Chain of Iron

A sharp pain spiked through his temples. He blinked his eyes open: he was firmly back in the present, his friends all looking at him worriedly. Cordelia had already moved away from him, leaving behind the lingering scent of jasmine. He could still feel where her fingers had rested against his shoulder.

“I’m all right,” he said. He stood up straight; there were lines across his palms where the edge of the table had cut into his skin. His head ached abominably.

“You dreamed of Filomena’s death?” said Anna, perching on the arm of a chair. “And this has nothing to do with your visions of the shadow realm?”

“I did dream of her death. Pounceby’s, too. But they’re not dreams of a different world,” James said, drawing out his stele. An iratze would fix his headache, at least. “I dream of London. The details are real. The only death I didn’t see was Amos Gladstone’s, and I still had a nightmare that night, a sort of vision of blood.”

“The Enclave is fairly certain that he was also murdered,” said Thomas. “His throat was slashed roughly—they had assumed by a demon talon, but it could have been someone with a serrated blade.”

“Perhaps the murderer was still working out his technique,” said Matthew. “I suppose even killers have to practice.”

“He certainly seemed to be taking more pleasure from killing Filomena,” said James. Having sketched a quick healing rune on his wrist, he put his stele back in his pocket. “It was sickening.”

Lucie appeared in the doorway, giving them a start. She was very pale. “I’m sorry,” she began. “I stayed behind—”

“Lucie!” Cordelia exclaimed, hurrying over to her friend. “Are you all right?”

Lucie rubbed at her eyes, the same gesture she’d once made as a tired little girl. “I saw a ghost,” she said, without preamble.

“Doesn’t that happen rather often?” said Matthew. Cordelia shot him a quelling look. “Sorry—I just didn’t think it was too out of the ordinary.”

“This one was,” said Lucie. “He told me that—that Filomena’s ghost is already risen, and where she might be found. He seemed to think she might know who killed her.”

“Odd that I didn’t see him,” said James. He could usually see ghosts, though he had long harbored the suspicion that Lucie saw more of them. She would never admit it, though.

“Well, you were staggering, rather, and Matthew was holding you like a sack of oats,” pointed out Anna. “So where is Filomena’s ghost, Lucie?”

“Limehouse. An old factory,” said Lucie. “I wrote down the address.”

“I’m all for conversing with the dead and gathering clues,” Thomas said, “but what if this is a trap?”

“It’s true that when mysterious spectral figures appear in novels telling the hero to visit a certain place, it’s always a trap,” Lucie admitted. A little of the color was coming back into her cheeks. “But it could also be true. We can’t afford not to go—Filomena might be able to point us directly at the murderer.”

“Still a trap,” said Matthew.

“A trap is a surprise attack,” said James. “We won’t be surprised, will we?” He winked at Lucie.

“Exactly,” she said. “This ghost—and he didn’t seem a bad sort, he was rather stylish, even—approached me alone. He has no reason to think that if I went to the place, I’d bring all my friends along.”

“We should go,” James said, his thoughts coming fast, almost too fast to track. “If we assume this ghostly advice is a trap, and ignore it, then we have no clues. If we assume it means something, and follow it up, we might discover something useful. Do you see what I mean?”

“You mean that we have a choice,” said Anna. “Go to the Limehouse docks, and perhaps learn something, or do nothing, and certainly learn nothing.”

“If there’s really a chance we could speak to Filomena’s ghost, we have to try.” Cordelia spoke firmly.

“And if it’s an ambush, there will be more than enough of us to handle it,” Anna said. “We can’t just roll up to the docks in the Consul’s carriage, though. We’ll have to glamour ourselves and keep a low profile.”

“Delightful!” said Matthew. “We’ll take the train. I love the train. The little tickets are so amusing.”

 

As they made their way into the chilly, bustling interior of Fenchurch Street Station, Cordelia could not help but wonder quite what it was about the place that enchanted Matthew so. She’d taken plenty of trains in her life, with her family, so perhaps they’d lost their charm. This station seemed like many others: flower sellers, newsstands, telegraph offices, passengers rushing to and fro in the fog of steam from the engines, the smell of burning coal strong on the air. Dim light seeped through grimy panes in the arched ceiling high above, illuminating a large sign reading CHARRINGTON ALES. Below it hung the big station clock.

They were all in gear and heavily glamoured, save Matthew. He had thrown on a long coat to cover his Marks, but he insisted that they pay for their train tickets, regardless of the fact that James, Thomas, Anna, Cordelia, and Lucie were entirely invisible to the mundane eye. Luckily, the queue at the ticket office was a short one. Lucie rolled her eyes at him as he carefully fished out six threepenny bits from a pocket and handed them over. Their train was departing in just a few minutes, and as they followed Matthew to the platform, an engine heaved into place, disgorging smoke and steam. It was a small train, with just three carriages, and not many passengers in the middle of the day. They found themselves a conveniently empty third-class compartment and piled in.

They spread themselves over the brown plush seats—all except Anna, who remained standing. Matthew had slumped into a seat by the window. James eyed him; there was always love in the way he looked at Matthew, but it was mixed now with worry. “Did you move out of your parents’ house, Math?”

Matthew looked up, flushing slightly. “Leave it to you to guess, I suppose—or did someone tell you?”

“Your father rather hinted at it to Thomas,” said James. “And I know you’ve wanted to for ages.”

“Well, yes.” Matthew sighed. “I’ve been eyeing this mansion flat in Marylebone for quite a few months. I’d even put a deposit on it some time ago, but had been rather waffling on it. Yesterday afternoon I decided it was time.” He met James’s gaze with his own. “Independence! Hot and cold running servants and my own teakettle! I’ll have you all around to pendre la crémaillère when things are a bit more cheerful.”

“You should have told us,” said Thomas. “We would have helped you move your things. I’m exceptionally good at carrying large objects.”

“And think of all those hairbrushes you would have had to relocate,” Lucie said. “Haven’t you got six or seven?”

Matthew glowered at her affectionately. “I try to be at least as stylish as our local ghosts—”

The whistle blew loudly, drowning out the rest of his sentence. The carriage doors slammed and the train chuffed away from the station in a cloud of black smoke.