She looked over her shoulder at Pyval, who had given up and was watching her with a stony expression.
“Was that better?” Ilsa asked smugly.
Alitz was appraising her too. “Very good, Miss Ravenswood. Your caution serves you well yet again, I daresay…” She trailed off, head inclined.
Ilsa glanced at Pyval as he spoke to Alitz. The man had an uncanny stare, as if he were looking at her and through her at the same time. It was full of intent and indifference all at once.
“I suppose it cannot hurt to try once more,” Alitz said in answer to an unspoken question. “Something a bit more challenging this time.”
Ilsa had no chance to object, because the room around her vanished into darkness.
It was like stepping under a spotlight; everything beyond was a void. Dread seized her like a hand gripping her throat; suddenly, completely.
“Fyfe?” Her voice echoed off walls that were far too close, but when she flung her arms out in panic they met with nothing on all sides.
Fyfe made no answer, but something was there. She could see it moving closer – black against black, vast, ethereal – and yet there was nothing to see. She could taste it – fear, rot, blood, static – and yet she tasted nothing at all.
And something else flickered in and out of existence, always in the corner of her eye, no matter where she looked: Pyval. If he was doing this to her, where was Fyfe? If none of this was real, why could she feel the air dance as the thing in the void surrounded her? She opened her mouth and heard a cry from far away.
And then the light rushed in. Hands were gripping her shoulders. Wide brown eyes were inches from her face. “Ilsa? Ilsa?”
Fyfe. The drawing room. The void was gone. The formless dread loosened its grip and Ilsa braced herself on Fyfe’s arm to stop from sinking to the floor.
“What the bloody hell—”
“Are you alright?” said Fyfe.
“I’m fine. No thanks to him.” Ilsa shot her best dirty look at Pyval, who gave no reaction. Alitz’s lips were a thin line as her eyes bore into her companion.
“You screamed. What did he do to you?” said Fyfe.
Alitz turned to them. “I apologise on behalf of Mr Crespo, Miss Ravenswood,” displeasure dripping from every word, “I don’t think it was necessary so startle you so. Not yet, in any case. But you’ve been gifted valuable insight nonetheless.”
“You can take your insight back for all I care,” snapped Ilsa, memories of the cold, peculiar dread still echoing down her spine.
Alitz’s lip quirked into a sardonic smile. “There’s no need for dramatics, Miss Ravenswood. We’re here to help you.” She turned to address the room, and Ilsa knew the subject was closed. “There are some weaknesses. I’m afraid an active imagination is inconvenient when it comes to resisting thought manipulation. The more varied the pattern of thought, the harder it is to notice anomalies. But we will address it in our lessons.”
“Lessons?” said Ilsa.
“I require all my students to acquiesce to hard work and daily practice. If you apply yourself, Miss Ravenswood, I think you can secure your mind in a fortnight or so. We’ll start tomorrow.”
Alitz gave a cordial goodbye and took her leave, Pyval behind her. As the man passed by, he slowed, and Ilsa caught his scent. Organic. Coppery. The dread rose up again, and she pushed it back and met his eye. He spoke just once as he left, his voice reedy, but every syllable precise.
“If you’re going to live in the world of Whisperers, you ought to be prepared for the worst of what our magic can do.”
17
It was late, and Ilsa was in the library. She was wrapped in a dressing gown, her hair twisted into a long plait over one shoulder, and the Oracle girl’s riddle written out on the paper before her in her own wobbly, unenviable handwriting.
Lila had alluded to two worlds that Ilsa didn’t know, and a street that didn’t exist in the other London. Much to Ilsa’s dismay, when she consulted a map of the city, she discovered it didn’t exist here either. There was no Marin Street off Moorgate, nor anywhere else.
Not the street, the station, Lila had said. The only trouble being, Ilsa had scoured the map a dozen times and there wasn’t one of those either. There was no Metropolitan Railway in this London. The one thing Ilsa had recognised in this new London was the lay of the land; it was frustrating to find that even parts of that were unrecognisable.
The more she turned Lila’s riddle over in her mind, the more its meaning eluded her, until she let out a string of profanities, scrunched the paper into a ball, and threw it across the table, where it scattered the pieces of a chessboard like skittles.
“If one has an impulse to spend some violence,” said a smooth, resounding voice, and Ilsa looked up to see Aelius in the doorway, one hand resting on his cane and a smirk on his face, “there are plenty in this city who would be happy to oblige you.”
“I think I got it out of my system,” Ilsa replied with a weak smile, and the man chuckled.
She was unsure of Aelius. He was charming, quick to laugh, and had an amiable way with almost everybody, but something about him reminded her of a magician on the stage; all dazzling lies and misdirection.
“Cassia tells me you plan to help us find young Gedeon,” he said, coming into the room. As Aelius began leisurely righting the chess pieces, Ilsa retrieved the balled-up riddle and scooted it into her lap, out of sight.
She had kept her word to Eliot and not told anyone of the stolen vemanta or Lila’s incomprehensible claims. Ilsa still didn’t trust his motives, but having him on her side had been a help so far, and her instincts
