Eliot was like lightning, so quick he made a snap sound. Ilsa had barely registered that the boy was now a hawk before he was above the house and away. She shifted herself and raced after him.
They flew south – Ilsa revelling in the warm air tickling her feathers and taking in the sun-bright city below – and landed on the street in Bloomsbury, where she became a dark-haired, almond-eyed version of herself.
“That why they hid me in the Otherworld? To keep me a rumour?”
Ilsa was ready for Eliot to complain of more questions, but it was worse when he didn’t. Her tone had given away the hurt she couldn’t help feeling when she thought of ending up in the orphanage. He gave her an opaque look.
“You know you were never supposed to be lost there,” he said quietly.
Ilsa did know that. As easy as it would be, she could not blame anyone in the Witherward for thinking she was dead. The single architect of her years of misery at the orphanage was Miss Mitcham, and Ilsa hated that the woman could still cause her fresh pain, eight years on from her escape. The only way she would rise above it was to stop thinking of supposed to or should have. Nothing could be undone.
Eliot self-consciously straightened his jacket, his brow knotted. “I know. It doesn’t help you,” he said, unwittingly knocking her off-kilter. To have her thoughts exposed, and by a boy who was such a mystery himself, was an uncomfortable shock.
“Which way?” she said coolly.
Eliot’s storm-blue gaze found hers again, and he looked like he might say something more, but he only inclined his head for her to follow, and started in the direction of Great Russell Street.
“I was a baby when your family was killed,” Eliot continued after a few minutes’ silence. His voice was tentative. “But I think hiding you in the Otherworld was the only choice your parents had left. Your mother had made a decision to protect her son and it ended up killing her. I suppose when she had Gedeon, she saw what he’d been born into with new eyes, and she realised London had two choices: to eat itself slowly until nothing remained for any of us, or find a way for each faction to mind its own business if it chose. That was why she proposed the Principles.”
“Right, ’bout those,” said Ilsa. “I read up on all the things you ain’t allowed to do, and you’re all doing them! The Principles say the factions can’t have armies, right? But the Zoo’s got the wolves, and the Oracles have got the acolytes. Captain Fowler’s a captain, and he din’t look like police to me.”
“Law enforcement.” Eliot tilted his head, as if indulging in a daydream. “What a quaint idea. The thing the faction leaders who drafted the Principles knew at the time – the thing your mother knew – is that they are an exercise in finding the loophole. Take the army rule. The Docklands acolytes are just that; they’re dedicates. The Zoo invites wolves to join as members of a syndicate and earn a share of any profits we make in trade. There just isn’t trust enough to lay down the law and rest easy in the knowledge that your enemies will keep to it. If the Principles were an iron-clad and binding rulebook, no one would have agreed to them.” Eliot’s expression darkened. “She was trying to create some order. And the Sage used it and twisted it to unite anyone who favoured bloodlust against her.”
Ilsa’s stomach twisted. She could see it now; the chain of events her own mother had started that led to her family’s downfall. She had been trying to make a better world for her son. Eliot stopped in front of Edward Kelley’s Dispensary and motioned her to follow him inside. “This is it.”
There was a queue for the counter, but at a glance, it was obvious none of the patrons were Oracles. Was this a discouraging sign?
Eliot leaned over her shoulder to whisper as they waited. “Remember, we’re just here to buy a tin of vemanta and be on our way. Don’t do anything to draw attention.”
Ilsa turned around, affronted by Eliot’s insinuation, a few choice words on the tip of her tongue. At the same moment, the bell above the door jingled as a woman entered. The queueing patrons shuffled to make room in the small shop, squeezing together until Eliot was pressed close enough that, despite his best efforts, Ilsa felt the brush of his chest against hers.
Her breath caught at the unexpected shiver that skittered across her skin; her eyes met Eliot’s at the moment she realised he had noticed.
Ilsa staggered back. Her heel caught the hem of her dress, and she would have lost her balance, but Eliot’s hands shot out to grasp her firmly, warm fingers closing around her hands.
“Anything like that,” he said roughly, eyes sliding to the woman who was tutting at their inappropriate display.
Ilsa huffed as she freed herself and turned to face the counter. It was hardly her fault the chemist’s was too cramped. Far too cramped. And too warm. Warmer still when Eliot pressed close again and brought his mouth near her ear. “I thought magician’s assistants were supposed to be graceful.”
He was taunting her now; she could hear the cruel amusement in his whisper. She was about to risk a reprimand a second time when the person ahead of her stepped aside and they reached the front of the queue, where the sign on the counter was impossible to miss:
WE DO NOT STOCK VEMANTA
THANK YOU
Recovering, Ilsa placed her hands
