But could she believe she belonged to them?
It was unfathomable to her. The history of London Ilsa knew was of William the Conqueror, the Great Fire, the Gunpowder Plot. That her own ancestors had a place in the history of this London, that such a thing could be true of a former street urchin, was so far removed from her own life that she may as well have been looking at illustrations in a storybook.
But were these likenesses any more truthful? That’s all they were; just paintings. Vanity pieces commissioned by their subjects to cast them in the flattering glow of glory and renown. She scrutinised the portrait of Gedeon again. Nowhere in those clever, courageous eyes was a reckless nineteen-year-old who had fled from his post and left chaos behind him. The first time she had stood here, looking upon her brother’s face had made her feel he was just beyond her grasp, a hair’s breadth from her fingertips. Now he felt remote, unreachable.
Ilsa turned on her heel, spurred by a sudden flair of frustration and an inkling of how to solve it. An oil painting hanging in a gilded frame of a marbled hallway could not bring the real Gedeon closer. And as sharp and sensible as Cassia may be, she wouldn’t be the first girl to be blinded by love, so neither could she.
No one in the Zoo could.
The sun had dipped below the horizon when Ilsa cracked open the window of a deserted corridor above the terrace. Venture downstairs, and she would certainly be seen, so she shifted into a sparrow, slipped through the window, and dropped into the hydrangeas at the edge of the terrace.
The wolf on the perimeter was nowhere in sight; the one by the west gate was about to turn south. Technically, Eliot had been telling the truth when he said the wolves weren’t there to keep anyone in, and Ilsa knew that now. But she also knew she wasn’t supposed to leave the safety of the Zoo without a guard, and being cossetted like a princess of Camden was the last thing she wanted tonight. She wasn’t a princess; she was a Changeling who had survived alone for seventeen years. So, with a glance back at the house to check no one was watching, she scuttled across the lawn before either wolf could see her and launched herself over the wall.
She would head northeast, she decided, towards Camden as she’d known it in the Otherworld. Perhaps away from the Zoo and the volatile south tip of the quarter – by the Trade House, the river, and the abbey – there would be fewer militia. So she flew in a wide circle around the Zoo, occasionally taking cover in a tree to check no wolf was watching. But dusk had descended like a sheet of black gossamer, and a single sparrow was near invisible in the gloom. Buoyant from her seamless escape, Ilsa glided over the canal and landed on her human legs just beyond the northeast corner of the Zoo, a sly smile on her lips. She looked back towards the house – just as three off-duty militiawomen eating supper by the canal looked up and froze in surprise.
“Oh bloody—”
“Muh whaydee?” said one around a bite of her apple.
Ilsa took off again, this time on falcon’s wings. She heard her name being called, the splash of something that might have been an apple thrown into the canal. They were following her, three trained wolves, maybe more by now. Speed wouldn’t help her. Only anonymity would give her a chance, so she nose-dived between two rows of houses on the High Street.
It was a mistake; the High Street was not quiet, as she’d expected at this time of the evening, but bustling with people. Vendors and shoppers, performers and dancers. A street party was in full swing, and in the thrill of the chase, Ilsa hadn’t even heard the music. Now she was plummeting into the thick of it, with no time left to change course.
She shrank herself, slipping impossibly between the party-goers and landing hard, but on her feet, in the form of a tabby cat.
“Look out!” Somebody’s tankard of ale followed her down as he tottered to keep his balance without stepping on her. A woman shrieked as he grasped her skirt for support, and as they both went tumbling – she changing into a bird and neatly missing the ground, he landing face down in his spilled ale to a roar of approving laughter – Ilsa darted away on light paws.
She made for the edge of the street where the crowds were thinner, slipping between feet and hooves and paws. She caught flashes of black and white stripes, rainbow feathers, long, chestnut fur. Every once in a while, a cheer swelled up from somewhere else in the crowd, part shouts and clapping, but also made up of howls and whinnies and growls. Ilsa felt the buzz in her bloodstream kick up a notch as she hopped up onto a barrel to see if she was still being followed. But there were too many people. It would be impossible to tell if the wolves were coming, and a tabby cat disguise wouldn’t save her from discovery. They would be scanning the crowd – human and beast alike – for her distinctive hazel eyes.
Ilsa scanned about for a better vantage point, ears pricking when her eyes alighted on it. She grew wings again,
