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“I should have thrown myself from the train leaving St. Louis,” he said flatly.

She glared at him. “Martyrdom isn’t a good look on you.”

“But it works for you?” Harte asked, anger tingeing his voice. His hands were shaking a little, and he still looked practically colorless.

“It’s not martyrdom. It’s reality,” Esta told him. “We have to find a way to control Seshat, and so far there is only one way we know of. I can do it, and I will if I have to. It’s a reality we both need to accept.”

“I won’t accept that.” Harte tossed his napkin onto the table. “There’s no reason you have to give up your life to stop Seshat, not when there’s an easier way.”

“You don’t get it, do you?” Esta asked. She shook her head, fighting back tears that she would not allow. “You weren’t some itch I had to scratch last night, Harte. I have no interest in being some kind of hero. I don’t want to die to save the world. But I’d happily give my life to save you.”

Harte stared at her, and Esta immediately realized her mistake. With her words, she’d exposed far too much of her tender, beating heart, and the silence that filled the berth somehow felt more dangerous than any enemy she’d ever faced. She hadn’t ever felt so exposed before.

Then Harte took her hand, and some of the panic receded. Her stomach flipped as his long, strong fingers intertwined with her own. His gray eyes were soft as he looked at her, and when he spoke, his voice was barely more than a whisper. “What makes you so certain I don’t feel the exact same way?”

Esta couldn’t move. She was afraid that if she did, the entire world around them would shatter and fall away. That she would shatter as well.

How had she not considered this? Last night, she’d been so angry at herself for thinking he hadn’t understood, but now? She realized she’d been wrong. He had understood—did understand—and somehow that made it even worse. There was a raw openness in Harte’s expression that was terrifying.

A realization settled over Esta that stole her breath, plucked it straight from her chest with fingers as nimble as her own. If Harte felt for her even half of what she felt for him, he would never allow her to do what she intended. If they could not find another way to stop Seshat—one that did not involve her using her affinity and giving up her life—Harte would take himself out of the equation to protect her, and his death would destroy her just the same.

PART V

TRAFFIC AND LUCK

1902—New York

Cela Johnson decided that maybe she wasn’t actually made for a life of crime right about the time that everyone else decided that she should be the one to sit on the rooftop of the tallest building on Thirteenth Avenue to watch for the Order’s ship. She’d spent her share of evenings sitting on fire escapes, like everyone else born in a city that sizzled with the summer heat, but this was something different somehow.

To Cela’s back, Manhattan’s streets sprawled in all directions, an impossible stretch of humanity. Abel was out there somewhere, waiting like everyone else, for the signal she would send. In front of her, the Hudson River glinted, a chain of gold in the early-evening sun. Somewhere out beyond the river, the Order was making ready to move their goods, was maybe already moving them.

Cela lifted her spyglass to study the boats dotting the river, hoping that the sign she was looking for would come sooner rather than later. One of those boats held the ring that Darrigan had given her, the ring that had turned her life upside down. Soon a boat would start to inch its way toward one of the many busy docks that lined the western side of the island, and then the game would begin.

Noting the sun’s low position in the sky, Cela checked her watch again. It was already 7:26. Not quite time, since nothing would happen until the sun was exactly at the right angle, nearly sitting on the horizon. But it was getting close.

The minutes felt like they were crawling by, but Cela didn’t dare so much as look away or blink. The boat they were looking for would dock no earlier, and also probably no later, than 7:46, when the sun was exactly six degrees above the horizon. It was the beginning of a period the Order called the Golden Hour, when the sun was supposedly at its most powerful.

It wasn’t when the sun was at its brightest, mind you, which would have been what any rational person might have assumed. Instead, it had something to do with astronomy. The Golden Hour, according to Theo’s information, was marked by the sun’s path, from six degrees above the horizon to six degrees below on this particular day—the Manhattan Solstice. Six because it was a powerful number. A sacred number, even, according to the men in the Order.

Maybe there was something to their beliefs, Cela thought as she watched the ships drifting in the distance. Six days for the good Lord to make the world, six points on the Star of David, and the devil himself loved the number so well he took it three times over.

The Order was depending upon the power of this false solstice, when the alignment of the sun would give their evil charms more power. Until the sun dipped below the horizon, the cargo would be untouchable. Literally untouchable, from what Theo told them.

Still, Cela thought this so-called Golden Hour was poorly named, especially since it wouldn’t even last a whole hour. Fifty-two minutes was all the time the Order would have to take advantage of. In that time, the boat had to dock, and their treasures had to travel through the city streets and arrive at the Order’s new quarters in the Flatiron Building. For those fifty-two minutes, some kind of strange magic would ensure their treasures would be safe. But if the wagons happened to be delayed, if they didn’t reach their destination before the end of those fifty-two minutes, the shipment would be vulnerable.

It was essential that those wagons were delayed.

In a city that had more traffic snarls than pigeons most days, it seemed an easy enough thing to accomplish. If a train happened to be late, if it happened to find itself held up on Death Avenue—maybe by an overturned cart, for instance—the wagon bearing the Order’s goods wouldn’t be able to take a direct route, straight across the island to reach the Flatiron Building. The wagons would have to be diverted around the chain of train cars and backed-up wagons, maybe for blocks in either direction.

With a little planning, the cluttered streets in the lower part of Manhattan would work in their favor. With a little luck, they would use Paul Kelly’s men and Nibsy Lorcan’s boys to divert the wagons and funnel them away from the Flatiron. If they could keep those wagons running until it was too late for the sun to provide its protection, it would be possible for Jianyu to relieve the Order of their treasures before either Paul Kelly or Nibsy Lorcan could get to them. The ring could be retrieved.

If they managed to cut the Order’s legs out from beneath them, maybe people would see that it was possible to rise up and topple the rich and the powerful. Maybe more things could change as well, and not only for Mageus.

Maybe. But Cela wasn’t counting any chickens, especially not before they’d even gathered the eggs. There were too many things that could go wrong. For one, they still didn’t know for sure where the ship would dock. For another, they were depending too much upon the capriciousness of traffic and luck.

It didn’t help that their planning had gone sideways a couple of days before. Somehow, Viola’s brother had found out about his sister’s trips to Harlem. He’d made demands, and then he’d made threats. Thank god, Viola had managed to warn them. It was a risk the Italian girl had taken, and one that Cela appreciated. She understood exactly how bad it was that Paul Kelly knew who she and Abel were. His Five Pointers had been causing trouble in the city for years, dangerous trouble. The kind of trouble that made people end up dead.

Cela might have understood why Viola and Jianyu had decided to use this Nibsy Lorcan fellow and try to play the two dangers off each other, but she still didn’t like it. Everything she’d heard about Nibsy made Cela think he wasn’t someone who could be easily duped or led. There was too much that could go wrong. For starters, Cela wasn’t sure whether Viola had actually been able to convince Nibsy that she was on his side—not when Viola’s eyes flashed with hate every time she heard his name. Cela also wasn’t sure that a fifteen-year-old orphan could neutralize the threat of Paul Kelly, as Jianyu was hoping he would, even if the boy had managed to betray an entire gang and kill their leader to take power.