Her companion was younger – in his thirties, perhaps – with chestnut hair grown long and severely slicked back. He wore a thick moustache above tight, bloodless lips, and his eyes were sullen. He stood like a military man, with stiff posture and his hands behind his back.
“Ilsa, this is Alitz Dicer, my astrology tutor,” said Fyfe, indicating the woman. “And her assistant, Pyval Crespo. Alitz is very respected among her faction and has negotiated with the Lord of Whitechapel – their leader – on our behalf for decades. She’s a valued friend.”
“How do you do,” said Alitz Dicer, coming forward to take Ilsa’s hand.
Her heart pounding, Ilsa reached to shake her hand, but her arm fell uselessly to her side as a knowing smirk spread across the Whisperer’s face. It had seemed like such a great idea to learn to protect her thoughts that she hadn’t considered the price: exposing them to this stranger. Now her bones were threatening to melt; into a starling, or a fox – something fast.
Eliot had called the Principles an exercise in finding the loophole, and Ilsa suddenly understood why. She couldn’t shift in plain sight without raising suspicion, and a Psi certainly couldn’t use psychokinesis secretly. But one of the Wraiths’ skills was their senses, and they were using them all the time. And what of Whisperers and Oracles? If a Sorcerer cast a glamour outside the Heart, would anyone even know?
She should have objected to this meeting when she had the chance. What did this woman already know about her?
Alitz, seeing Ilsa was not going to shake her hand, lowered hers. Her absent gaze seemed to look through Ilsa, not at her. “Don’t look so alarmed, Miss Ravenswood. I have been invited into your home, not your mind.”
Fyfe mumbled something about Ilsa being new to all this. But if Ilsa had insulted Alitz, she didn’t mind much. She could breathe again. Pyval stayed where he was, and only inclined his head by way of greeting.
“Another living Ravenswood,” said Alitz. “Is Camden hiding any more surprises in the Otherworld? A second treasury to pay for its Wraith hirelings? How many of this city’s poorest could the Zoo have fed for Cadell Fowler’s fee?”
Ilsa glanced hesitantly at Fyfe, who stuttered something about negotiating a good price.
“Do forgive me, Miss Ravenswood, for not exulting in your return. But our friends are there to keep us honest, are they not?” Her voice had a flat, unreadable quality, but the arch of her brow made her look amused, if not warm.
“So Whitechapel’s got a lord, does it?” said Ilsa.
Alitz considered her. “His Honour is self-styled.”
“And you answer to this Lord…”
“Voss,” said Alitz bitingly. “Lord Jericho Voss.”
“That mean Lord Voss knows I’m here? And… all the rest?” She looked to Fyfe, unsure of what she could say in front of these outsiders.
“You refer to your brother’s most recent exploits. Missing, they tell me, though I hardly agree with that assessment. Children and cats go missing. Gedeon Ravenswood is up to something.” Alitz dipped her chin and levelled her gaze at Ilsa in a way that made her feel reprimanded. “And I answer to no one. But it seems Whitechapel and Camden have a common problem.”
“The Fortunatae.”
Alitz nodded. “We don’t believe its members are exclusively Whisperers, but we know they are based in Whitechapel, and that creates problems for the faction. We are enjoying a period of prosperity, and His Honour is tasked with upholding the Principles. He fears retaliation from both Camden and the Heart if he fails to suppress the Fortunatae, since we too suspect the secret society of having a hand in the Sorcerer rebellion. Their interests align so closely with those of the rebels that I doubt the Sage would have to lift a finger. So His Honour has been made aware of your existence, and the murder of your friend in the Otherworld by a member of the Fortunatae, whom Mr Tarenvale identified as a Whisperer.
“As for your brother. He has kidnapped an important Oracle and broken the Principles. Abandoned them entirely, for all we know.” Fyfe opened his mouth to object but Alitz silenced him with a hand. “If anyone came to suspect Gedeon Ravenswood was changing the rules, he could start a conflict the likes of which London has not seen in your lifetime. I have made an executive decision. The fewer who know that Gedeon Ravenswood is a loose cannon, the better.”
“We’re indebted to you, Alitz,” said Fyfe.
Alitz smiled. “And we’ve not even begun.” She turned to Ilsa. “We are not here to discuss relations, I trust you know.”
“Fyfe said I was to learn how to guard my mind,” replied Ilsa, though she wasn’t sure it was a question.
“Precisely. Pyval.” The younger man stepped forward and Ilsa found herself shrinking back.
“What’s gonna happen?”
“To start, I would like your permission for Pyval and myself to access your thoughts. It will better help me guide you and assess your progress.”
“You ain’t listening to my thoughts already? How d’you even stop yourself?”
Alitz’s smirk was condescending. “Any Whisperer who has trained can protect themselves from the onslaught of unwanted mental chatter. We have closed our minds to yours, and to Fyfe’s.”
Ilsa shot Pyval a glance and wondered if Alitz truly spoke for both of them. “And if I give permission…”
“Then we will explore. Certain aspects of your mind will be more apparent to each of us. Myself, I read emotions well. Pyval is skilled with memories. The further we venture into your psyche, the more we will learn. But since we’re strangers, we shan’t go too far.”
Alitz’s words were reassuring, but her cool indifference put Ilsa on edge, Pyval’s unreadable silence even more so. But what choice
