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Joan was very aware of Nick at her back as she led him to the rear of the warehouse. Tom was waiting for them outside one of the arched brick alcoves. The ones on either side were crowded with neatly stacked hessian sacks. Only the alcove behind him had doors.

‘We’ve brought in George Griffith to question him,’ Tom said. ‘He was nearby in 1890—didn’t mind popping over.’

Joan felt Nick shift his weight. Nearby in 1890. He knew now what that meant—a man had stolen a year of human life to travel here to 1891.

Joan couldn’t meet Nick’s eyes. She had to tell the others that Nick knew. That he was free. But how? She was so afraid of what they’d do. Of what Nick would do if they attacked him or tried to control him again …

What if Joan said the wrong thing, at the wrong time, and got people killed?

She registered, belatedly, the name George Griffith. ‘Isn’t he the guy who stood us up at the masquerade?’

‘Turns out he just needed a bit more persuasion.’ Tom rubbed his thumb over his fingertips in a paid him gesture. ‘Come on.’ He opened the heavy wooden doors.

It was a proper room—not just an alcove—with a small cot on one side and a table with a jug of water and some bread on the other. The sparsity oddly reminded Joan of Aaron’s actual bedroom—the one she’d seen at the Oliver mansion.

Weak light filtered through a tiny iron-latticed window; it was still barely dawn. The walls were raw brick, and the ceiling was a low crisscross of rough-cut wood. This was the underside of the mezzanine balcony, but Joan wouldn’t have known it. The thick brick walls made the room feel like a private space, far away from anything.

Aaron stood with his back against the wall, as far as he could get from the door. The others sat on the cot—including a stranger Joan assumed was George Griffith.

‘Oh good, more warm bodies,’ Aaron said as Tom closed the door behind him. The room was stuffy—they’d landed in a summer month. Someone had removed Aaron’s blindfold and restraints, and he looked more flustered than Joan had ever seen him, his golden hair curling in the humidity and his beautiful face flushed. Aaron’s gaze lingered on Joan for a moment, and then moved to Nick. ‘And look …’ he said. ‘You brought a human to a monster house. Apparently, the King’s Laws mean nothing here.’

Nick moved to the table and poured water into a small wooden cup. Aaron tried to back up as Nick approached, but there was nowhere to go.

‘Not in the mood to be drugged,’ Aaron told him.

Nick tilted his head, maybe at the phrasing. ‘Is it drugged?’ he asked the others.

‘No,’ Tom said.

‘Do you need me to drink some of it?’ Nick asked Aaron.

Aaron paused, as if considering it, and then shook his head. When Nick offered the cup, he took it warily. His gaze stayed on Nick’s face as Nick stepped back; Aaron didn’t seem to know what to make of him. Joan knew that he didn’t spend much time with humans.

‘So …’ George Griffith stood slowly. He was around thirty years old, with red-tinged hair in a bowl cut that made Joan think of the early Beatles. He wore a heavy silver griffin pendant the size of Joan’s palm. ‘What do we want to know?’

They needed to know how Eleanor was planning to change the timeline. They needed to know how to stop her. And there were things Joan just wanted to know: why Eleanor had turned Nick into a monster slayer; what Eleanor had against Joan.

‘Who asked you to search for me?’ Joan said to Aaron.

Aaron gave her a long look, apparently weighing what to say.

‘Answer her,’ George said, his tone so casual that Joan wasn’t even sure if he’d used his power.

Aaron shrugged. ‘The Court informed my father that there were fugitives on the loose. He was asked to nominate an Oliver to assist with the search.’

‘Why did he choose you?’ Ruth said from the cot. Aaron’s only response was to glare at her.

Edmund had nominated Aaron because he had the true Oliver power, but Aaron wouldn’t talk about that unless he was forced. It was an Oliver secret.

‘Do you know who you’re up against?’ Aaron said. He was still in his masquerade clothes; his black jacket lay neatly folded on the windowsill. He’d rather have hung it, Joan knew. ‘The Lady Eleanor herself has been after these fugitives.’ He gestured at Joan and Nick.

None of the others reacted—Jamie must have spoken to them already.

‘They’re paying me quite a lot,’ George said to Aaron.

Aaron’s face fell. He’d clearly hoped that Eleanor’s name would frighten someone into freeing him. And he was usually better at masking his emotions. He was scared.

‘No one will hurt you,’ Joan promised him. ‘We just need information.’