"Well?" I prompted when Matt shut the watch's case.

"Is there an improvement?" Chronos pressed. He sounded excited too, and for the first time, I felt a connection to him.

Matt blinked down at the watch in his hand, the chain dangling through his fingers. "Something's different."

I sucked in a deep, shuddery breath then clamped a shaking hand over his. "Matt…" I couldn't speak, couldn't form the words needed to ask.

He lifted his head to meet my gaze and folded his other hand over mine. "I feel stronger, India, healthier. Healthier than I have in weeks."

"As good as the first time you used it in Broken Creek?"

"No." Matt pulled my hand to his lips and kissed it gently, never taking his gaze off me. "But it's a positive development."

"Yes," I said, somewhat numb. "It is."

"Thank you," he murmured, his lips against my hand.

I caught Chronos backing from the room out of the corner of my eye. He shut the door, leaving Matt and me alone in the drawing room.

Matt quickly lowered my hand. "I need to apologize for last night."

The rapid change of topic caught me by surprise. I wanted to discuss his health more, and I thought he wanted to talk about me not visiting Abercrombie with him.

"You have nothing to apologize for," I said.

"I do. I was a boor."

"If you think you behaved poorly, you should apologize to Willie and the others. Anyway, you were upset about the watch not working after Chronos cast his spell. Your hopes had built up only to be dashed." I squeezed his arm. "It's understandable you wanted to forget for a few hours."

He cringed and I noticed the lines at the corners of his eyes looked smaller, the shadows mere smudges not bruises. It was no different to how he always looked after using the watch. "Don't be so forgiving," he said quietly. "I don't deserve it."

I smiled. "Do you need to rest?"

"Not quite as badly as I have of late." He sounded surprised.

"That's something."

"I'll rest before I see Abercrombie. Speaking of which, why aren't you insisting on coming with me this afternoon?"

"I want to call on Oscar Barratt," I said. "I ought to see how he is."

"Ah." He gave me a flat smile. "Wish him well in his recovery from me. Will you take him up on his offer to go to the theater?"

"But…you promised to take me." Good lord, I sounded pathetic.

"I haven't forgotten my promise, but there's no reason you can't go with him too."

I regarded him from beneath my lashes. "Why?"

"Why not? He likes you. He's a good man, although a little eager. About magic," he added then cleared his throat. "Give him my regards," he said, turning to go.

It took me several seconds to recover from my disappointment at his changed attitude toward my friendship with Barratt. But without seeing his face, I couldn't begin to determine what it meant.

"One other thing," he said over his shoulder. "About your intention to move out…is that decision final?"

"I'm still considering what to do. I thought my mind was made up but now I'm not sure."

The corners of his mouth lifted ever so slightly. "Take your time. There's no need to rush."

* * *

Oscar Barratt had given me his home address some time ago so that I could visit him, day or night, if I had any questions about magic. I assumed he was there recuperating, but I was wrong. His landlady said he'd gone back to work and I found him at The Weekly Gazette's office on Lower Mire Lane, the insignificant little street off the more industrious Fleet Street. The Weekly Gazette wasn't one of the city's pre-eminent papers but it had a solid following among the middle classes who preferred its sensationalist stories over the political and financial slant of the better known dailies.

I found Mr. Barratt at his desk out the back, his arm in a sling, writing furiously. Another journalist in the adjoining office tapped at a mechanical typewriter. Its rhythmic clack clack was more soothing than I expected, and I hadn't realized my nerves were jangly until I drew in a deep breath.

"Not even a bullet wound can slow you down," I said to the dark head bent over the desk.

Mr. Barratt looked up. "India! What a pleasant surprise." He got to his feet quickly, only to wince and touch his arm.

"Are you all right?" I edged around the desk but stopped before getting too close. I offered a sympathetic smile.

"I'll be fine. Just got up too suddenly." He indicated I should sit on the chair opposite. "I'm glad you're here. I wanted to call upon you but I wasn't sure if I should. Inspector Brockwell said you had quite a scare the day I was shot."

"At least I wasn’t injured."

"How did you escape from Mr. Pitt? Brockwell was vague on the particulars."

"Matt was there."

"If he saved your life, Brockwell would have said so." He leaned forward. "Was it your watch?"

I glanced over my shoulder at the door. Even though no one stood there, I whispered. "It did, along with Matt's distraction."

He threw the pen down on his paper. Ink splattered but he didn't care. "I knew it!" He beamed. "Excellent." He reached forward to pat my hand but knocked his arm on the edge of the desk and winced.

"You look like you're in pain, Mr. Barratt. Can I get you anything?"

He hesitated. "A new shoulder without a hole in it." He smiled crookedly, turning his handsome features into something quite extraordinary. "It actually doesn't hurt as badly as you might think. The bullet didn't go right through, merely grazed me. It's still lodged in the wall in the printing room."

"You were very lucky. I am so glad you're all right, as is Matt. We feel terribly responsible for involving you. None of this would have happened if we hadn't sought you out after reading your article."

"I'll forgive you on one condition."

Oh dear. What did he want from me? More than a ticket to the theater?

He laughed softly, making him even more dashing. "There's no need to worry. My condition is that you call me Oscar, since I've taken to calling you India.

I smiled, more in relief than with humor. "I can do that."

"And anyway, it wasn't your fault. I wrote that article about Dr. Hale, drawing attention to myself and to magic. I probably should take a leaf out of your book and be more discreet."

"You have drawn the notice of some people. Speaking of which, did you know Mr. Pitt took me to Lord Coyle's house when he kidnapped me from here?"

"Brockwell informed me but claimed Pitt had overreached his acquaintance with Coyle." He adjusted the sling and gingerly rested his arm on the desk. His face brightened, as if he could sense an intriguing story in the air. "Was Coyle behind Hale's murder, somehow urging Pitt to act on his behalf?"

"We don't know, but I just wanted to warn you to be careful. If Lord Coyle asks you about magic again, it may be best to be as vague as possible until we know why he collects magical objects. He's rich and influential, and he knows how to get what he wants. Fortunately, Inspector Brockwell cannot be bought."

He huffed softly. "Or perhaps the right currency hasn't been tabled."

I ought to defend Brockwell's integrity, but he'd made things difficult for us during the investigation into Hale's death. Matt may like him, but I wasn't as willing to be his friend. "I want to discuss something with you, Oscar. Something that you've mentioned before but Matt and I dismissed. I think it's worth exploring again."

"This sounds intriguing. I'm all ears."

"Let's talk about writing an article revealing magic to the public."