioned glass windows. Carriages, polished as new pennies, waited on the curb. There would be late suppers and balls tonight, or the theater on Drury Lane. There would be turtle soup and champagne and cucumber salads. She’d taken it all for granted. But even prowling through the dark in a ruined dress, cloak, and antlers instead of a proper bonnet, with Cormac beside her, it seemed worth it. Knowing was better than not knowing.
Even if what you knew broke your heart.
Cormac backed her against a lamppost just as she was wondering what she might have been doing right now if her life hadn’t altered so dramatically. He lowered his head to shield her from view. “Keeper,” he mouthed, before kissing her.
And since Emma Day, daughter of the Earl of Hightower and the infamous Theodora Lovegrove, wouldn’t be kissing a Keeper out in the street for anyone to see, she kissed him back enthusiastically. She clung to him, finally feeling soft in a way that didn’t infuriate her and strong in a way that didn’t make her feel brittle. His tongue stroked hers and his hands clasped her close against his chest. She could see his pulse fluttering wildly in his throat. Someone gasped and she thought it might be her.
“We should go,” she finally whispered, mostly because she wanted nothing more in the world than to stay right where they were and continue doing exactly what they were doing.
Cormac kissed her again, so quickly and yet so tenderly she felt like crying for no good reason. He glanced left, then right. “He’s gone,” he murmured.
They went back to following the trail; two more pigeons, three mice, and a hawk later, Cormac came to an abrupt halt. They exchanged a grim glance before ducking into the shadows of the park.
“No,” he said harshly. “Absolutely not. Do you have any idea how many Keepers are in this area?”
She nodded mutely, following his gaze across the street.
The trail of dead rats and birds had led them to Greymalkin House.
Chapter 53
They met in Hyde Park an hour later, after messages were sent out to summon them. Cormac carried a small chest under his arm. Emma, Gretchen, and Penelope sat together on the grass. Moira was perched on a low branch, the smoky light glinting off her cameos. “They’ve offered a reward for your capture,” she said.
“Splendid.” It wasn’t exactly a surprise but it didn’t improve her mood. It did, however, improve her determination. “I have an idea,” she added, sounding more confident than she felt. “We need to close the last gate, that’s obvious. And so we need to get into Greymalkin House to stop the Sisters.”
“You’re cracked.” Moira whistled through her teeth. “No one goes in there. And how do you even know where the last gate is, if the Order doesn’t?”
“Because we just followed a fresh trail,” Emma replied tightly. “And we only have until dawn before the gate closes itself up and opens somewhere else. We need to seal it. Now. Tonight.” She rubbed her arms for warmth. “We need to find the real murderer. The Order insists it’s a warlock, someone old and powerful. But Daphne and I both think it’s a debutante.”
Cormac raised his eyebrows. “I’m not entirely convinced, it has to be said. The Order thinks it’s someone from Ironstone.” The girls exchanged knowing glances.
“And that right there is why she will continue to get away with murder. Literally.”
“So how is this lot meant to stop the Sisters if the Greybeards can’t?” Moira finally asked.
“Because we can get inside the house,” Emma replied. “When no one else can.”
“But how are we supposed to defeat the Sisters without them?” Penelope asked. “We barely know what we’re doing as it is.”
“We just need to get in first, before they can stop us. Then we call for help and they can ride in on their bloody white horses and save us all if they’d like. But they’ll never let us close enough to try unless we force them to.”
“You’re all mad,” Moira sighed. “So how do we do this, then?”
“We’ll have to take them by surprise.” Cormac’s smile was brief and crooked. “I can’t imagine how we wouldn’t, with a Madcap, a Keeper, two girls, and a fugitive.” He unrolled a scrap of parchment, using the top of the chest as a table. He’d drawn out Greymalkin House and the surrounding area. “There are Keepers here, here, and here,” he said as he pointed. “And likely a couple on the roof over there somewhere.”
“Mine.” Moira grinned savagely.
“Don’t kill them.”
“Spoilsport.”
“We’ll take them all out, give Emma a few moments, and then I’ll send up the flare
to summon the Order. And if we get caught,” he added, “Emma and I will act as though I’ve captured her.”
“Why?” Gretchen asked, suspiciously.
“Because if this doesn’t work, we’re going to need the Order to go on trusting Cormac,” Emma explained. “We have to be practical about this.” She nudged her cousin, smiling faintly. “So don’t hit him too hard if it comes down to it.”
“Why does she have to hit me at all?” Cormac asked.
“I have to make it look good,” Gretchen replied primly.
“I already look good,” he drawled.
Chapter 54
Fog hung between the houses, obscuring the gaslights so they flickered like fireflies. It drifted over the chimney pots, mingling with the scent of smoke. Moira listened to carriage wheels clattering on the cobblestones below. The soles of her feet practically caught fire the closer she got to Greymalkin House.
She leaped from roof to roof in her patched trousers. The fog was so thick, if Cormac hadn’t told them exactly where the Keepers were lurking, they’d never have found any of them. As it was, she was seriously put out that one of them dared claim a rooftop. She crept closer, barely able to distinguish the outline of his beaver hat in the gloom. She crouched by a gargoyle so small it would have fit in the palm of her hand. It was attached to the very tip of an iron fence running around the entire roof. She bathed it in whiskey and murmured a few words in its stone ear. It flew into the air like a drunken bumblebee. Following orders, it flew around the Keeper’s head.
“What the—” He covered his face as the tiny, vicious gargoyle attacked him. Miniature stone teeth tore through his shirt and his skin as it tried to get a bite of the Keeper’s iron-wheel pendant. It darted in and out, coming away with hanks of hair, blood, and linen. The Keeper swung out again, toppling the gargoyle from its flight. It tumbled to the ground below, smashing into pieces.
Moira hit him on the back of the head with her hands clasped together. He stumbled against the fence, sliding into an unconscious heap.