In the hall, she found the narrow stairs that led up to a landing, then up again to the small green door. Her feet moved without her, climbing the worn steps one by one until she reached Barron’s room. The door stood ajar, giving way to a space that was no longer his. She averted her gaze, unsure if she would ever be ready to see it, and continued up, Kell’s voice fading by the time she reached the top. Beyond the small green door, her room sat untouched. Part of the floor was dark, but not smooth, the faintest trace of fingers in the ruddy stain where Barron had died.
She crouched, brought her hand to the marks. A drop of water hit the floor, like the first sign of a London rainfall. Lila wiped her cheek brusquely and stood up.
Scattered across the floor, like tarnished stars, were beads of shot from Barron’s gun. Her fingers twitched, the magic humming in her blood, and the metal rose into the air, drawing together like a blast rewound until the beads gathered, fused, formed a single sphere of steel that fell into her outstretched palm. Lila slipped the ball into her pocket, savoring the weight as she went downstairs.
They were back in the tavern, Ned and Kell, Ned chattering and Kell listening indulgently, though she could see the strain in his eyes, the fatigue. He hadn’t been well, not since the battle and the ring, and he was a fool if he thought she hadn’t noticed. But she didn’t say anything, and when their eyes met, the strain faded, replaced by something gentle, warm.
Lila drew her fingertips along a wooden tabletop, the surface branded with a five-point star. “Why did you change the name?”
Ned’s head swiveled toward her, and she realized it was the first time she’d spoken to him.
“It was just a thought,” he said, “but you know, I’ve had the worst luck since I did it, so I’m thinking it’s a sign I should change it back.”
Lila shrugged. “It doesn’t matter what you call it.”
Ned was squinting at her now, as if she were out of focus.
“Have we met?” he asked, and she shook her head, even though she’d seen him in this place a dozen times, back when it was called the Stone’s Throw, back when Barron had been the one behind the bar, serving watered-down drinks to men seeking a taste of magic, back when she came and went like a ghost.
“If your king comes around again,” Kell was saying, “you give him this letter. My king would like him to know that it will be the last….”
Lila slipped out the front door and into the grey day. She looked up at the sign over the entrance, the dark clouds beyond, threatening rain.
The city always looked drab this time of year, but it looked even bleaker now that she had come to know Red London and the world that surrounded it.
Lila tipped her head back against the cool bricks, and heard Barron as if he were standing there beside her, a cigar between his lips.
“Always looking for trouble.”
“What’s life without a little trouble?” she said softly.
“Gonna keep looking till you find it.”
“I’m sorry it found you.”
“Do you miss me?” His gravelly tone seemed to linger in the air.
“Like an itch,” she murmured.
She felt Kell come up beside her, felt him trying to decide if he should touch her arm or give her space. In the end, he hovered there, half a step behind.
“Are you sure about him?” she asked.
“I am,” he said, his voice so steady she wanted to lean against it. “Ned’s a good man.”
“He’d cut off a hand to make you happy.”
“He believes in magic.”
“And you don’t think he’ll try to use it?”
“He’ll never get the box open, and even if he did, no. I don’t think he will.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because I asked him not to.”
Lila snorted. Even after all they’d seen and done, Kell still had faith in people. She hoped, for all their sakes, he was right. Just this once.
All around them, carriages clattered and people jogged and strolled and stumbled by. She’d forgotten the simple solidity of this city, this world.
“We could stay awhile, if you want?” offered Kell.
She took a long breath, the air on her tongue stale and full of soot instead of magic. There was nothing for her here, not anymore.
“No.” She shook her head, reaching for his hand. “Let’s go home.”
IV
The sky was a crisp blue sheet, drawn tight behind the sun. It stretched, cloudless and bare, save for a single black-and-white bird that soared overhead. As it crossed into the sphere of light, the bird became a flock, shattering like a prism when it meets the sun.
Holland craned his neck, mesmerized by the display, but every time he tried to count their number, his vision slid out of focus, strained by the dappled light.
He didn’t know where he was.
How he’d gotten here.
He was standing in a courtyard, the high walls covered in vines that threw off blossoms of lush purple—such an impossible hue, but their petals solid, soft. The air felt like the cusp of summer, a hint of warmth, the sweet scent of blossoms and tilled earth—which told him where he wasn’t, where he couldn’t be.
And yet—
“Holland?” called a voice he hadn’t heard in years. Lifetimes. He turned, searching for the source, and found a gap in the courtyard wall, a doorway without a door.
He stepped through, and the courtyard vanished, the wall solid behind him and the narrow road ahead crowded with people, their clothes white but their faces full of color. He knew this place—it was in the Kosik, the worst part of the city.