street as there is this afternoon.”
“It’s sheer mayhem,” Evelina put in, playing the role of chorus. “I imagine it’s been ever so much busier since Keating Rail has put half-price fares on for special shopping days.”
He puffed out his cheeks. “That it has, with special trips straight from the countryside to the local station twice a week. Mr. Keating promised to increase local trade if we agreed to show his colors hereabouts, and he’s kept his word. Can’t say that he hasn’t.”
Which meant that the Gold King not only solidified his hold on the wealthiest shopping district in London, but also tithed the merchants on the increased sales and collected the extra rail fares. Evelina remembered Old Ploughman’s maxim never to do a piece of business unless it earned money three ways. Jasper Keating could have a future in circus management if his plans for dominating the Empire’s economy fell through.
“These new days are busier to be sure, although there are times I miss the old, slow way of doing business with families I know,” Markham admitted. “What with these special trains and the department stores drawing in all manner of people with their advertising and their cut-rate prices, there’s no telling who might wander through my door.”
“Nothing’s the same as it once was,” he said. “Except our fine merchandise, of course. Markham’s has never compromised on excellence.”
“Or selection, I’m sure,” Imogen replied, sounding a little relieved to be returning to familiar ground. “I’m looking for a very particular pattern, and I’m sure you will have it.”
She began to describe the fabric from the bag of treasure Grace Child had been carrying. They had agreed not to show it to Markham, just in case. It was one thing to turn up asking for a particular fabric, another to wave evidence of crime under his nose. They had no idea how deeply the shopkeeper might be involved.
While Imogen rattled on, Evelina examined the draper’s shop in more detail. She wished she’d been able to bring Mouse and Bird to help her look, but she’d rewarded them both with the promised wine and honey. On slurping down the sticky mixture—which seemed to disappear without actually reappearing inside their clockwork stomachs—the devas had fallen into a contented sleep so deep that Evelina had no idea when they’d rouse themselves. She’d had to pack them away in the bottom of her drawer beneath a pile of underthings, because it turned out the idiot creatures snored.
So Evelina had to do her own investigating. She let Imogen carry on her conversation and began a slow circuit around the room, affecting the air of a bored young lady too polite to tell her friend to hurry up. The public area was tiny, every inch of wall covered with shelves, and every shelf filled with bolts and boxes. In one dark corner, there was a clockwork machine for sale for tightening the laces of one’s stays—the very idea made Evelina cringe—and a space of wall covered with the yellowing cards of various dressmakers. Beside that was a dusty velvet curtain that separated the front of the store from the back. She pushed it aside a few inches.
She caught a glimpse of more shelving with more merchandise as well as a steam-driven sewing machine and ironing press. She also heard voices, low and hurried. At first she couldn’t make out what they were saying, but then she understood why. She recognized the language, or something like it, from a team of acrobats she had met years and years ago. Markham didn’t just sell Chinese silks; he had Chinese tailors.
She wouldn’t have thought anything of it—there were plenty of foreigners of all kinds living in London, especially near the docks—except that she caught a whiff of powerful magic. It wasn’t at all like what she’d sensed on the automatons. That was dark, somehow slippery and oily, and if she had to describe it, she would say that it was made up, like a recipe. This was more like her devas, a living entity pressed into service. Actually, when she thought about it, there might be elements of two different magical beings.
And that combination—as unique as a vintage of wine—was exactly the same as what she’d sensed on Grace Child’s stolen treasure. Excitement bubbled through her. This was a clue. A real, tangible link with the dead girl and whatever she’d got herself into. Evelina clenched her hands into fists and nearly bounced on her toes with excitement. Suddenly a lot of things didn’t matter—circus girl or lady, debutante or bluestocking—she was in her element, doing what she was made for.
But Grace was dead, and that meant danger lurked nearby. Evelina swallowed hard, bottling up her glee, and turned back to see how Imogen was doing. Her friend gave her a significant look. A bolt of green silk was spread out on the counter with exactly the same pattern as the bag.
The door chimed as two more ladies came into the shop. Markham greeted them obsequiously.
“This fabric is exactly the thing, Mr. Markham,” Imogen said brightly. “I’m just not sure there’s enough here for my needs. Do you have more in stock?”
“Well, miss, this is the last bolt of it, I’m afraid.”
“No remnants?”
“Not of this, or of any of the finer silks. My tailors make any remnants into bags for shoes and jewelry and the like and sell them to the other merchants for their stock. I’m afraid what you see here is all I have left of this fabric.”
Imogen furrowed her brow. “I’m not sure it’s enough. Allow me to consult with my friend.”
“Of course, Miss Roth,” he replied with a bow, and turned his attention to his new clients.
Evelina beckoned urgently, and Imogen strolled over, fingering a length of trim as she passed by.
“That’s it,” Imogen said casually, as if she were talking about no more than the material for her next dressing gown. “That is exactly the bolt of cloth we were looking for.”
“There’s more.” Evelina kept her voice low, glancing at the shopkeeper, who was completely absorbed in making his next sale. “Are you up for some mild exploration?”
Imogen lifted a brow. “Always.”
Evelina grabbed her sleeve and pulled her to the other side of the curtain. The back of the shop was larger than the front, with wide double doors open to the sunlit alleyway. Evelina barely caught more than a fleeting impression of worktables and machinery before two pigtailed men in Chinese garb jumped to their feet, exclaiming loudly. One held an enormous pair of shears. She heard Imogen’s quick intake of breath and felt an answering flutter in her own stomach.
Evelina grabbed Imogen’s hand and lunged for the open door. “’Scuse us. Just passing through.”
The men looked confused, as if caught between ordering them out and bowing graciously because they were clearly patrons of their employer. Evelina wasted no time hurrying past.
“Where are we going?” Imogen demanded, nearly bumping into Evelina when she stopped running. “What are we looking for?”
Evelina wished she knew. Her immediate goal was to find the source of the magic, but what that would be was a mystery. She spun on her heel, looking around.
“What?” Imogen demanded.
“Hm.” Evelina adjusted a hat pin, making sure the jaunty angle of her
The alley was fairly typical—smelly and dirty, brick walls black with soot and age. Some of the bricks and cobbles looked scorched, like there had been a fire. Wider than some, it got enough sunlight that a few weeds grew beside the trough of filthy water trickling down the middle of the path. What was less typical was that no one was in sight. There should at least have been stray dogs and grubby children. Not a good sign. With a cold shudder, she suddenly wished she were alone and Imogen safe at home. Imogen wanted adventure, but didn’t truly understand what that meant.
“Come on.” She took Imogen’s hand and started walking. A few doors down squatted a barnlike building she guessed was a warehouse. As they drew closer, she got a better view of the strange pile of metal outside the warehouse door. She’d assumed it was a pile of scrap.
Unfortunately, it was a nine-foot automaton. It had no head per se, and had clearly been built for brawn, not philosophical rumination.
The nervous fluttering in her stomach stilled into a deep apprehension. She was close enough to sense the warehouse was the source of the magic.
Evelina cleared her throat. “That’s where I’m going.”
