Chapter 4
Four
Accepting a steaming teacup from Jimmy, Emmy stared at him over the rim. Nothing about this moment felt real. Not the earthy,
bitter scent of oolong, or the black flames in the hearth, and certainly not her former neighbor, who, sitting beside her,
looked impossibly clean. His inky black hair was shiny and untangled, and his handsome face had matured to a young man’s. Other than his wind-whipped
cheeks, there was little sign he’d driven a carriage all night to this empty mansion somewhere in the country north of the
city.
Not that Emmy could verify their whereabouts. No, she’d spent the journey in the carriage boot with the other prisoner, hiding
beneath blankets. All night, as they’d bumped and jostled, she’d regretted letting Jimmy convince her to go with them. But
she could not walk away from him, not when he had the answers she needed.
“You’re getting a nasty shiner.” His dark brown eyes were gentle as he appraised her. “Did the guards do that with their fists?
Or with magic?”
Jimmy knew of magic’s existence now. Even stranger, he was perfectly at ease in a grand sitting room nestled in an even grander,
albeit dusty, mansion. “What are you doing here? With them?”
“You’ve lost your voice. Have some tea and then we’ll talk.”
She shook her head. No amount of tea would heal her damaged vocal cords.
“Glad to see you didn’t lose your stubbornness along with all that weight.” With a wry smile, Jimmy blew on his tea. “I work
for Jack Fontaine now. Was fixing up a few things here at Mistfield when he got himself arrested.”
Jimmy presented it as if it was perfectly normal for him, from whom Emmy, Papa, and Grace had carefully hidden magic’s existence, to work for a charmed person. “And you trust him?”
“He’s great.” He flashed her the grin that had made her heart skip a beat a lifetime ago. She and Grace used to count Jimmy’s
smiles, tallying who received the most. “And the blond one, Caleb Alton? Think of him like a mouse. All squeak and no bite.”
Of course he trusted them. Even when the little street thieves used to slide their nimble fingers into Jimmy’s pockets, he’d
merely laughed and tousled their hair.
Still staring at her, Jimmy shook his head. “I can’t believe you’re here. Last I saw you, you were climbing into that fancy
carriage with Grace and San Rocco.”
Papa’s nickname used to fill her with pride, but now the sound of it echoed through her. San Rocco was the legendary priest
of Basilicata who had cured his people of the plague. None of their neighbors had known of magic, but they’d had their own
way of understanding Papa’s lifesaving services. He’d been a miracle worker. A living saint.
“Have you spoken to Grace?” She could no longer hold back the burning question. Part of her never wanted to see Grace again.
Part of her longed to hunt her down and curl back her fingernails like the peel of an orange. Ten nails for ten years of friendship.
“Not since she returned that night.” His broad shoulders tensed as he stared at the fire. From the moment Jimmy had arrived
at their tenement house to live with his wayward uncle, Papa had taken him under his wing. He’d vouched for him with the foremen,
helping Jimmy make enough to send money home to his mother in China. Jimmy had loved Papa like a father. And Papa had loved
Jimmy like a son.
“What did she say?”
“That you’d been arrested for stealing. And that your pa had interfered with your arrest.”
For stealing. Stealing. Emmy swallowed a mouthful of boiling tea.
“You’re no thief, Ems.” Jimmy’s eyes were so full of conviction, she looked away. The Emmy he knew never would’ve stolen a
penny, yet a few hours ago, she’d wanted to empty his friend’s pockets. “I tried to get the address of the ball, but by the
time we’d brought your father’s body inside, Grace was gone. Told Mrs. Feinstein she was moving in with her aunt uptown.”
The scream in Emmy’s chest swelled. Grace’s mostly absent father had fancied himself an esteemed member of the Society of
the Charmed. He’d taught Grace all about it, planting the seeds for the fervent obsession she’d shared with Emmy. He’d had
a sister in the Society, too, one Grace had never met: Mrs. Eleanor Windsor. If Grace had moved in with the Windsors, she’d
either joined their household staff or received an offer of patronage from them as a Society protégé. But Grace would have
never stooped to cleaning her rich aunt’s floors.
Her dream had come true. Her betrayal rewarded.
“Were you there?” Jimmy paused, clearing his throat. “When they shot him?”
Swallowing another mouthful of boiling tea, Emmy traced its burn down her throat. She had been there, all right. No farther
than two arms’ lengths away when that terrible man had killed Papa without a modicum of remorse. As if he’d just stomped on
a cockroach and not ended the life of the gentlest father, one who healed his neighbors without accepting a penny, who sang
while he cooked and hid silly notes for her to discover while he worked sixteen-hour shifts.
How Emmy had raged when they’d shot him. How she’d fought to reach him. But that vicious man had used his nightmarish magic
to silence her pleas and freeze her movements. That was when she’d ruined her voice, straining to scream. To cry. To give
Papa a single word of comfort as a halo of blood had spread around his head.
“I was with him,” she finally said, suddenly tired. “Where did you . . .”
“Saint Ann’s. We tried for the Transfiguration, but you know how they are.”
Of course. The Irish priests wouldn’t have let an Italian be buried on their grounds, even if it was his parish. “He always
liked Saint Ann’s.”
Jimmy studied his teacup. “When Fontaine was arrested, and Caleb first snuck near Grimsbane to send him a message, he said
Fontaine was all alone in his cell. That they never let him out, never gave him anything to do.” He hesitated, carefully choosing
his words. “Was it the same for you?”
Too exhausted to fight the knot in her throat, Emmy fixed her gaze on the black flames.
“So you watched your father die, then spent the last two years with nothing but your grief.” Jimmy scrubbed at his jaw. “Jesus,
Ems. How did you not go mad?”
In the end, those bouts of madness had been a reprieve, for a mad mind ceased praying to a silent God or begging the guards
for something—anything—to distract her from the images burned into her retinas.
Papa’s crimson halo. Grace’s secret smile.
Emmy cleared her throat. “Does Grace visit Baxter Street? Is her mother still there?”
Jimmy raised his brows at her abrupt change of subject, but did not push her. “Not that I’ve heard. But I live here now, at
Mistfield Manor.”
“How did that happen?”
“I met Jack at San Rocco’s funeral, actually.”
She nearly spat out her tea. ”He was at my father’s funeral?”
“He and his sister stood out like sore thumbs.” Jimmy chuckled to himself.
“Figured they had to be the rich folks who had invited you and Grace to that ball. So I followed them. Demanded to know where you were, because you weren’t in the Tombs or in any of the other jails.
And they told me all about that ball. They were petitioning for your release when those bastards came after him—”
“He knew me?” Emmy could not keep the shrillness from her voice. “Before last night?”
Jimmy gave her a sideways look. “He didn’t tell you?”
She replayed it in her mind, the way Jack had stared at her through her pass-through slot. How he’d laughed at her. Taunted
her. Walked away and made her beg him to free her.
“Where are you going?”
By the time Jimmy got to his feet, Emmy was already in the hall.
Bloody hell, this place was enormous. Door after door, room after room fanned out around her. She kept walking, her head spinning
at the unkempt extravagance. Portraits framed in dusty silver, crystal chandeliers cloaked in cobwebs. Twin staircases unfurling
like ribbons, each punctuated with a crumbling alabaster bust.
“This is their home?” Emmy hissed, nearly tripping down the steps. “The Fontaines?”
He hesitated. “Only in the summers. The main house is in the city.”
Emmy had to grip the banister to stop the three-story entrance hall from spinning. Her whole life, she’d been aware of the
lavish lives of the rich. But that awareness had been a theoretical thing, much like how she believed in God and the existence
of the Pacific Ocean, though she’d never seen either. But this mansion—occupied by a single family, and only in the summers—shattered
all her preconceived notions of what it meant to be disgustingly wealthy.
“I don’t like that look in your eyes.” Jimmy touched her arm, and she flinched, which only deepened his frown. “Maybe you
should rest.”
Voices. Distant but unmistakable. Like a hound with a scent, Emmy wove through a series of darkened rooms with dust sheets draped over the furniture. Soon she stood in front of a pair of rustic French doors, behind which muffled voices spoke animatedly.
As she burst through the doors, the voices broke off.
Her bare feet sank into a soft rug, and she slowed, blinking hard. Not an illusion. The floor-to-ceiling bookshelves were
real, as were the two young men staring at her.
She almost did not recognize Jack Fontaine without his dirt-streaked cheeks and splotchy beard. He looked younger, perhaps
even her age. He’d cut his hair, too, his locks no longer tangled at his shoulders but freshly washed, the damp ends falling
in chocolate waves over his forehead. Without all that filth, his face was entirely disarming. Angelic cheekbones and a full
mouth gave him a hint of youthful innocence, yet there was a menacing air to the cut of his jaw, the dark brows illuminating
those smoky eyes. It was the face of someone who reveled in his beauty. Who wielded it like a weapon.
“You knew who I was.” She folded her arms, her dirty underdress suddenly far too thin.
Jack grinned with the smugness of someone playing a game—and winning.