Then she looked at the houses ahead eagerly. A familiar figure sprang up the stoop of one. Even if she hadn’t recognized his face, she’d have known that sense of coiled energy right away.
“Lord St. Ash,” she called out, heedless of the stares of passersby—of which there were only two: a servant out with a shopping basket and a wiry chimney sweep with his long-handled brush on his shoulder and his flock of soot-filled sylphs bunched up behind him.
For a moment, she had the hideous conviction Trey would ignore her—as would be well within his rights. Properly brought up young ladies didn’t call out to their gentlemen acquaintances from down the street.
But then he stopped and turned, and Arabella’s diminished happiness bubbled up yet again.
Really, it was wonderful to be alive and no amount of rudeness or snubbing could affect her good temper.
She hurried over to the steps of his residence and stood smiling up at him. It was past Holy Week, and she had recovered considerably. The bruise on her cheek, its healing aided by an herbalist’s potion, was faint enough to be hidden under a thin layer of powder.
Trey looked rather stiff and somewhat tired and preoccupied. But as Arabella beamed at him, his lips twitched in answer. “Haven’t you learned not to go traipsing into undesirable neighborhoods yet, Miss Trent?”
Arabella tilted her head towards the Blake siblings, hanging further back. Charlotte was fussing over her long-suffering brother and pointedly not looking at them. “I brought companions this time.”
Trey looked over her shoulder at Blake. “Traitor,” he muttered.
Arabella didn’t think that warranted the dignity of a response. Instead she said, “You’ve been avoiding me.” She tilted her head. “I sent you a letter.”
“I read it,” he answered.
It had taken her most of a morning to compose the missive, necessitating the use of several sheets of paper before she’d been happy with the result. “But you didn’t reply,” she pointed out.
“I’m embarrassed by gratitude.”
“I’m afraid I shall have to embarrass you further.” Arabella held out a paper-wrapped package. “This is to thank you for all your help. I am greatly in your debt.”
“Miss Trent, you did as much to save yourself—and helped protect the Mirror into the bargain.” He took the package, handling it so gingerly and with such patent misgiving that Arabella bit her lip to keep from laughing.
“They’re only cakes,” she told him. “For your sadly reduced larder.” Her voice held a teasing note, but Trey Shield was having none of it.
“Thank you.” He bowed. “Your servant, Miss Trent.” Once more, he turned to the door.
What would it take to get a smile or an amused gleam from him? Apparently, he was only at ease around the disembodied.
“Wait,” she said sharply. Lowering her voice, she added, “What of the ghoul?”
The tensing of his shoulders told her the answer. “I regret it has eluded me for now. But that is no longer your concern. If you’ll excuse me.” And with that, he entered his house and shut the door behind him with a decisive click.
Arabella stared at the faded paint on the door, a frown between her eyes. That the ghoul was still at large was worrisome.
The Blake siblings came up to her. “Rude as ever,” commented Charlotte, followed by her brother’s resigned, “I told you he’d be like that.”
Arabella nodded. It was hard to think that a few days ago, Trey Shield had dropped a kiss on her forehead in the Shadow Lands.
Or maybe she’d just imagined the whole thing. There were several exciting things going on at the time, after all.
Then she chuckled softly. Blake turned an inquiring look at her.
“At least,” said Arabella, with a mischievous grin, “he took the cakes.”
As Charlotte linked arms with her, she cast another look at the Shade Hunter’s dwelling. They would see each other socially. He could hardly ignore her on every single occasion.
Besides, she had questions. Many of them.
Another time, she promised herself—and him. There’ll be another time.
Epilogue
Lord Atwater sat in a dim dank cell in Harrowgate prison, a tight smile on his lips.
He would sell his secrets dearly. For days, he’d stalled all the questioners and interrogators. No one had cast spells on him, for magically-obtained testimony was inadmissible in court. No one had brought out a medieval rack or thumbscrews. Everyone had chided and remonstrated and appealed to his higher nature.
Lord Atwater had long since wrestled with his higher nature, defeated it, and buried it deep. Appeals to it meant nothing to him now.
All he waited for was how much the other side would pay to buy his silence.
And finally, they came.
There was a shift in the darkness, a ripple in the air. Lord Atwater lifted his head and said, low, but impatiently, “You finally made contact. Weren’t you afraid—?”
There was a taste of cold ice and sweet rot on his lips. The air around him chilled instantly.
Atwater’s eyes rounded. “No!” he breathed to the newcomer. “No, you don’t understand—!”
The ghoul lunged.
Much later, the ghoul oozed into a ramshackle building that had once housed a gaming hell and brothel. The damp from the river had gotten into everything. The wood was wet and warped, the paper moldy and peeling, the titillating murals on the ceiling faded and stained.
Old passions still lingered in the long-abandoned place—hatred, bitterness, rage, lust, all kinds of twisted appetites. To the ghoul, they tasted sweet, almost slaking his desire for the delicious soul that had slipped past him days ago.
The Master sat on a reclining sofa, eating pickled plums. “Well?”
“It is done,” hissed the ghoul.
“And the Mirror?”
The ghoul laughed, without sound. “They have no suspicion that the miasma attack was only a distraction.”
“Indeed,” said the Master. “As planned.”
“But it is such a small speck of corruption, such a minute stain. Will it be enough by the time we’re ready to move?”
“Oh, yes.” The Master inspected a plum, popped it into his
