Chain of Iron

Thomas had nearly run away on the spot. The last few times he had seen Alastair, rage had successfully blinded him to any other feeling. But it had deserted him now. It had been only a few months since Barbara had died, and there were times when the pain of losing her was just as great as it had been during the first hours after she was gone.

He could see that same pain on Alastair’s face. Alastair, who he had told himself had no feelings. Alastair, who he had been trying so hard to despise.

He had managed only a few clumsy words of condolence before turning and walking away. Since then he had simply kept going, covering miles and miles of London, keeping to the smaller streets and alleys where the killer would be likely to hide himself. Now he found himself in the area around Fleet Street, its newspaper offices and restaurants and shops shuttered, the only light coming from the windows of the buildings that housed the presses hard at work printing copies of tomorrow morning’s paper.

Pounceby had been killed only blocks from where Thomas now walked. He decided to turn down Fleet Street, to see the scene of his death. If Thomas retraced Pounceby’s steps, maybe he could discover something the others had missed. Or, if the killer was a creature of habit, Thomas might even draw him out. The thought did not make him afraid; on the contrary, it made him determined and hungry for a fight.

Thomas turned down the side street where Pounceby’s body had been found. It was snowbound, quiet, no hint that anything dreadful had happened here. Only a sense of tension in the air—a prickle at the back of Thomas’s neck, as if he were being watched—

A footfall crunched on packed snow. Thomas tensed and spun around, landing in a defensive stance.

There, in the shadow of an awning, a dark figure froze, face obscured by a hood. For a moment neither moved—and then the stranger bolted. He was fast—faster than Thomas expected. Even as Thomas broke into a run, the stranger was already putting distance between the two of them. Thomas sped up as the figure cut nimbly into an alley.

Swearing, Thomas ducked under a railing; he thundered into the alley, but the figure had already vanished around a distant corner. Thomas jogged to the alley’s end, already knowing what he would see. Nothing. His pursuer had vanished, his footprints indistinguishable from dozens of others in the much-trodden snow.

14



THE FLAMING FORGE



Thus at the flaming forge of life

Our fortunes must be wrought;

Thus on its sounding anvil shaped

Each burning deed and thought.

—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, “The Village Blacksmith”

Cordelia was waiting early the next morning, when Matthew arrived in his shiny Ford Model A. It was quite cold; despite her heavy coat and wool dress, the wind seemed to cut through to her skin. Cortana was strapped across her back; she had not glamoured herself to be invisible to mundanes, but she had glamoured the blade.

She had slipped out before breakfast, leaving a note for her mother saying that she had to return to James and Curzon Street. Her mother would understand that; demands of home and hearth were paramount for Sona. As for Alastair, Cordelia had left him a separate note, repeating firmly that he was welcome at her house and begging him to visit whenever he wanted. She was worried about him; she could tell from signs around the house that he had been up all night.

Thinking about their father, she assumed. She felt a little unreal as Matthew gave her a tour around the little car, absently admiring its gleaming red paintwork and shiny brass rails while he talked excitedly about the finer points of its engine, including something called a crank chamber. Though she tried to stop them, every once in a while pain-dark thoughts would intrude:

My father is dead. My father is dead. This is the first morning of my life when I will wake up knowing he is gone.

“… and there’s a combined epicyclic gear and clutch mechanism mounted on the crankshaft,” Matthew went on. Cordelia distantly noted that the car’s slender wheels with their matching red spokes seemed barely attached to the rest of it; that its padded leather seat was only just wide enough for two. The folded-down canopy behind it was not likely to provide much in the way of coverage if it rained, and the whole contraption looked flimsy enough to blow away in a strong wind.

“This is all very nice,” she said finally, pushing her darker thoughts away again, “but I can’t help noticing that there is no roof on this car. We’re both likely to be frozen stiff.”

“Not to worry,” Matthew said, rummaging behind the seat and producing a pair of magnificent fur-lined traveling rugs. He was dressed immaculately in a smart, also fur-lined leather duster coat and boots polished to a high shine. He looked remarkably awake, considering.

“Does anyone know where we’re going?” she asked, taking hold of his extended hand and climbing up into the car.

“I didn’t tell anyone where,” Matthew said, “but I let Thomas know that we were going for a drive. We’ll be back in time to meet the others at Curzon Street this evening.”

The others, Cordelia thought. Which included James. She pushed the thought of him away determinedly as she settled herself under the traveling rug. Glancing back at Cornwall Gardens, her eyes caught a flicker of movement. Alastair stood at an upper window, looking down at her; she raised a gloved hand to him tentatively—the last thing she could bear at the moment was an altercation between Matthew and her brother—and he nodded, flicking the curtain back into place.

“What was that?” Matthew asked.

“Alastair,” said Cordelia. “Just—waving goodbye.”

Matthew cranked the starting handle, and Cordelia settled gratefully back as the Ford roared to life. She couldn’t help thinking, as they pulled out onto the street, how much her father would have loved to see the car.

* * *

James blinked his eyes open; his room was full of sunlight. If he had dreamed, he did not remember it: his mind was blissfully free of the recollection of screams, of darkness, of hatred and the flashing of a knife. He glanced down: he was still in his clothes, wrinkled after a night’s sleep. It was icy cold.

He looked around, shivering; the window was cracked open several inches.

Swearing, James sat bolt upright. The ropes lay in pieces around him, the knife beside his hand. Somehow, during the night, he had cut himself free.

He rolled out of bed and stalked to the window. He reached up to slide it closed—perhaps it was time to nail the thing shut—and paused.

In the ice on the windowsill had been traced an odd mark. He stood for a moment, studying it. Who had scratched it there?

Dread rose in the pit of his stomach. He had not been still while he slept. He’d cut himself free. Anything could have happened. And the symbol, on the window—

He had to talk to Daisy. He was halfway to her room when he remembered, his brain clearing: she wasn’t there. She was at her mother’s. He wanted to rush to Kensington, wanted to beg Cordelia to come home. She lived here, belonged here. But he couldn’t blame her if she didn’t want to see him. He had been the last person to speak to her father, and their exchange had been ugly and vicious. And what was he proposing to confess? That he thought he might be the reason her father was dead? That his might have been the hand that held the knife?

And God knew what he had done last night.