A Study in Silks

“Nick!” she hissed.

His eyelids flickered, the only response a weak, “Huh?”

Fear cramped her stomach. She looked up the stairs and then down, terrified they would be caught. After three murders the police couldn’t solve, she didn’t fancy Nick’s chances with a judge. She had to wake him up.

For a long moment, she stared at his handsome face, the hawklike bones and smooth, olive skin. The gaslight glinted on the gold of his earring. An ache filled her—a mix of longing and remembrance, of sadness for things that would never be. He risked everything to save me.

Now she had to save him, and there wasn’t time to play the soft and innocent girl. She wanted to touch his face, to run her fingers over the graceful angles, to press her lips to his. He was asleep and would never know. She would never have to admit to her weakness.

But giving in to her feelings would never save him. Instead, it would most likely condemn them both. Ignoring the prickle of tears, Evelina smacked his face with a stinging slap. The noise alone made her wince.

His eyes snapped open.

“Wake up, damn you!” she muttered.

He slowly put a hand to his head, eyes crinkling as if it hurt to move. He worked his mouth a moment, as if he’d forgotten how to talk. “Where is he?”

“Gone.” Vanished with an evil look and fierce silence. She shuddered at the memory of the doctor’s face, grimacing down on her with a scowl that froze her to the bones. It was over that fast—one last glare and then down the stairs—but it had seemed to last forever. Long enough that she’d died a tiny bit. Long enough that she’d nearly prostrated herself, burying her face against Nick’s fallen form, like a child clinging to her parent and begging not to be left alone.

She tried to keep all of that off her face. She had to be stronger than that. “He left.”

“Huh.”

Evelina got to her feet and grabbed Nick’s arm, trying to pull him with her. He was too big, and she might have been a girl of six again. “Get up. You’re not safe here.”

He staggered upright, weaving slightly and then nearly falling when his ankle gave way. He grabbed the wall to steady himself. “You know, a kiss would have worked as well as a blow to the face.” His voice was hoarse, but a spark of himself was coming back into his dark eyes.

She wanted to cry with relief. “Then you would have sprawled there till next Sunday, hoping for another.”

His mouth curled into a lopsided grin. “I made the villain go away. Surely that’s worth something.”

Tears stung her eyes. Damned idiot. “That was a close-run thing. Can you walk?”

“Almost.”

She grabbed him, one arm around his waist, and steadied him. He smelled of horses and the cold, clean wind of the spring night. She closed her eyes and swallowed hard, trying her best not to notice how warm he was and how his lean form moved against her. Sooner or later, a servant would come by. They had to get out of sight.

“My knife,” he said.

“I’ve got it.” Her voice was tight.

The clock made a sepulchral bong, followed by a long grinding noise. A card spit out of the slot. Out of long habit, Evelina grabbed it before it hit the floor.

“What in damnation?” Nick squinted at the clock.

“Never mind.”

She stuffed the card into her pocket and moved away, helping Nick hobble to a small sitting room at the end of the corridor. The fire was out and the room was chill, but at least there they’d be undisturbed for a little while. The tiny room wasn’t used much, having no view, little furniture, and only a few bookshelves of almanacs from years long past. When she got Nick inside, she locked the door. He sank gratefully onto a settee.

The only illumination was the glow from the blazing display of lights outside the window, proving that Lord Bancroft was far from Disconnected. Evelina lit one of the oil lamps, turning the flame down low. As the light spilled over hands, she used the ritual of match and flame to steady herself.

Her fingers felt thick and clumsy as she worked, each breath coming a little too quick. Panic was just around the corner, but she was still one step ahead of it. As long as she kept moving, she didn’t have to dwell on the fact that Nick was right there, just a few steps away, hurt and vulnerable—and he’d put himself on the line for her sake. It was her responsibility to get him out of there in a fit state to dodge the police or Magnus or Lord Bancroft’s footmen. It wasn’t going to be simple. No matter what she did next, there would be risk.

She stood before him a moment, her hands on her hips, running her gaze over his long, lean legs and sweep of black hair. Looking after him came naturally. She’d always relied on Nick, but she’d also been the one who mended his shirts and made sure he came in to dinner. It was how she’d earned her bread and milk as a girl, but those were also the things she’d done for love. She felt an echo of those days now, the bond between them as strong as ever.

She cleared her throat. “How are you feeling?”

“It’s stopped hurting.” A gray pallor clung to his skin, but he shrugged and leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees and propping his head in his hands. “Mostly.”

She stood uncertainly, fidgeting with the trim on her gown. “I’m not certain you can shake this off with a moment’s rest. It’s not that kind of an injury.”

“What else is there to do?” He looked up, a fine sheen of sweat clinging to his cheekbones. “Are you going to call a doctor and ruin everything for yourself?”

“I would if I thought it would help.”

He made a noise that said he didn’t believe her. A spike of anger made her flush.”Don’t be daft. None of this is worth spit if you’re dead.”

With a jolt, she realized it was true. Nick was terminally loyal, but in her own way, she was, too—and there lay the danger. I still love him. I won’t ever stop. But none of that mattered when there was no future for them.

“At any rate, you’re limping. You can’t do the show like that.” She knelt before him, running her hands over his ankle.

He gave her a sharp look, half astonished, half suspicious. “What are you doing?”

Wordlessly, she pulled off his boot, ignoring the sand and mud clinging to the worn, supple leather. Then she placed her hands on the rough wool of his stocking, trying not to think about the fact that it looked like Gran Cooper’s work. If she started missing her old home too much, there would be no hope of concentration.

As she expected, the moment she pulled down the sock, putting her hands on his skin, power flooded under her fingers as if she had suddenly summoned a hot, prickling river of silver fire. It didn’t happen with a casual brush of the hand, but now—when she touched him with intent, when she meant to call his soul to hers—the energy opened like a floodgate. This was the combination of their powers, the thing no one could explain when their two bloodlines met. And it was no more possible to be together and keep from calling it than it was to stop breathing.

The flow was impossible to describe—it was almost like cinnamon was to the tongue, or a distant birdsong to the ear, bright and sweet and filled with urgent longing—but there was no language that could quite wrap around the sensation. It felt like heaven and yet still brought tears to her eyes. It was everything she and Nick were when they were together. Everything she had given up to keep them both safe.

She heard the hiss of Nick’s indrawn breath. It was a sound of anticipation mixed with reluctance. He knew what might happen, too.

“You need healing,” she said, trying to sound brusque. “You can’t climb out a window like this. You’ll fall and break your neck.”

“Evelina,” he said, pulling his foot from her hands, “just let me leave. You know better than this.”

Nick was right, but if he slipped and broke a bone crawling out the window, there was every chance he’d never ride again. He’d starve to death on the streets. If she could bring steel and gears to life, surely she could heal a simple injury. “I’m stronger than I was. I can control it.”