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As the taxi glided through the streets of San Francisco, Harte tried to focus on the bright lights of the city instead of the gown Esta was wearing beneath the folds of the soft strip of cashmere she’d wrapped artfully around herself. All his life, Harte had wanted to see the world, to escape from Manhattan and explore the land beyond the Brink, but nothing could have prepared him for the amazement he felt seeing the sleek motorcars speed along. They flashed like schools of impossible fish beneath the city’s lights. Nothing could have prepared him for the astounding wonder of it all. But somehow, nothing seemed half so astounding as the dress Esta was wearing.

From the front, the neckline of the frock skimmed her collarbones and was demure as anything she might have worn in his own time, but the back… Esta had asked him to pull the most ingenious little sliding fastener up to secure the dress, but even fastened, the back dipped nearly down to her waist, exposing an expanse of her smooth skin. The sight had been enough to rob him of words and make his palms sweat.

Her mouth had quirked a bit when she’d noticed his reaction, but Esta hadn’t said anything as she’d tucked the leather pouch with Maggie’s concoctions into her beaded evening bag. Just to be safe, she’d told him. Harte didn’t argue with her logic. After they’d been followed earlier, it made sense not to take any chances. They might be followed again, and if that happened, they wouldn’t be able to risk returning to the hotel.

Esta had used up most of the Quellant in those early days to be sure that Seshat would remain quiet while she’d taken care of Harte. Now there was only one tablet left, and they knew they had to save it until they were ready to return to 1902. Without the Quellant to leash her, though, Seshat prowled freely again beneath Harte’s skin. She’d been mostly quiet, but he could tell that she was only waiting for an opportunity. He wasn’t about to give her one, not when he was so close to protecting Esta for good.

Once they had the real crown and after they’d located the Book, they would use the last of the Quellant to go back to 1902 and retrieve the ring from Cela Johnson. Once Esta had all five of the artifacts, Harte would take care of Seshat so Esta wouldn’t have to. She would be left with the Book and the power within it, and with that, she could defeat Nibsy Lorcan. She would be safe. For good.

And until then? Harte would be content with being an arm’s length away from her, caught up in the sweetness of her perfume as they floated along in the plush comfort of this strange, quiet machine.

Without even thinking, Harte lifted his fingers to rub at his lips, but he could no longer resurrect the memory of the kiss they’d shared two days before. It felt like it had happened in another lifetime. He let his hand fall back into his lap and studied the passing streets as they rode on in silence until the taxi stopped at the address Esta had given the driver.

It had been far easier than Harte had expected to find his brother. Esta had located a telephone directory once they’d returned to the hotel the day before, and from there it had been a matter of sorting through the various entries to find Sammie. That had taken a while, but eventually they found a person who might be Harte’s brother—a Sam Lowe, who owned a nightclub just outside of Chinatown.

Once out of the car, Harte felt the crisp snap of autumn’s chill in the air. He could hear the sounds of an orchestra filter through the heavy golden doors each time they opened to admit another couple. On the enormous marquee above, the nightclub’s name glimmered: THE DRAGON’S PEARL.

“It’s too perfect not to have some connection.” Esta glanced at Harte. “The crown is here. It has to be.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” Harte said, wanting her to be right and also not wanting to be disappointed. “First we need to see if the Sam Lowe who owns this place is really my brother.”

Esta linked her arm through his and paused, as though to confirm that this was okay—that Seshat was calm.

“It’s fine,” he told her. “I can handle this.” The power inside him was rumbling at Esta’s closeness, but with the layers of fabric between their skin, Harte was able to push the ancient power back easily enough.

For now, Seshat whispered softly.

Harte grimaced in reply.

“I wish we had more of the Quellant,” Esta said, noticing his discomfort.

“I’m fine.” At least for now.

Besides, he hated the idea that he needed Maggie’s formulation even to stand next to Esta. Even more, he hated the way the Quellant made him feel: cold and empty and incomplete. That aching hollowness was almost enough to have him yearning for something to take the pain away. He wondered if it was anything like what his mother felt after she’d ventured too close to the Brink. If so, Harte understood a little better why Molly O’Doherty had reached for the numbing lull of opium.

Together, Harte and Esta followed the crowd of people through the golden double doors and into the nightclub. Once they entered, they were surrounded by the sounds of the orchestra’s music, crystal clinking, and couples speaking across linen-covered tabletops. The whole place was decorated in dark gleaming wood and gold accents. In the center of the room was a wide-open dance floor, which was anchored by a five-piece band that was playing a soft ballad. This wasn’t the raucous Haymarket, with its painted ladies and packs of hungry young men roving for a night on the town. The clientele here was mostly couples—mostly older and mostly white, but the waitstaff and other workers all seemed to be Chinese people. Jewels glittered around every woman’s neck as couples glided across the dance floor in smooth, looping circles or sat leaning close across tabletops, their quiet murmuring like the rustling of money.

The hostess was a Chinese woman wearing a red satin gown. Her dark hair had been cut nearly as short as Esta’s and was curled and fluffed about her face in the style that seemed to be popular everywhere in the city. She led them to a table in the back corner of the club, away from the lights and bustle of the open dance floor, as they’d requested. Esta looked over the menu, which was divided into both American and Chinese offerings, but Harte could hardly concentrate on food. Instead, he scanned the room and the dance floor for any sign of the man who could be his brother.

“Are you sure he’ll be here tonight?” Harte asked after they’d placed their order. He didn’t know why, but he’d almost expected Sammie to be waiting for him at the door.

“That’s what I was told by the person who answered the phone earlier,” Esta said, looking around the room. “From what I understand, he’s here every night.”

“We should have come yesterday,” he told her, frustrated at his own weakness.

“You needed to rest yesterday,” Esta told him, her golden eyes flashing with something that looked too much like pity for Harte’s liking.

He’d seen that look too many times since he’d woken in that damned hospital bed. As he’d recovered in the hotel, she’d been there by his side, watching over him as though he might disappear if she looked away. Harte didn’t even want to think about the ways she had helped him. He would have been incinerated by the shame of his own weakness had he been well enough or strong enough to care at the time. And always, fear and pity had been stark in her expression—like he’d been some kind of wounded animal to save… except for that afternoon when he’d woken from an unintended nap and, not thinking about the consequences, had kissed her. It hadn’t been pity in her eyes then. It had been hunger and hope as deep and unspeakable as his own.

Harte knew he should tell her how grateful he was. He could at least tell her how beautiful she looked that night, but he couldn’t figure out where to start. He opened his mouth again and again—he probably looked like a fish—but the words wouldn’t come.

Esta turned to him, and her expression shifted to concern. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Harte mumbled, feeling stupid. Before he could pull himself together and try again, though, the orchestra trilled and the house lights began to dim. The dance floor was suddenly bathed in cool blues and pinks.

A line of chorus girls with their legs bare to the hip sashayed onto the floor. Their shoes clickety-clacked in rhythm as they came, and the scraps of their costumes threatened to come undone with every bounce and shimmy. Their act was followed by a Chinese couple. The woman was dressed in a diaphanous gown of silk and feathers that made her look like a bird of paradise, and the man, tall and slender in a topcoat and tails, spun her around the floor in a dreamlike waltz as easily as if she weighed no more than the feathers on her gown.

Their meals arrived, but Harte wasn’t hungry. He picked haphazardly at the food on his plate as one act after another took the stage. Esta must have been as nervous as he was, because she didn’t eat much either. By the time the waiter carried away their barely touched plates, the show was winding down, and there had been no sign of Sammie.