dragon drew back with a snarl sharp as ripping silk. Evelina drew in a shuddering breath, backing away just in case the binding hadn’t worked.
It had stopped its advance, but not the attack. Sudden flame erupted from the creature’s throat, blackening the cobbles. Evelina hurled herself to the left, diving into a roll that sent her crashing into one of the sooty walls. She came up on her feet, tripping over the hem of her dress so she staggered into the edge of a stairway.
She’d lost a lot of the salt, and the cube had dropped to the ground. Imogen’s shawl was a lace of smoldering cinders. With jerky, desperate motions, Evelina dug into the bag and hurled another handful of salt.
“With salt I banish you!”
She fell to her knees, screaming the words. Their effect was instant. The giant of smoke and scales and teeth furled inward, contracting more and more, like an ink blot sucked back into the nib of a pen. Ears and claws and lashing tail were the last to disappear with a feathering of shadow, and then all that was left was a spinning ball of fire hovering six feet from the ground. Evelina blinked, her eyes not quite taking in the sight. The ball throbbed and crackled, making a noise like bacon frying in the pan.
She got to her feet, sweat running from her temples. Warily, she approached the ball. It wasn’t a solid red, but there were lights of yellow and orange in it, too. The surface was veined with black, like bits of ash clung to it.
“I’m sorry,” she said softly, “but you can’t run around London scaring people. But if I guess right, you had no choice about coming here.”
Like the cube, the guardian didn’t have speech that she could understand, but anger burned there, as red- hot as the thing looked. Who knew how ancient it was or where it had come from? Somewhere along the way, it had been captured and bound by magic to serve the owners of the warehouse.
She emptied the last of the salt into her palm, and sprinkled it over the ball.
“With salt I send you to your home. Be well.”
It vanished with a sound like a popping cork. Then Evelina was standing in the empty alley, dirty and exhausted, her hand shedding blood down the front of her ripped and filthy dress. She turned to look at the back of the tea shop, realizing with horror that the bakers were standing there staring.
One shook his head with wonder. “Thank you, miss. We’ve been plagued by that thing for months. All that smoke got into the bread and made it taste burned—but neither the watch nor the vicar would do aught. Told me I was imagining things. As if I couldn’t tell a great fiery lizard right in front of my nose.”
None of that surprised her. The common folk knew magic when they saw it, even if they’d forgotten how to protect themselves. What did interest her was the timing of it: not years or days, but months. What had happened months ago that brought the dragon to this alley?
Far down the alley, she saw the Chinese tailors running out of the back of Markham’s shop. They were lifting their hands to the sky. She couldn’t tell if they were rejoicing or cursing.
Evelina turned back to the bakers. “I’m sorry, but I used all your salt.”
“A small price to pay for a good service.”
Evelina walked stiffly toward the shop door, pausing to pick up the cube. It was still warm to the touch, but it didn’t burn her hands. “Please don’t say anything about this.”
The baker touched the side of his nose. “Of course we’ll keep mum. We’ve heard about the actress. That won’t happen to you—not on our account.”
The bakers stood aside to let her into the back of the kitchen. She dropped the empty salt bag on the table, nearly mute with fatigue.
The more talkative of the two bakers wasn’t done. “Of course, this is what you get when folks from strange parts move into the neighborhood. All sorts of nasty goings-on. People wandering in and out of that warehouse at the strangest times. Banging like a thousand elves are at work. The tales I’ve heard.”
“Just remember to take them with a grain of salt.” Evelina pushed the hair back from her forehead, then wiped her face with the back of her wrist. Tears. Maybe it had just been the smoke.
The baker made a face. “Salt. Right you are, miss.”
Evelina went through the tea shop and out the front door without looking at the other patrons. She could only imagine them staring at her soiled dress. She knew she’d wither with shame in about an hour, but at the moment she was too tired to care.
With her stomach in a hard ball of anxiety, Imogen watched the front of the tea shop. Her hands were shaking as she clutched the edge of the carriage seat, a thousand awful scenes running through her mind. Evelina dragged out by police constables. Evelina carried out on a litter. Imogen knew her friend had a knack for finding the oddest kind of trouble, but she had never dreamed of dragons.
No one Imogen was likely to meet. Half the time Evelina seemed to hang back, as if unsure of her welcome in the world. It seemed odd in someone who was so capable and so protective of other people. In Imogen’s opinion, the world was a far better place for having her friend in it—with the possible exception of the amount of fretting Evelina caused at moments like this.
“Oh, come on, Cooper!” she muttered under her breath, frustration sharpening her tone.
There was nothing Imogen wanted more than to fight at her friend’s side, sword in hand, a battle cry on her lips. But while she might be a good pawn in her father’s empire-building schemes, she was really still a sickly girl whose only really talent to date lay in picking out dresses and avoiding her math lessons. Perhaps she could chat up a shopkeeper, but her chest hurt even from the slight bit of running she’d done that day. In a real battle, she would only be in the way, a danger to Evelina and herself.
Disgusted, she flung herself back in the seat, nearly squashing the paper sack of buns she had bought inside the shop. It was the only action she could think of to quiet the flustered proprietor when Evelina shoved Imogen out of the kitchen. Imogen had stumbled into a table displaying a dozen different types of tea, knocking half the packets to the floor—but shopkeepers rarely minded one’s behavior as long as money changed hands. At least the buns smelled good.
Imogen scanned the street to either side of the door, alert in case Evelina emerged from a different building. Applegate walked around the carriage, fussing with the harness and keeping a watchful eye on his charge.
“Shall I go and see if Miss Cooper requires assistance?” he asked for the second time.
“Oh, no,” Imogen replied airily. “She cannot seem to choose fabric for her gown, so I went for tea.”
He gave Imogen a suspicious look, perhaps because she was watching the door of the tea shop and not Mr. Markham’s store. She shifted her gaze accordingly. “Unless, of course, you enjoy looking at trims and laces.”
That made him pale and return to his perch up front. Imogen chewed her lip, nearly twitching with nerves.
Then she saw Bucky Penner strolling down the street, a faint smile on his lips as if he had just heard a cheeky story. Of course, he always looked like that. It was one of the many things that charmed and irritated her about the man.
Imogen’s icy stomach eased a notch. Nuisance though he was, the sight of Bucky made her feel better. He spotted Imogen and that smile widened to a grin, but then he turned aside to look at the blooms in a flower stall.
“Good day, Miss Roth,” he said pleasantly, his eyes darting to Applegate for just a moment. There was no doubt that anything he said would make it back to Lord Bancroft. There would be no discussion of goddesses today.
