Ian gripped her by the shoulder, making her face him in the confined space. “You remember what I told you about me reliving the memory of being murdered?” He glanced out the slot in the door, then back at Edwina. “Your sister isn’t a murderer. It wasn’t her hand that took that man’s life. But I do worry she’s an accessory. Possibly in grave danger. Because she was there in the alley at some point. She had to be to steal that man’s memories after he died.”
“Mary said she found the body before they carried it to the morgue. That she took the memory after seeing the corpse lights on the ground.”
“And you believe her?”
“I’ve given my sister every benefit of the doubt. Defended her against all those who misjudged, and believe me, there have been plenty.” She relented in his grip. “But the sight of those spectacles among my sister’s things . . . I’ll never get the image of them out of my mind. I don’t know if I can ever forgive her.”
Ian had to fight the impulse to pull Edwina into his arms. He wanted to stroke her hair, shush her and let her know everything would be okay, but he would not lie to her. And he would not take advantage while they were secreted away in a dank storage room in the back end of a dodgy lane speaking of murder, even if he sensed it’s what they both wanted. Instead he let her go and leaned his back against the brick wall to put as much space between them as possible in the narrow corridor.
“The dead man had a mermaid match safe on him,” he said. “I remember every detail of the piece. And then there it was among your sister’s things. So maybe it’s time you tell me exactly what Mary is capable of.” He half worried she’d flee at the challenge as she had before, that he’d have two sisters to chase after, but she made no move for the door. “There’s a curious undercurrent to your magic. It’s stronger than mere witchcraft.” He struggled to find the right words to describe what he’d experienced in the wake of her spells. “Something strange but beautiful in the way it manifests. Like it’s drawing from a deeper, older source. Only in a way I canna quite put my finger on.”
Edwina peeked out the slot in the door. The sun had set behind the buildings, but her eyes gleamed in the glow of dusk from the street. She was about to answer him with the truth this time, he could swear it, when she startled. “It’s her. She’s walked out. She’s leaving.”
Ian looked through the slot. Mary was walking east as if she didn’t have a care in the world.
“I have to go after her,” Edwina said. “I have to speak to her.”
Before Ian could stop her, Edwina pulled the door open and shot outside. Cursing under his breath, he made a quick check of the pub, making sure no one from inside had caught up to Mary, then followed. “Keep your pace natural, like we’re out for a stroll,” he said, catching up to her. “Let’s see where she’s going first before we let her know we’re here.”
“She’s my sister, not some ruffian,” Edwina said, but she slowed down as he’d asked. He held out his arm to seal the illusion of them as a couple, and she took it.
The setting sun created a silhouette effect that sank the city into a cauldron of light and dark hues. The buildings’ shadows stretched out on the pavement, helping to cloak their presence as the sister walked several strides ahead of them. Ian thought he heard Mary humming a tune to herself, but the sound sailed away on a crosscurrent, so he could not be sure. At the corner, she stopped to let a carriage pass before crossing the street, forcing Edwina and him to feign interest in a handbill about crime in the East End that had been glued to a horse stable door.
Mary, wherever she was going, was not heading in the direction of home. The farther they walked, the more the broken windows in the buildings were stuffed with rags and old newspaper. Edwina tensed at Ian’s side when they passed a man staggering in the street from drink, but he patted her hand and held her arm firmly with his own, encouraging her to act natural. Twice he twisted around to look for George’s face in the bustle behind them, but if he was there, he did not show himself.
Unlike the neighborhood they’d run to while seeking the safe house, the block of tenements Mary led them to was crowded with stick-thin women watching their children run in the lane, while weary-eyed men milled about in front of a doss-house on the corner. It was impossible to ignore the stench of too many humans living in squalor as the smell infiltrated the people’s clothes, their hair, and likely the stale bread they put in their mouths at the end of the day as well.