Chapter 35 Zaria #2
Zaria swallowed past her raw throat. She thought of the boy who’d played the pianoforte at the Exhibition.
The way he’d pressed his lips to her throat like she was something delicate and infinitely precious.
The rueful sadness in his eyes when he pulled away.
She thought about the story of the little boy who’d watched his parents die in front of him and how hearing it had made her burn with a furious protectiveness.
But she could not protect Kane. Nobody could—least of all himself.
She was spared from having to respond by the appearance of George Zhao covered in soot and looking as distressed as she’d ever seen him.
He fought his way through the crowd, chest heaving as he wheezed and cursed at those who stood in his way.
Jules inhaled sharply and released Zaria’s hand, sprinting toward his father, only to stiffen with uncertainty when he reached him.
“My boy,” George rasped, more a declaration to the crowd than a greeting to Jules. And then the man Zaria had never once seen show any outward affection threw his arms around his son.
She smiled faintly as Jules hugged George back. She felt at once filled with joy and like her insides were being forced through a very small opening. It hurt to watch when all she had to remember her own father by was currently smoldering around them.
“Did you know?” Fletcher’s low voice sounded by her ear, and Zaria started. She hadn’t realized he’d moved closer.
“Did I know what?”
“That Ward told Kane he would kill me.”
“Yes,” she admitted heavily. She was so tired of lying. “I don’t think he wanted to tell me, but he needed me to understand why the job was so important to him.”
Fletcher snorted, dragging a hand through his unruly hair. “And you double-crossed him anyway.”
Zaria winced. “I didn’t feel good about it. But alchemology killed my father, Fletcher. It drained the life right out of him. If I wanted to continue his work in any capacity, I needed that primateria source.”
“So you knew it was a source all along.”
“No. I only learned of it the night I met up with Cecile.”
“The woman who died,” Fletcher confirmed.
It hurt to hear the words. Zaria was still trying not to dwell on the events of that particular evening, but the memories prodded at her relentlessly.
In a roundabout way, Cecile had given her life for that meeting, and what difference had it made?
She felt like such a pivotal part of Zaria’s life, and in the end, she was just as Fletcher said—a woman who had died.
“Yes.” The word seemed to stick in Zaria’s throat. “That’s the one.”
The pawnshop continued to slowly burn—no fire brigade would come to put it out, though locals were already endeavoring to assist with buckets of foul water.
Nobody cared if the slum burned. Zaria stared into the flames until they burned an imprint behind her eyelids, listening to the soft crackle of the weakening joists.
Jules and George had joined the extinguishing effort, and the latter was yelling instructions while his son ran back and forth delivering buckets.
At this point, the pressing concern was ensuring the fire didn’t spread to the neighboring houses.
“Hope you didn’t have anything explosive in that workshop of yours,” Fletcher said, watching the scene play out.
She cut him a sidelong glance. “I’d be a pretty shit alchemologist if I didn’t have flame-resistant containers.” Before she could think better of it, she blurted out, “Aren’t you angry with me?”
“For what?”
“The bit where I let Kane pass out and stole the necklace from under his nose comes to mind.”
Fletcher’s responding laugh was hollow. “If I’m being honest, I’m so angry at him that you’re not really my main concern. Besides, we were going to double-cross you, too.”
“You were?”
“Yeah. Kane never had any intention of stealing the other Waterhouse jewels.”
They looked at each other a moment. Then Zaria couldn’t help it—she laughed.
It came out much as Fletcher’s had, the sound twisted and strange.
Of course Kane had been conning her from the start.
She’d known exactly who he was, what he did, and had decided to trust him anyway. “Well then. Fuck you.”
“You were prepared to let me be killed,” Fletcher reminded her, and she blew out a sigh.
“What a mess.”
“I’ll say. For what it’s worth, though, I’m sorry about Cecile.”
“It’s not worth a lot, but I appreciate it.”
They were silent another long moment. Then Fletcher asked, “What are you going to do now?”
Zaria recoiled from the question. It felt too big somehow.
“I don’t know. I mean, Jules and I have to get out of here.
Kane will come after me, Fletcher. Assuming the coppers don’t find me first.” After all, she still had the other pieces she’d stolen from the Waterhouse display. “The plan was always to leave London.”
“Fair enough. Kane will take some time to regroup, though, before he makes his next move. Despite everything, he’s not impulsive. You should have at least a few days.” Fletcher cut her a sidelong glance. “And you’ll need it. You sound like you’ve spent fifty years blowing clouds.”
Zaria mustered a tight grin, accepting his advice as the olive branch she suspected it was. Cautiously extended, but a peace offering nonetheless. “What about you? What’s your plan?”
Fletcher sighed. He looked impossibly tired, his light hair askew and his brow furrowed. “I’m not sure,” he admitted. “You know, I always thought Kane would break free from Ward. I never thought he’d end up being like him. I should have seen it coming.”
She felt herself soften. It couldn’t have been clearer that Fletcher, despite his faults, was not like Kane.
Still, as much as she wanted to, Zaria couldn’t say she agreed with him.
She could see perfectly well the similarities between Kane and the very man he’d hated.
Had seen that depravity in him from the very beginning.
It should have been enough to deter her, but it hadn’t. Even now, after all that had happened, some twisted part of her balked at the thought of never seeing him again.
She pushed that part aside, deftly and with finality, locking it up in a very small box. She would try to forget about Kane Durante. The look on his face as he snatched the necklace from Ward’s neck and the way his voice had wavered, nearly imperceptibly, as he’d bellowed for them to leave.
This wasn’t the way she’d pictured leaving London: no primateria source in hand, running from the boy whose face she knew she would see each time she closed her eyes.
“Excuse me,” she told Fletcher, throat tightening.
He nodded, and Zaria ducked to the back of the murmuring crowd, the noise a dull buzzing in her ears.
She needed silence. A moment’s reprieve from the commotion in the street and in her head.
She hoped Jules would understand when he looked around and saw her absence.
“Zaria Mendoza?”
Her own name sounded from behind her, and she spun around, finding herself face-to-face with another girl. It took her a heartbeat to place the muscular frame, dark eyes, and reddish-blonde hair. When she did, her pulse kicked up another notch. “Can I help you?”
The girl smiled, and not kindly. Last Zaria had seen her, she’d been holding a magical explosive. A defunct one.
“You can, actually,” the girl said, drawing a tiny sleek revolver from the folds of her gray skirt. “You see, Mister Vaughan isn’t very happy with you.”
“There is no Mister Vaughan,” Zaria snapped back, remembering what Kane had told her. How he’d attempted to look into her client, only to find that he didn’t exist.
One side of the girl’s mouth curved up. “I’ll be sure to tell him that. Now start moving.”
Zaria complied but not before glancing around anxiously for Jules. Relieved when he was nowhere to be seen, she began a slow, unsteady walk to the end of Horseferry Road. There was a stagecoach waiting there, she saw, drawn by two sleek black horses. Her stomach churned.
“Faster,” the girl hissed, sounding at once too close and strangely far away.
Zaria’s thoughts were a tempest. What was she going to tell this Mister Vaughan, whoever he was? She ought to have known she would answer for this eventually. Somehow, with everything that had happened since, the troubles associated with her outstanding commissions had seemed so far away.
The stagecoach loomed ahead, the door thrust open by a single gloved hand. Letting out a shaky breath, Zaria slid her own hand into the pocket of her dress, a desperate attempt to conceal her fluttering fingers.
Then she froze.
The cold press of a delicate metal chain met her fingertips.