She bristled. She didn’t need his worry. Didn’t want it either. “In your dreams,” she said, shooting him a dark look.
But he didn’t throw back a reply, as she’d expected him to. Outside the carriage, lightning flickered, illuminating the planes of his face and exposing the concern in his eyes. A few moments later, farther off now, thunder rumbled, echoing in the distance. When the sound faded, the carriage descended into an uneasy silence.
“For a minute back there, I thought I’d lost you,” Harte said softly.
“I’m fine,” she said, brushing aside the emotion in his voice. She did not tell him that for a minute she had felt lost. That there was something about the darkness—the absoluteness of it—that made her think that if it gained too much ground, there wouldn’t be any going back.
His eyes were steady. “You’re lying.”
The certainty in his voice struck a nerve. “I’ll stop when you do.”
Esta made sure that Harte was the first one to look away.
“Those people in the ballroom,” she said, testing the silence that had grown between them.
“The Antistasi?” Harte said, frowning. “If that’s who they were . . .”
“I’ve never seen anything like that,” she told him. When she’d seen the first figure appear, the one dressed in red, she’d been shocked, but as more appeared, she’d felt a thrill coursing through her blood that she’d only ever felt before she lifted a diamond or cleaned out a safe.
“They’re a damn menace,” Harte said darkly.
“What?” She turned to look at him, confused. “They were amazing. The way they stood up to the police and the Guard.”
“They were performing,” he said, his tone skeptical. “That was a show.”
She shrugged. “Well, at least they weren’t cowering or hiding what they were.”
“They were using your name,” he said.
She crossed her arms and tried to figure out what his problem was. “I thought you didn’t even like the name.”
“I don’t. But whether I like it isn’t the point,” he said, clearly frustrated. “Look at how easily Julien recognized you, Esta. What if other people recognize you as this Devil’s Thief too? If these Antistasi are using your name, it means that more people will be looking for you. It makes everything we have to do more dangerous.”
He was right. She knew he was right, and yet the sight of those four women, strong and powerful and unafraid? They’d sparked some small fire in Esta. She’d been running and hiding for so long—her whole life, covering up who and what she was. To have that kind of freedom? She would gladly take the danger that went along with it.
“Well, I think these Antistasi, whoever they might be, are admirable,” Esta said. “If magic’s illegal, like Julien told us, they’re at least trying to do something.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of.” Harte looked like he was about to say something more, but the carriage was slowing. “We can argue later,” he said, peering out of the window as the cab rattled to a stop. “We’re here, and I don’t have any money to pay for this taxi. We’re going to have to run for it—if you’re feeling up to it?”
Esta gave him a scornful look. “Thief, remember?” She slipped a wallet from the inside pocket of her stolen jacket.
“In the ballroom?” he asked.
“I figured we’d need it eventually,” she told him, giving him a couple of damp bills.
While Harte handed over the money and made sure that the driver forgot them, Esta dashed for an overhang to get out of the rain, and to prove to him—and to herself—that she could.
The lightning was more sporadic now, and the rain itself seemed to be slowing, but Harte was still damp by the time he made it to where she had propped herself against a wall to catch her breath. As he approached, she straightened a little to hide just how unsteady her legs actually felt, but from the expression on his face, she knew he understood.
Her hair had fallen, wet and lank, around her face, and Harte reached to brush one of the sodden clumps back. He let his hand cup her cheek, and for a second she forgot how annoyed she’d been with him and marveled at the warmth of his fingertips. She considered closing the distance between them to prove just how okay she was.
A step closer and it would be so easy to press her mouth against his, to let herself go. So much had happened in the last two days. So much had changed in the last two years. Esta only wanted one moment in the stretch of their past and future to put aside all that lay ahead—to forget the sacrifice she would make to ensure that this future, the one where magic was illegal and Guardsmen hunted Mageus, wouldn’t be the one that lasted.
Harte pulled back from her, and the possibility that had been between them evaporated into the humid air of the summer night.
“We need to find somewhere to get dry,” he told her, tucking his hands back into his pockets and making it clear that he hadn’t felt the same as she had. “Your skin is like ice.”
They found a boardinghouse a few blocks farther into the neighborhood. It was a run-down, semi-attached building about three blocks from King’s Saloon. The matron who answered the door was dressed in a clean, plain shift, and her gray hair was tucked away under a dark kerchief. At first she eyed them suspiciously, her gaze lingering on Esta’s disheveled hair and the suit she was wearing, but when Esta produced a stack of bills from the stolen wallet, the woman’s eyes lit. She waved them inside and didn’t ask any questions or bother with their names.
There was only one room left, the woman told them, leading them up the dark, narrow staircase and opening a door at the top. It was small, with a narrow bed and a desk with a rickety chair. A second chair stood near a squat stove in the corner. It certainly wasn’t the plush luxury they’d had at the Jefferson, but at least it seemed clean. Sort of. The coverlet on the bed was stained, but the linens seemed to be freshly washed and the furniture was free from dust and grime.
The woman lit a small fire in the stove before she left them alone, closing the door behind her.
“We need to get you warmed up,” Harte said.
“I’m fine,” she said, trying to hold herself still so he wouldn’t see her shivering.
“You’re not fine, and it’s only going to get worse if you don’t get those wet clothes off.” He went to her and helped slip the wet dinner jacket from her shoulders before she could argue. Turning his back to give her some privacy, he draped her jacket over the edge of the second chair and moved it so the warmth of the meager fire could dry it out. “Give me the rest.”
“Harte,” she warned.
“I won’t look,” he told her before she could argue any more.
She didn’t really care, but it was clear he wasn’t going to give in, so she unbuttoned the shirt she was wearing and took it off. She rolled it in a ball and threw it at the back of his head. “There.”
“The pants, too, and then get into bed,” he told her.
“We’re supposed to be meeting Julien soon,” she argued. But he was right about her clothes. They felt clammy and uncomfortable, so she stepped out of the soaked pants.