Emma Holloway - A Study in Ashes

They stood facing each other. They all had their roles to play, and Bucky’s wasn’t on the caterpillar. This was farewell.

Wordlessly, Bucky held out a hand. His left one. Tobias gripped it, grateful he hadn’t had to fumble with his numb fingers. His friend’s grip was firm and warm, familiar as an old coat. Time stopped as memories slammed into Tobias, so vivid they left him light-headed. They’d been friends so long—school, cricket, clubs, women, SPIE—and the chance that they’d see each other again was next to nothing.

“I’m glad you’re with us,” Bucky said evenly. “It’s about bloody time.”

“Look after Jeremy and Alice. Look after my sisters.” There was a lot more he wanted to say, but his chest was beginning to ache, and he couldn’t afford grief.

“You know I will.” Bucky inhaled, the sound of it uneven. “Good luck, Roth. London has your back. And may you get what you need from this.”

What I need? All Tobias had ever wanted was a workshop and the freedom to indulge his imagination. But nothing had ever been that simple. He squeezed Bucky’s hand tight one last time, and then let it go. His friend left quickly, his motions those of a man holding too much inside.

Tobias swallowed hard, the world around him blurring with sadness. But he heard Corporal Yelland slide into the seat to his right, and the presence of a stranger forced him to gather his wits. He turned, and was shocked to see that the alley was full, and the alleys beyond that, and all the distant streets winding to the horizon. London had turned out in force.

His mouth went utterly dry. Blood and thunder! Not even his father had been asked to deal with this kind of mob. But Tobias wasn’t his father. He knew what it was to put in an honest day’s work in the sweat and noise of a workshop. He wasn’t there for ambition, but because he was so angry that the pit of his gut boiled like the steam engines beneath his feet. He was one of them.

“Friends,” he said, raising his good hand into the air for silence, “we have work to do!”

The crowd roared like an ocean, and Tobias smiled. The rebellion wasn’t just a handful of spies or noblemen passing notes in the back rooms of their clubs. It went down to the very grime in the gutters.

The steam barons had no clue what was coming.

London, October 16, 1889

HILLIARD HOUSE

7:35 a.m. Wednesday

POPPY TRULY DIDN’T KNOW WHAT TO DO NEXT. THEY’D spent another day yesterday hunting for Jeremy. She’d put Alice to bed at Hilliard House after Lord Bancroft had administered a hefty glass of brandy and—after another bout of weeping—she’d fallen into a stupefied sleep. Poppy, on the other hand, had stared at the ceiling until murky waves of exhaustion had finally claimed her just as the first birdsong chimed in the pearl-gray sky.

She couldn’t have slept more than a few hours before Alice was shaking her awake. “Poppy, wake up!”

“Alice?” Poppy groaned, more grumpy than she meant to be but really, she’d hardly napped. She pushed a tangle of hair out of her face, realizing she hadn’t bothered to brush it out the night before. It felt like something had nested in it, and she really wished she had taken the time to clean her teeth.

Alice sat on the edge of the bed. She looked haunted, the bones of her face too prominent under pale skin. Even the glorious waves of her fiery hair were subdued in the cold morning light. “I think we’re going about finding Jeremy the wrong way,” she said in a steady voice nothing like last night’s sobs.

Poppy blinked, pushing herself up on her elbows. Alice had her attention. Gone were the hysterics of the night before, and the Gold King’s daughter had taken charge. “All right, then. What are we doing wrong?”

“If Father is using Jeremy as a means of keeping us in line, he has to be able to prove our baby is still alive.” There was a slight hitch in Alice’s voice that said she wasn’t as calm as she was putting on. “That means keeping him close.”

“I suppose that means a place he thinks will be safe from attack.”

“Deep in Gold territory,” Alice agreed. “Preferably someplace he owns.”

Poppy struggled to sit up properly. “Isn’t that where we’ve been looking?” And holy hat ribbons, did Jasper Keating own a lot of properties. She felt like she’d tramped through half of London in the last week.

“We’ve looked at all his factories and private residences. They’re all places that he knows I know.” Alice slumped forward, her elbows on her knees. “I’ve been stupid to even suggest such places.”

“Don’t be daft, you’re doing wonderfully well,” Poppy reassured her, stifling a yawn. “But where else is your father going to put Jeremy?”

Alice turned pasty pale. “Think about it. What would happen if, say, the Blue King trampled through London and found Keating’s grandson?”

Poppy didn’t like that scenario at all. “What do you mean?”

Alice pushed on. “He’d hide him in plain sight. Just look at Prince Edmond. The newspapers said he was adopted by Sir Charles Baskerville and nobody noticed that he was at all different. He went to school with the other boys, played on their rugby teams, and did whatever normal boys do.”

“Maybe,” Poppy said softly. “But remember Mr. Keating took the wet nurse, so she would have to be inconspicuous as well.” Then she succumbed to another yawn.

“There are two possible places.” Alice waved a finger, her eyes bright. “First, my father established a foundling hospital in Soho.”

Poppy clapped her hands. “That’s perfect: deep in Gold territory, and with plenty of nurses and babies.”

“Let’s start there, then!” Alice said urgently.

Despite herself, Poppy glanced at the window. She could hear the distant boom of something exploding. The skirmishing between Gold and Blue forces was getting worse, and word had it the rebels were just outside the city. There was no point in asking if it was safe to walk the streets because it clearly wasn’t. And that was all the more reason Alice had to find her son. Fear twisted in Poppy’s stomach, but she wasn’t about to desert Alice now. She wasn’t that kind of girl.

“I need tea,” she said. “And then I’ll follow you into the jaws of hell.”

Alice grabbed her in a desperate hug. “You’re the best.”

“Remember this when I ask to borrow one of your Worth gowns.”

THERE HADN’T BEEN any cabs for hire—the chance of being bombed had kept them all at home—but there had been a steam tram still running from Mayfair toward the intersection of Oxford and Regent streets. It had been a matter of minutes to get there from Hilliard House.

Soho wasn’t the nicest part of town. Poppy had been through the area plenty of times, but never on foot. At least half of it looked starved for money, the houses cramped and ragged from lack of repair. There were lots of theaters, taverns, and coffeehouses, but most ranged from shabby to mildly dangerous. And there were any number of places with purple doors, and even Poppy knew that meant they were houses of dodgy repute. She’d never seen a brothel before, but after walking past the third one, the novelty wore off. There were plenty of other things to worry about, like getting shot by enemy soldiers or what her mother would say when she discovered Poppy was missing. Best not to think about it .

And best not to think about the men she saw here and there, watching as two well-dressed women scurried past. Instead, she stayed glued to Alice’s side as they hastened down Marlborough Street, not letting her out of sight. In her present mood, Alice was moving with a careless desperation that spelled trouble. A single glimpse of an infant was likely to send her bursting through brick walls to snatch it from some innocent nursemaid’s hands.