CHAPTER 9

Lincoln was out all night and hadn't returned by the time I left the house in the morning. I paused as I passed through the Lichfield gate, looked left and right, then continued on when I saw no one about. I caught an omnibus into the city, then another over the bridge. I felt terribly conspicuous in my new cloak, among the women wearing practical woolen ones, but by the time I alighted in The Borough, I no longer cared. Indeed, I felt rather grand and important. A gentleman even gave up his seat for me and another doffed his hat.

Although I kept alert, I was quite sure I hadn't been followed when I arrived in Bermondsey. The orphanage was small compared to those I'd visited in the north of the city, and unhappy faces peered down at me from second floor windows. They must think me a well-to-do lady in my cloak, and I regretted wearing it again. I wasn't a lady; I was just like them. Or I had been once, as a baby, and then again at thirteen when Anselm Holloway had thrown me out of his home. While I'd chosen to live on the street instead of taking myself to an orphanage or workhouse, I'd been friendless in the city too.

I pulled the edges of the cloak together and knocked. Thinking of past choices was never a good idea. From now on, I wanted to only look to the future.

After shouting at the elderly administrator with poor hearing, I was able to cross the Bermondsey orphanage off my list. Thanks to his excellent memory, he hadn't needed to check his records. No one by the name of Holloway had adopted a little girl eighteen years ago, nor had anyone been asking the same question in recent days.

I visited another two orphanages on the south side of London and received the same answers. Only the Brixton one had received a letter asking about my adoption. As with Mr. Hogan from the Kentish Town orphanage, the administrator couldn't recall the address he'd sent a reply to and he hadn't kept a copy of the letter. He'd claimed it had been written on plain paper bearing no monogram, and the signature had been illegible. Another dead end.

I caught a train back to the city and was about to search for an omnibus heading toward Highgate when I had another idea. I knew my father's name was Frankenstein, so perhaps my mother had listed it on my birth record. I enquired at the post office in St. Martin's Le Grand and learned that the General Register Office was only a short distance away on the Strand. It was located in the North Wing of Somerset House, an imposing building that was more like a palace with an air of stuffy authority about it. I waited for my turn to be called to a desk where a snowy-haired man with a pointed beard peered over his spectacles at me.

He asked me to write down my name and Frankenstein's on a form then passed the form on to a younger man. The poor fellow was already laden with forms and documents, and I was afraid that even one more might see the lot toppling.

"Wait a moment," I called out to him as he went to walk on.

He blinked at me then at the snowy haired man. "What is it?" asked the older man at the desk in a bored monotone. "We're very busy."

"I'd like to make an enquiry about one more birth." I smiled my sweetest smile at them both. The younger man moved closer and returned my smile. The older one grunted, but he handed me a blank form to complete. I entered Lincoln's name in the space left for the baby's name section before I lost my nerve. I handed it directly to the assistant and laid a hand on his wrist. "Thank you so much, sir. I appreciate you waiting for me."

"It could take a little while," said the older fellow.

"Oh."

"Yours are at the top, miss," said the younger man. He winked at me and headed off.

I sat with several other people who were also waiting and instantly regretted my hasty decision to inquire after Lincoln's birth. It had been made on a whim, and not one I felt proud of now that I'd had time to think about it. He would hate me going behind his back again. I hated myself. I resolved not to look at the response.

I had to wait only half an hour before the young assistant came looking for me. He smiled and fiddled with his tie, but I had no inclination for flirting.

"What did you learn?" I asked.

He spread out his hands in front of him. They were empty. "Nothing, I'm afraid. There are no births registered under the name of Frankenstein."

I smiled through my disappointment, but it felt forced, and he seemed to know it too. His own smile slipped. "I'm not interested in the other matter anymore," I told him as I rose. "Whatever you learned you may keep to yourself."

His face brightened. "That's a relief because I learned nothing anyway. There were no babies named Lincoln Fitzroy born in the last fifty years."

I left the registry office and walked along the Strand in a daze. It wasn't the lack of information on my own birth that confused me, since I suspected my mother was trying to keep Frankenstein from me and, as such, wouldn't have recorded his name on the birth entry. But not finding a record of Lincoln was a little more surprising. I'd assumed his parents were poor and couldn't keep him. If that were the case, there should still be a record of him.

I dismissed any further questions I had on the matter. I was glad to have learned nothing useful from my thoughtlessness. The sickening sensation I'd felt in my gut ever since sending the fellow off with the inquiry began to ease.

I caught an omnibus from the city to Highgate. Instead of heading straight home, I detoured via the cemetery. The costermonger and his cart weren't there today, thank goodness, and no other passengers alighted behind me. I was satisfied that I had not been followed and was no longer being watched. It was a considerable relief.

I couldn't find Mr. Tucker, so I sought out the chap with the port wine birthmark. I found him sitting under a tree munching on his lunch. He scrambled to his feet, doffed his cap and tucked his chin into his chest.

"I'm sorry to interrupt you." It was like talking to a stray cat. I had to keep both my movements and voice gentle, soothing. "I hope you can answer a question for me about the grave that was dug up."

He nodded.

"Have you been near there since the body was reburied?"

He nodded.

"Is it still buried?"

Another nod.

"Are you aware of anyone taking an interest in the grave since then?"

"No, miss," he mumbled.

"Thank you. That's all. Please continue to enjoy your lunch."

So it would seem we were right; the captain hadn't wanted to risk digging up Gordon again. Our only way to find the man was at Mr. Lee's—if he paid the den another visit.

***

Despite having the day off, I completed some chores after lunch. Lincoln had returned while I was out and was resting in his rooms, while Gus kept watch at Lee's. It was quite late in the day when Lincoln joined me in the parlor as I rubbed beeswax into one of the tabletops.

"We can get an hour of training in before I head out again," he said.

I glanced out the window. The sun's final rays cast a sepia glow over the front garden. It would be dark soon. "Not today, if that's all right with you. I want to talk instead."

He rested a hand on the mantel. "About?"

"About the ministry."

He drew in a breath and let it out slowly. "Very well. First, tell me how your investigations went this morning."

I told him which orphanages I'd visited and what I'd learned from them, as well as at the cemetery. I didn't mention my detour to the GRO. "The captain hasn't been back to Thackery's grave."

"We'll find him at Lee's or one of the other opium dens," he said. "Not the cemetery."

"You're very confident, but I don't see how you can be. You can't possibly watch all the opium dens in London. There are only three of you."

"I've paid each proprietor a substantial sum to report to me if a man fitting the captain's description shows up and doesn't partake in smoking. I'm confident my money will bring results."

I smiled. "You've thought of everything."

"I know how these operations work."

"How? You said you knew Lee's…" I couldn't meet his gaze anymore and returned to polishing the table.

"You want to know if I smoke opium."

I shrugged one shoulder. "It crossed my mind."

"I have."

His answer startled me into looking at him again. "Oh. I see. Well."

"Don't you want to know more?"

"I don't want to pry."

"Yes, you do." Despite his accusation, he didn't sound angry or offended. "You have a curious nature."

"Some would say nosy."

The corner of his mouth lifted. "I would rather you asked me questions directly instead of others. That way you'll be sure to get the right answer."

If he wanted to answer at all. "Very well. How did you end up becoming an opium addict?"

"I wasn't an addict. I experimented with it as part of my studies when I was younger."

"You experimented with it?" I echoed. "How does one experiment with opium? And to what end?"

"I smoked it five times over five weeks to study the effects."

"Why?"

He shrugged. "Why not? It's just another piece of knowledge, and knowledge is necessary in my position."

"When you put it like that, it sounds quite innocent. I think of opium smoking as a sordid habit that lures desperate men."

"It can be, if one partakes too often. As Gordon Thackery did, by his own admission. An addict is not a pretty sight."

"I've seen men coming and going from a garret in Bluegate Fields, near where I once lived. We all knew it was an opium house. I'd often see the same men on street corners, begging for money that they would spend at the garret later that night. There was such an air of hopeless about them, as if they were caught in a web they couldn't escape. It was awful."

"That's generally how addiction works. It's difficult to break free once it digs its claws in."

"You never felt the pull of the opium when you experimented? You never wanted to partake more than once a week?"

He shook his head. "Like you, I'd seen what it could do to a man. One of my tutors showed me the addicts like you describe."

"That's an odd thing for a tutor to do. What was the subject he taught?"

"It didn't have an official name. I called it Slums and Scums Studies, but not to my tutor's face."

I laughed. "How many tutors did you have?"

"Twenty-two, but not all at one time. Over the course of several years, I might have three or four different tutors for the same subject."

"Your lessons were private?"

He nodded.

"No other children joined you?"

"No. Why?"

"I'm merely curious." It confirmed my theory that he must have had a lonely childhood. "Were they stuffy old men?"

He paused before answering. "Not all."

I frowned, wondering why he'd paused. And then it dawned on me. "Do you mean to say you had women tutors too?"

Another pause. "Only one."

"What subject did she teach?"

"Women."

I almost choked on my tongue as I tried not to laugh. "Women?"

"I had little to do with females at that point, so the general decided I needed to learn more about them. Since there was only a crusty old housekeeper living at the house, he employed a woman to tutor me in all things feminine. How they behaved and thought, their weaknesses and strengths. I learned a lot from her."

"So it's thanks to her that you're the charming man you are today?"

His eyes narrowed. "She did her best. It's not her fault I was already sixteen and set in my ways by the time she took on the task."

"She must have done something right," I said, finishing off the cleaning.

"Is that so?"

"Lady Harcourt certainly finds you appealing."

"Does she?" he said idly.

I wondered what else his female tutor had taught him. How to please a woman intimately? Or had that task fallen to Lady Harcourt, or perhaps an earlier mistress? How many had this handsome, intriguing man taken to bed?

I wiped my greasy hands on a clean cloth and screwed on the wax tub lid. I tried not to think about his lovers. Being aware of Lady Harcourt was quite enough.

"Are those the only questions you had for me?" he asked.

"No. They weren't even the questions I intended to ask. Thank you for answering them. I appreciate your candor." I bit my lip, acutely aware that he was watching me and that as his maid I had no right to ask him anything about his private life.

"I want you to feel comfortable here," he said, placing his hands behind his back.

"I already do."

He indicated I should sit on the sofa so I sat, being careful not to touch the brocade fabric with my hands. He sat on an armchair opposite. "Go on."

"Tell me about the ministry," I said.

"I thought I already had."

"You've told me what its purpose is now, and why there is a committee, but not its history. You all seem to have quite different opinions about ministry business, and what to do with people like me, and I thought understanding the ministry's past will help me understand its present."

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Don't let Gillingham upset you. His is one opinion among several."

"I know. And he doesn't upset me." Not anymore.

He leaned back and sat very still. He was often still, whether sitting or standing, as if conserving every ounce of energy and storing it for later use. "The ministry grew out of an order that has existed for a long time. It was renamed the Ministry for Peculiar Things when I became its head."

"Things?" I chuckled. "Who thought of that name?"

His lips drew together. "It was more recently given its current name The Ministry of Curiosities. Prior to my taking over, it had been dormant for many years, with no leader and only a committee to remember its function and pass on information about it from generation to generation. And to store the archives, of course."

"How old is it, precisely?"

"Perhaps a thousand years. No one is certain."

"Good lord. It's been in existence all this time? That means people with supernatural abilities have been around for just as long, or there would have been no need to harbor them."

His gaze drifted away. His hands shifted ever so slightly on the chair arm.

"What is it?" I asked. "What aren't you telling me?"

He seemed surprised that I'd picked up on his cues. "The order wasn't originally formed to find and harbor those who knew magic, but destroy them."

I drew in a breath. "People like me?" I whispered.

He nodded. "The order thought anyone who performed magic, as they called it, was unholy, unnatural."

"Like Anselm Holloway does."

"A thousand years ago, the church declared all supernatural people abominations against God, and that put a price on their heads, so to speak. It gave ordinary folk free reign to burn witches, lynch necromancers and anyone else who displayed magical abilities. The order grew from those times of persecution here in England and, for hundreds of years, it thrived as it hunted down anyone accused of witchcraft."

"How awful," I whispered.

"Yes and no. Not everyone has a good heart and conscience like you, Charlie. Magicians and witches have been known to cause great harm. They're people, after all, and as with any group of people there are good and bad. Some did terrible things. The order, however, didn't discriminate. Good and bad supernaturals all fell victim to their form of justice. Innocents were persecuted alongside the guilty."

"So…magicians and witches are real," I said carefully.

"They are. You're one."

I scoffed. "I'm a necromancer. It's hardly magic or witchcraft. I can't change into a bat, or turn you into a frog. I can only do one thing, and it's only moderately useful."

"From what I've read in the ministry archives, that still qualifies you for being a witch. Most witches and magicians seemed to have a specialty, only one trick they could perform. I found no records of turning anyone into a bat or any other animal, but I did find accounts of mind control, changing one's own appearance, speaking to ghosts, that sort of thing."

I shook my head slowly, not because I didn't believe him, but because it was so fantastical. It was difficult to understand the scale of what he was telling me. "Why do we know nothing about witches and magicians now? Well, except for me, that is."

"I've observed others who possess strange powers. They're not hard to find, if one listens to rumors and talks to the right people. I expect they keep to themselves for precisely the reason you did—fear of reprisal. Society would ostracize them at the least, and hurt them at the most."

"I suppose so." Holloway had tried both ostracizing me and hurting me. He'd succeeded at the former and only failed at the latter thanks to Cook and his meat cleaver.

"The order accounted for many, many deaths of supernaturals in those early centuries," he said. "Times have changed drastically, fortunately. You have nothing to fear from the ministry. No one wants to eradicate supernaturals now."

Except, perhaps, Lord Gillingham. "The others wanted to exile me."

"Exile is not death."

"No," I said drily.

"And I won't let that happen to you, unless you wish to relocate to a tropical island paradise."

I smiled, despite myself. "Lichfield will do nicely for now."

"I'm glad to hear it." His rich, deep voice washed over me, and my smile broadened. He blinked once, then looked down at his lap where his hands bunched into fists. The tender moment was over so quickly, I wondered if I'd misread him this time.

"Why did the order become dormant?" I prompted. "Did it destroy so many supernaturals that few were left and it was no longer needed?"

"That's one theory, but it's more likely it suffered the same fate as the Roman Catholic church here. It was closely tied to the faith, so when England navigated the Reformation in the sixteenth century and ousted Catholics, the order fell into disarray. It was forgotten by everyone but a few who kept the records and stories alive. A handful of caretakers were appointed in each generation, passing on the information to their sons, who would pass it on to their sons, et cetera."

"The current committee members are descendants of the original caretakers?"

He nodded. "I had no choice in their selection. No one did."

"You said sons. What about Lady Harcourt? Does she not have brothers?"

"Lady Harcourt's late husband was the committee member. He didn't pass on the information to his sons, but to his wife. She doesn't know why, but it's possible he didn't trust his sons to be discreet."

Having met Andrew Buchanan, I could see why he thought that. "Why didn't one of the generations resurrect the old order and put it to use again? Why wait until now?"

"They were waiting for me."

I raised my brows.

"Apparently there was a prophecy, spoken by a seer in the mid fifteen hundreds. She foresaw the long years of the order's dormancy, which would come to an end in this century, when a new leader was appointed. She gave particular details about him." He held out his hands, palm up. "It turned out to be me."

How extraordinary, and rather intriguing, too. It made me think of old fairytales with curses, prophecies and evil witches. It even had a knight in shining armor—Lincoln. The story only lacked a princess.

"And so you were brought up in the general's home, trained from birth to be the leader."

He nodded. "He was the eldest member. He had no family of his own and so was considered the ideal candidate."

"But he was never home."

"Precisely. It was deemed best if I didn't become attached to anyone."

I blinked at him. Not become attached? But little children needed to feel a sense of belonging and nurturing. I'd seen it in the gangs, with the youngest members. They often attached themselves to a champion who took care of them and provided for them, even loved them. It was human instinct. "Were the servants like a family to you?"

"They were often moved along before I could make friends."

"Oh, Lincoln."

His hands balled into fists on his knees. His lips flattened and I decided not to tell him that I thought his childhood sounded desolate. He would hate my pity. So I asked a more impersonal question instead. "Wouldn't a seer be considered a supernatural and therefore a target of the caretaker committee?"

"That's the irony. Her prophecy not only kept the order dormant for so long, but it perhaps had a hand in changing the position of the caretakers. I couldn't find any reference in the archives to her being punished for her prophecy. It stated the new leader would even use magic to defeat dark forces that want to bring the realm to its knees."

"Good lord. Do you think she meant Frankenstein?"

"Perhaps. He certainly could have caused great harm if he'd managed to build an army of strong corpses."

"And if my necromancy is considered magic, then that fits too." I waited for him to add more, but he didn't. It seemed I would have to broach the subject instead. "Did your mother let you go freely?"

"I don't know. The general has told me so little about her."

"What do you know?"

"That she fell pregnant at a young age and wasn't married. That removing me from her was a blessing, for both her and me. She couldn't have afforded to raise me, apparently, and I would have lived a life of squalor."

I wondered if the general could be believed. Lincoln seemed to, although he spoke stiffly, formally, as if he didn't want to think too much about it. If he'd led a lonely, unhappy childhood, it was no wonder he had difficulty expressing himself and showing kindness.

"You were raised to be a killing machine, weren't you?" I hedged.

He looked at me with wide eyes that quickly narrowed again. "Among other things," he snapped.

"I…I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend. I just meant that you're supposed to save the world from dark forces, so you must have been prepared accordingly."

"I speak a dozen languages fluently and another dozen moderately well. I've memorized entire books, know advanced mathematics, and can put together an engine as efficiently as any engineer. I can create poisons and antidotes, have a thorough understanding of medicine and the workings of the human body. I've traveled across Europe and through parts of Asia and America. I can dance as well as any gentleman, recite poetry, and play the violin. Do you want me to go on?" It wasn't boastful, but matter of fact; as if he wanted me to know that he was more than a killing machine, more than his nickname of Death. As if he needed me to know. That only made me ache for him more.

"Your catalog of skills is very impressive," I whispered. "I feel rather provincial now."

He clicked his tongue and unclenched his fists. "That wasn't my intention. Forgive me."

"It's all right." I wanted to smile to let him know it didn't matter, but he wouldn't look at me. It was best to return to the topic of the ministry again. Safer. "The committee are still wary of magic and the supernatural, on the whole," I said. "But you don't seem to be. Why is that?"

He cleared his throat. "I mentioned before that I've observed some people who possess powers. They were all harmless, good folk, and I had no reason to fear them or worry that they wanted to take over the country."

"They were not the dark forces the seer spoke of?"

"Not in the least."

I rose and bobbed my head. "Thank you, Mr. Fitzroy. I appreciate your candor. I won't tell a soul what you've told me."

"I know you won't." He rose too. "Gus and Seth will be busy tonight," he added. "So there's something I need you to do for me."

"Would you like me to clean your rooms?"

"Nothing like that. Can you check my tailcoat to see that it's in good order? It's been some time since I wore it. My formal shirt will need starching too."

It took a few moments for my dull brain to realize he was talking about the clothes he would wear to the ball. "You're accepting Lady Harcourt's friend's invitation?"

"You seem surprised."

"I didn't think it your sort of thing."

"It's not."

"Then why are you going?"

"The answer matters to you," he said flatly.

"Yes. No!" I sighed. "I'm curious as to why you would go if you think you'll hate it. Is it because Lady Harcourt wishes it?"

One dark brow lifted slowly then lowered again. "No," he said as he walked away. "Because people I want to see will be there."

"Your family," I murmured, surprising myself. My mind was leaping in all directions, and I wasn't entirely sure if I believed what I'd said or was merely throwing it into the mix to gauge is reaction.

And he did react. He stopped suddenly and turned to face me. I gulped.

"I…I'm sorry." I waved the polishing cloth in dismissal. "You're a gentleman, so I assume your family must be gently bred too and would perhaps attend balls. That's all I meant."

"I told you my mother was a pauper."

"And your father?"

"I was never informed who he was." With his hands clasped behind him, he strolled out of the parlor.

I watched him go, a curious feeling in my chest. It was partly sorrow for the little, lonely boy he'd once been, but it was mostly a sense of triumph. I'd realized something during our exchange—I'd begun to decipher the small cues he sometimes gave away without realizing it. It might be a twist of his mouth, a quirk of his eyebrow, or hardening of the muscles in his jaw. Or it could be an abrupt stop and a defiant, challenging glare—as he'd just given me. A glare that dared me to tell him what I suspected. What I did know now from those minute cues was that I'd been right—his family would be at the ball tomorrow night. His father's side of the family, that was. Just because Lincoln claimed never to have been told who'd fathered him didn't mean he hadn't found out by some other means. He was resourceful. If he wanted to discover something, I had no doubt that he could.

I wondered which noble family he belonged to, and who else knew. The committee must. Lord Gillingham had once alluded to knowing secrets about Lincoln, and Lady Harcourt had said he was protective of his family. She could have meant his mother, but I somehow suspected she meant his father. She'd also known precisely which ball to invite him to, one where his family would be in attendance, therefore increasing the chances of him going.

He must like to keep his eye on them from time to time, perhaps even talk to them. I could understand the allure.

I wondered if his father knew that Lincoln was his son.

***

The only mending Lincoln's formal tailcoat required was for a loose button to be removed and sewn back on. I ironed his best shirt and made a note to send the collar out to a nearby laundry for starching into a circular shape on their special steam iron. In the evening, I read in the library for a little but grew lonely and went in search of Cook. Everyone else had gone out to make inquiries at opium dens.

I found Cook stropping a knife blade on a cleaning board at the kitchen table. I must have startled him because he glanced up quickly. The moment's inattention caused him to cut his thumb.

He swore like a sailor and swiped up a cloth, wrapping it around his thumb. Blood soon seeped through.

"Are you all right?" I dropped the sewing I'd brought with me on the table and tried to get a look at his thumb, but he wouldn't unwrap it. "Let me see."

"It bloody hurts."

"I'm sure it does. Is it still attached?"

He gingerly unwrapped the cloth. The cut oozed blood, but after a close inspection, I was satisfied the thumb wasn't going to come off. The cut was deep, however, and required stitching. Fortunately I knew where the medical kit was kept, and how to suture a wound. Lincoln had shown me soon after we'd met. I'd not done it since, and not without supervision, but I was sure I could manage.

Cook wasn't quite so certain. It took some convincing, and half a bottle of Lincoln's best brandy, before he would unwrap it for me again. He couldn't bear to watch as I threaded the sterile needle and sewed up the cut. He whimpered like a child the entire time.

"And here I thought you were a big, strong beast of a man," I told him as I tied the thread ends. "You're nothing but a baby."

"It bloody hurts!"

I kissed the top of his bald head. "I know. You cradle your hand while I make you some hot chocolate."

He sat there while I packed away the kit and he didn't get up as I broke the chocolate pieces into the saucepan. I made a cup for him and one for me, and I tried to get him to return to his usual gruff self by getting him to talk about the carnivals his father used to take him to as a child, but it was no use. I sent him to bed when he finished his chocolate.

I cleaned his knives and washed the saucepan and cups then sat down to my sewing. I pulled the lamp in close so I could see the dark blue ribbon against the pale blue fabric of the dress. It was the only dress I owned that wasn't a uniform. I'd only worn it once, preferring to keep it for special occasions. Unfortunately, there'd been no special occasions. I'd worn it one time when I went out, merely to get some use out of it. I resolved to wear it more now that I'd sewn Lincoln's ribbon into the waistline.

I was packing my pins away when I heard a brisk knock at the back door. It must have been almost eleven o'clock; far too late for callers or deliveries. I thought about fetching Cook, but whoever it was might have given up by then. The knock came again, more urgent this time.

"Who is it?" I called out.

"I come from Mr. Lee," came a small voice. It belonged to either a child or a woman, but I still didn't open the door.

"What do you want?"

"Mr. Lee sends a message for Mr. Fitzroy."

"What about?"

The person hesitated, perhaps considering if he or she should deliver the message to someone who wasn't the intended recipient. "Mr. Fitzroy wanted to be told if the captain returned."

I unlocked the door and opened it. A boy no older than fourteen stood there, shivering in clothes too small for his growing limbs. I ushered him inside and through to the kitchen, and he immediately went to stand by the warm range, like a moth attracted to a flame.

"Has the captain returned to Mr. Lee's?" I asked him.

He peered at me through his long, dirty hair. He had Oriental eyes, but he wasn't a full-blooded Chinese. "Mr. Lee sent me here to tell Mr. Fitzroy."

"Thank you. Mr. Fitzroy will be very satisfied. I'll inform him shortly. Did you get a look at the captain?"

The boy shook his head.

"What is the captain doing now?" I asked.

"Watching someone."

"Watching one of Mr. Lee's…customers?"

He nodded again and rubbed his hands more vigorously. They were dirty and red raw, and the boy's clothes were so thin. He at least wore shoes, but his toes poked through.

"Stay here. Don't steal anything." I hurried out of the kitchen and up the stairs. I found a spare coat and pair of gloves in Seth's room and ran back down to the kitchen again. The boy was exactly where I'd left him. I handed over the garments then asked him to wait. I found some bread and cheese in the pantry and handed the lot to him.

"Thank you for reporting in," I said to the lad, who now stared back at me as if he'd seen a remarkable vision. "You may go now. Be careful. It's dark out and the streets are dangerous."

"Thank you, miss." He scooped up the food and his new possessions and dashed for the door as if he were afraid I'd change my mind.

I locked the door behind him and considered what to do. I didn't know where Seth, Gus and Lincoln were, precisely. They could be anywhere in the city. And Cook was in no state to head out. It was up to me.

Lincoln would be furious if I went alone. So I wouldn't go alone. I'd find myself a bodyguard. And I knew just the place where hundreds, if not thousands, could be found, if one were a necromancer.