As they reached the river, the buzz of Soho gave way to the lapping of water below the balustrade. The phantoms of ships’ bells sounded faintly from downriver. Half a dozen seagulls cawed over the remnants of a heel of bread, scattering like shadows in a candle flame when they girls cut too close. Martha had cried herself calm, and Ilsa had just resolved to approach Mr Johnston about a job for her again when her companion froze in her tracks.
Ilsa followed her line of sight. The mist off the Thames was mingling with the smog, and through it four figures were lurking by their next turn. There was no doubt they were looking in the girls’ direction.
Others might have brushed off their trepidation in that well-mannered way that got women into trouble, but Ilsa and Martha knew better than to trust in human decency. It was why Ilsa tended to disguise herself as a man when she walked home at night.
Gathering her wits, Ilsa steered them east to follow the river, but when she hazarded a glance over her shoulder, her heart started up a galloping rhythm. The four figures were following them.
“Is it them?”
“Can’t tell,” said Martha, picking up pace. “If we get across the bridge, there’s a pub on the other side. We can hide in there.”
But it was a long way to the bridge, and there was nothing but a deserted fish market along the way. If Ilsa had been alone, she’d have made herself a blackbird and flown to safety, but all they could do was try to lose them. It felt like having her arms tied behind her back, in a knot Ilsa didn’t know how to slip. She kept hoping for the chatter of people trickling home from the theatre district, anyone who could help them, but the only sign they weren’t alone in the city was the sound of footsteps twenty paces behind them in the smog. Ilsa’s own feet threatened to betray her with every step; they were pounding over the slippery cobbles too fast, and not fast enough. Her breath came in jagged gasps, Martha’s an echo beside her, the footsteps behind them gaining with every minute. The bridge was still invisible in the night when the shapes of two men were illuminated under a streetlamp ahead.
They had cornered them.
“Martha…” she whispered. If she were a wolfhound, could she take them all down before they hurt her friend? If she were a hawk, could her talons blind them quick enough? And if they did – could she trust her friend to keep her secret? Without her magic, helplessness seized her.
But Martha had survived as a human girl for nineteen years, and she dragged Ilsa under the cover of the fish market and into a maze of crates and pallets.
“This way,” she murmured.
At top speed, they wove a random path through the market with their pursuers on their heels. A left, a right, another right, until they had obscured themselves deep within the warehouse. When they stopped, and held their breath, there were no footsteps nearby. “Let’s hide in here,” said Martha, and she pushed Ilsa towards a narrow gap between two stacks of crates. “You first.”
Panic seized her in a crushing grip at the sight of the crevice. “No! I can’t—”
But with a firm shove from her friend, Ilsa was between the crates, and her wits failed her. The stacks on either side pressed in and down on her like living things. She pushed further into the gap, hoping to find it open at the other end, but she was met with a brick wall. The air felt thin and hot. Her ribs were tightening around her organs like a cage.
A creak of wood. Martha’s head snapped towards the sound and her eyes widened. Ilsa could see nothing, but there must have been no time left to hide; Martha freed her hand from Ilsa’s and quickly slid an upended pallet across the gap between them so that Ilsa was hidden – and confined. Nausea swept over her. She thought up the most fearsome creature she could imagine, but she couldn’t summon the form, not from this cage; her body couldn’t shift when all it knew was how close the walls were. She was a heartbeat away from bursting from her hiding place in her own fragile skin when, between the slats of the crate, their pursuers came into view.
They were not men.
Their faces were almost unremarkable but for their eyes, which were pure, unbroken white. One had produced a strange sort of lamp, and in its glow their skin had a sheen to it, more like silk than sweat, and looked so bloodless it appeared silver.
“It’s her, isn’t it?” one said to their companion, who seized Martha by the arms, their fingers digging mercilessly into flesh. A third, a woman in men’s breeches, seized Martha’s chin. Before Ilsa could react, an arm restrained her from behind. Her whole body jerked in terror, then a gloved hand covered her mouth and someone pressed her tightly against them. It wasn’t possible. There couldn’t be anyone else in that tiny crevice. Her fear was playing tricks on her.
“Bastards!” screamed Martha, kicking against the one who held her. “Get your hands off me!”
“Yes, it looks like her,” said the female. “Do it.”
Helpless, hidden, immobile, Ilsa could do nothing as the third being unsheathed a blade, and dragged it across Martha’s throat.
4
Ilsa tried to scream, but no sound escaped.
The woman was sprayed with blood as Martha died, and Ilsa stood paralysed as her friend twitched and collapsed onto the floor. She barely understood her captor as he brought his mouth very close to her ear and murmured in a low voice: “Disguise yourself.”
She tried to twist out of his grasp but he gripped her too tightly. He wasn’t a trick of her mind; some attack of nerves. Her mind fought
