In her mind, the door had led to an alley across from the docks. But her mind must have been off by half a dozen strides, because instead of stepping into the street, she walked straight into a kitchen. Which might not have been so bad, if the kitchen had been empty.
But it wasn’t.
A woman stood at the stove making breakfast, and Tes had just enough time to notice the tendrils of magic in the flame beneath her pan before the woman turned, and shrieked, and flung out her hand. Tes saw the gust of wind the instant before it slammed her back, through the conjured door and onto the damp cobblestone street she’d left seconds before.
Tes gasped, pain rippling through her side. She pressed her hand against the stitches, hoping they hadn’t torn.
“Ferro,” she hissed, and the door collapsed. Tes sat up, noticed the old man staring, wide-eyed, his paper forgotten, as she took up the doormaker. Counted off a handful of paces, and tried again.
This time, she waited for the door to resolve, waited until the world beyond took on a blurry kind of shape, enough to at least be certain that it would not dump her into someone else’s house.
Then Tes looked at the man, and flicked her fingers in a wave, before she disappeared, taking the door and the magic with her.
RED LONDON
It was blinding, at first, the sudden return of so much light.
The vibrant, overlapping patterns of the world, dizzying and dazzling at once. But even as Tes fought to steady her gaze, she felt a flush of visceral relief. Home. She never thought the word could encompass an entire world, but there it was.
And then, on its heels, the reminder of why she’d left. And where she had to go.
The docks.
The owl twitched in her coat pocket, pecked at her ribs.
“I don’t want to leave London,” she muttered, and it was true. She’d been in the city three years, and in that time, she had made a place for herself in the shal, a home in Haskin’s shop.
“And then you tore it down,” she said bitterly, even though she knew she didn’t have a choice. It was just rock and timber. Houses, like lives, could be rebuilt. But only if you were still alive to do the building.
Tes joined the bustle of morning crowds and market stalls, the doormaker bundled under one arm as if it were a loaf of bread. Nero had told her once to never act like you’re running from something, or people will notice, and wonder what. So she resisted the urge to glance around, to scan the faces, search for trouble, or quicken her pace. Even as she crossed the crowded road and descended the wide stone steps to the London docks.
Her steps slowed at the sight of all those ships.
Some big, some small, trading vessels and members of the royal fleet, merchant skiffs and a Faroan strider, and a handful of boats that flew no flag. She had grown up in a port city, and whenever she felt trapped, she’d sit and watch the ships coming and going, and know there was a way out.
She’d taken it once. And here she was again.
She studied the ships, entertained the brief but dazzling hope that she’d find Elrick’s little boat tethered to a berth, see the man waiting for her, unchanged by time, silver baubles shining in his twisted hair, one hand raised in welcome. But of course, he wasn’t there.
She considered the ships that were, trying to find the right one. Could she buy passage, or would she have to stow away? Either way, the merchant vessels were best, because they came and went, and always had room for unexpected cargo. One caught her eye. A fast-looking ship with a dark grey hull and white sails, a bird’s head carved into the prow.
But when she tried to move toward it, her feet felt pinned to the wooden slats. Not by magic, only doubt. Was running really the right answer? How far would she have to go, to feel safe again?
Sailors swept past, calling orders and unloading crates, and she might as well have been one of the figureheads, mounted to the prow of a ship.
Tes couldn’t bring herself to move. To go, and leave London behind.
Problems were meant to be fixed.
There had to be a way to fix this.
It wasn’t even her the killers wanted. It was the doormaker. She thought about chucking the device into the Isle, but she knew it wouldn’t help. If Bex and Calin came for her, and she told them what she’d done, they’d think she was lying, that she’d stashed it somewhere, would proceed to break every bone in her hands and then the rest for good measure, and once they figured out she was telling the truth, they’d probably just kill her. So no, ditching the blasted thing wasn’t a way out.
But there was another option.
She could stay, and try to fight.