“A month ago, we sent one of our brotherhood to find these women. This coven.” He spits the word, and I can only think of Miss Moore telling us girls that women with power are always to be feared.
“And did he?”
“He believed so. He sent two messages. The first was that he thought he had found them and would send word soon. The second arrived a week ago. It stated that these women were far more dangerous than we had surmised. That they were ‘playing with fire’ and that he feared for his life and his soul and no longer trusted his mind. The third and final message came to us two days ago.” He slides over a scrap of paper. There are drawings of symbols: Birds. A jackal. A scale with a feather in one dish and a human heart in the other.
“Hieroglyphics,” Mr. Dwight says as I peer at it, for, apparently, I cannot be trusted to come to any conclusions on my own; he must narrate it all for me. At the bottom is scrawled a strange message: They have shown me the way. It is beautiful beyond measure. I am with them now until the end.
“What does it mean?”
“Clearly, they’ve done something to our agent. Enchanted or bewitched him by some occult means. This is what comes of allowing women to run things. Go on. Turn it over.”
I don’t like being commanded to do anything. But again, my curiosity wins out. On the back is a drawing that chills me through and through: an enormous ash tree and, within it, a young, handsome man with dark curls. His eyes are closed, long lashes resting against his cheeks as if he were a sleeping prince in a fairy tale. I feel suddenly faint, as if all the air has left the room.
“The Tree of All Souls…,” I whisper.
“Yes, Miss Doyle. So you can see the urgency of this mission.” Mr. Dwight speaks through his teeth. All pretense of gentlemanly behavior is gone. “And that is why you will accompany me to the Rakshana. And then, Miss Doyle, you will take us into the realms, where we will assert ourselves once and for all to ensure the safety and security of that world.”
“I do not take orders, from you or anyone, Mr. Dwight,” I say, drawing in gulps of steadying breath. “I’ve had a very unfortunate association with your little club. You tried to have me killed—more than once, you might remember. That rather soured me on our ever being friends.”
Mr. Dwight gives me that same condescending smile. I don’t tell him that it makes him look as if he’s eaten too much cheese and has a case of bad wind. Though I really want to do so.
“I thought you might say that, Miss Doyle. I’ve taken the necessary precautions.” He grabs hold of my wrist tightly. “Don’t make a scene,” he says to me in a low, chilling voice before calling out, “Assistance, please! My companion is ill!”
With his other hand, he signals urgently to the maître d’ now making his way toward us. A dagger glints beneath a napkin draped over the maître d’s arm. I realize at once that he is also Rakshana. No wonder I never got my tea. Everyone is staring at us now.
Mr. Dwight tightens his hold on my wrist. Instead of fighting, I lean in close and whisper, “You’re not the only one who took precautions, Mr. Dwight.”
“Gemma, daaarrrling! There you are!”
Ann’s voice rings out over the tearoom. Every head turns to take in the sight of one of the theater’s rising stars threading her way toward us past the tables of curious gawkers and the baffled maître d’. Even Mr. Dwight is confused. He loosens his grip and I yank my hand away, out of his reach, and stand, arms open to receive Ann.
“Dear Miss Bradshaw! What a delightful surprise. And how well you look!”
“Oh, but, Miss Doyle, you are looking rather peaked! Did I not just hear that you are unwell?”
“I’m afraid it’s true, Miss Bradshaw. I believe I should return to my residence at once.”
Ann pats my hand. “Indeed you must. How fortunate that I’ve a hansom waiting at the curb. This way, if you please, dear Miss Doyle.”
“You are most kind, Miss Bradshaw. Mr. Dwight, thank you for such an illuminating conversation,” I say, and deposit the note he showed me into my purse, closing the strings tightly. “I’ll look into the matter we discussed and send word. I’m so sorry we shan’t be seeing each other again for such a long, long, long time.”
All Mr. Dwight can do is stand at attention, like a gentleman, and allow me to leave. Arm in arm, Ann and I stroll from the restaurant, leaving him furious and utterly at a loss, which pleases me no end.
“What was that all about?” Ann asks as we hurry down the street, still arm in arm.
I chance a look behind me. No one follows. “Someone’s mucking about in the realms.”
“Isn’t someone always?” Ann says matter-of-factly.
I look to the empty curb. “Where’s the hansom?”
“I’m not paying for a hansom! Not on an actress’s wages.”
I tell Ann about my conversation with the overly shiny Mr. Dwight as we walk along crowded New York streets abustle with activity that puts me in mind of the markets of Bombay, and for a moment I am homesick for India and the happy family I once had there—rather, the happy family I thought I had—and a life uncomplicated by magic and responsibility. Two boys race around us like floodwater toward a man selling ice cream from a cart. The ghastly heat has everyone lined up for it.
“Do you think he’s telling the truth?” Ann asks once I’ve finished my tale. “The Rakshana are always looking for a way to take the power away from us. And it would be easy for him to add the bit about the Tree of All Souls in order to pull you in. After all, you’ve no idea who drew those hieroglyphics.”
“A fair point. The only certainty is that two of the Rakshana have been murdered. By the way, you were marvelous in there. Truly.”
“It’s good for you that our company happens to be playing New York this month. And that I received your note in time.”
“Oh, Ann! I have missed you!” I clasp her hands in mine, not caring if it’s unseemly to do so on the street. At least in New York, unlike London, people frown less at such exuberance.
Ann gives me a shy half smile. “You really do look well. New York suits you.”
“You look radiant!” I say, and she blushes. I know that Ann does not consider herself a beauty. In truth, many would consider her plain. But when she sings, she commands a stage, and there is no one more beautiful. Even so, there’s a pinkness to her cheeks that is new and most becoming. She walks taller. Prouder. No longer looking down at the ground, undeserving. “You look…happy,” I add.
“I am.” She breaks into an elated smile. “Mr. Smalls has asked me to marry him. This month. Whilst we’re in New York. Gemma, I’m engaged!” She removes her glove to show me the ring wrapped around her fourth finger—a golden snake much like our Queen Victoria’s engagement ring, with a tiny garnet for an eye.