Chapter 29 Zaria
ZARIA
ZARIA SPENT THAT NIGHT THINKING ABOUT THE EXHIBITION.
The more she did, the more her memory twisted the feats of industry into a garish, improbable maze. She had a single chance to ensure everything went according to plan—both Kane’s plan and her own. In theory, it all seemed easily accomplished.
That was what worried her.
Zaria had seen that same worry reflected on Jules’s face when she bid him good night. He hadn’t asked about the awkwardness with Kane, and she was glad for it. She didn’t have an explanation.
We have nothing to talk about.
I think we both know that’s not true.
She refused to dwell on what Kane and Fletcher had said about Ward.
Partially because being hunted by the kingpin was such a terrifying prospect, her mind couldn’t seem to process it.
It didn’t seem real. Mostly, though, she couldn’t think about how Kane was responsible for everything that had happened.
For all the times she’d nearly been killed.
If she thought about that, she wouldn’t be able to focus on the role she needed to play.
So she fought to pretend none of it had happened, focusing instead on how tomorrow would be their last day in Devil’s Acre. Soon, so soon, they would be free of London. Away from Alexander Ward and the terrible boy he both adored and tormented.
She slept restlessly, tossing and turning until the slow creep of dawn dragged her from her bed. Several hours later, she and Jules left the pawnshop in an unnatural silence, anticipation and foreboding like a taut wire between them.
They met Kane near the edge of the slum.
It was a disarmingly nice day, though gray clouds threatened in the distance.
Zaria wore an expensive-looking deep-red dress she’d procured from the pawnshop; its rightful owner wouldn’t miss it before redemption day came back around.
It was tight in the waist and lower in the front than she generally preferred, but at least she looked well-off.
Jules, too, had managed to dig up a nice suit and hat.
As always, Kane looked impeccable. With his long coat and slicked-back hair, he looked like a businessman of questionable morals.
The bruising on his face was worse today, his eye shadowed black, but he didn’t shy from Zaria’s stare as she neared.
Their gazes locked, warring in the moment before they both glanced away.
“Good morning,” he murmured, giving her and Jules each a once-over. “So you two can clean up relatively well.”
Zaria supposed it was as close to a compliment as Kane ever gave. Rather than answering, she studied the lines of his injured face, searching for evidence of stress.
But Kane didn’t appear nervous. His expression was cool and as undisturbed as still water, his shoulders free of obvious tension.
Zaria wished she could say the same. The sweat on her palms lingered no matter how many times she wiped them on her dress, and there was a tension in her stomach she couldn’t dispel.
Anticipation was a relentless thing. All she wanted was to get to the Exhibition and for this to be finally, mercifully over.
“You finally gonna tell us how you copped a mouse?” Jules said, indicating Kane’s face. “I want to send the other guy a gift.”
There was a note of teasing in his tone, though. Kane gave a sardonic smile, not bothering to bite back. He turned to Zaria. “You ready?”
She wasn’t sure how to answer that. No, she wasn’t ready. She wanted to return home, sink back into bed, and never emerge. But since that didn’t seem a viable option, she said, “Yes.”
The city was busier than she had ever seen it, and yet busy was a perilous understatement.
The closer they drew to Hyde Park, the more people flooded the streets.
The air was dense with palpable excitement, and it was impossible to move without being shuffled and shoved.
The patrons were young and old, rich and working class, Londoners and not.
For months, fearmongering gossips had warned of foreigners overtaking the city in their eagerness to visit the Exhibition, which made Zaria roll her eyes—not only were the claims loathsome, but today it was clear that most patrons were in fact British, their familiar accents audible all around her.
And it wasn’t only people who occupied the park: An arrangement of oddities that must have been exhibits spilled out onto the lush grass.
An enormous crowd had formed at the southern entrance, waiting to gain entry through one of the seven turnstiles, and intrigued onlookers gathered on balconies and clustered in the windows of nearby houses, watching the chaos unfold.
For a moment, Zaria forgot to be bitter, overwhelmed as she was.
She wanted to see everything, but at the same time, she wanted nothing more than to avoid everyone in the vicinity.
It was all just so much. Her breath caught in her chest, and she became jittery with discomfort.
A light wind carried with it the stench of sweat combined with unnecessarily strong perfume.
Zaria wrinkled her nose as a baby wailed nearby.
It seemed like everyone in London was here and then some.
Everyone who could afford it had worn their finest gowns and suits, and she was surprised to see that despite the diversity of the crowd in the park, those in the official line were overwhelmingly upper-class.
“I’m underdressed,” she said to Kane under her breath.
He shook his head. “You’re fine. Opening day is for those purchasing season tickets. The price will go down over the next week, and then more of the general public will be able to attend.”
“I can’t afford a season ticket!”
“That won’t be a problem.” He led her farther into the anarchic press of bodies, and it took an infuriatingly long time to reach an entry point.
Zaria positioned herself as a buffer between Kane and Jules, relieved to be with people she knew.
None of them spoke, and if they’d tried, they would surely have been forced to yell—the air around them hummed with the indecipherable cacophony of a thousand voices.
Zaria’s fingers fluttered at her sides, and without looking down at her, Kane grabbed them lightly in his own.
It seemed an almost automatic response, and she stared at his hand on hers, as thankful for the grounding pressure of his touch as she was perplexed by it.
“Master Wright!”
A voice boomed above the rest, causing them all to turn.
It took Zaria a moment to recall that Master Wright was, in fact, Kane.
They watched a portly man shove his way over to them, the sheer magnitude of his confidence causing people to leap out of his path.
How in the world had he managed to pick Kane out among all these people?
Kane had already plastered a smile on his face. “Mister Cole! An honor to see you again, sir.”
Right. Henry Cole. Zaria straightened, and beside her, Jules did the same.
“Don’t tell me you’re waiting in line,” Cole said jovially.
He sounded in much better spirits than the previous time they’d met.
Perhaps it was the excitement of opening day, but somewhere along the line he’d evidently decided Kane deserved his respect.
“At this rate, you risk missing the speeches. Follow me.”
Zaria looked to Kane in dismay. They were working with a tight timeline and needed to get to the pianoforte before anything else. If she thought Kane would politely decline, however, she was disappointed. He smiled, managing to hide the tension she’d seen in his jaw only moments before.
“Mister Cole, you’re far too kind.”
Cole waved a dismissive hand. “Please, it’s of no consequence!”
Zaria grabbed Kane’s arm as he made to walk away, and he pivoted, frowning. “What?”
“We can’t follow Cole around,” she hissed. “We don’t have time for that.”
“We’re skipping the queue, aren’t we?”
“He’ll talk forever if you let him.”
Kane rolled his eyes, pulled away, and kept walking.
“Son of a bitch,” Jules muttered under his breath. “Do we follow him?”
Zaria twined her fingers together, watching Kane and Cole navigate the crowd. “I don’t think we have much of a choice.”
Together they skirted the hordes of waiting patrons, making their way to the turnstiles.
Zaria fixed her gaze steadfastly on the back of Kane’s head, trying not to lose sight of him while also attempting not to trip.
She stepped on more than one foot, her mouth shut tightly against the stench of far too many bodies, but she caught up to Kane just as Cole escorted him through the entrance.
“Your fiancée, Master Wright!” Cole boomed, waving Zaria through. “And your—?”
“Friend,” Kane said without missing a beat. “My very dear friend, Julian Sing.”
Cole nodded, first to Jules and then to the men standing at the entrance, an indication that their party was with him. “Nice to make your acquaintance, Master Sing.”
Jules accepted the fake surname with ease, though his polite smile was strained as he shook Cole’s hand.
“You must let us pay,” Kane said indulgently as he passed through the turnstile.
Zaria arched a brow; he showed no sign of procuring any money.
Besides, if they were being offered a free visit, why couldn’t he keep his mouth shut?
She elbowed him hard in the ribs. In response, or perhaps retaliation, he looped an arm through hers, setting her hand on top of his.
Her shoulders stiffened, head spinning with the scent of him.
Cole looked positively affronted by Kane’s request. “An apprentice of Charles Fox paying to enter the building he helped create? Absolutely not. I do say,” he added, nose crinkling, “what in the world happened to your face?”
Zaria wondered how he hadn’t noticed it earlier. But Kane gave an easy grin, a quick roll of his eyes, and said, “Would you believe I found myself in the middle of a pub fight? Too much drink for all parties involved, I’m afraid.”