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Dom tilted his head. “I make it a policy to never make promises I can’t keep,” he told her.

She didn’t seem bothered by his refusal. “I understand… though it might make it harder for you to reestablish your business if anyone found out who really was in charge of running the Nitemarket.”

“A threat?” Dom said, rubbing at his stubbled chin. “And not a very creative one at that. I expected better of you, Miss Filosik.” He appeared to be suppressing a smile.

Esta’s eyes narrowed a little. “You’re a frustrating man, Mr. Fusilli.”

“And a helpful one,” Dom said with a slight twist of his mouth. “I couldn’t help but overhear your discussion. I might have something that could help.”

Esta didn’t betray even an ounce of surprise. “Do you?”

Dom made a small flourish of his hand. “Walk me out, and maybe I can be persuaded to divulge it.”

Esta glanced at Harte, who didn’t look happy about the situation, but she only gave him a shrug before following Dom out.

“Do you really think you can disarm the machine in the tower without anyone realizing?” Harte asked Everett, part of his attention still on Esta and Dom as they left.

“I know how the California tower worked. I think we could do something even better than disarming it,” Everett told Harte. Then his gaze shifted to North. “But I could probably use some help.”

North knew when he was defeated. “It’s not like I’m about to let you go climbing up there alone.”

“Look on the bright side,” Everett told him. “If we fail, you won’t have to worry about Ma killing you.”

North stared at his son. “You don’t know your mother very well if you think she wouldn’t drag me back from the dead just for the sake of killing me a second time.”

ALREADY FALLING

1920—Chicago

The following evening, the June heat was thick and sticky as Harte stood next to Esta in the line of people waiting to enter the Chicago Coliseum. He felt the sweat already dampening the cotton of his shirt and the hair at his temples, but he was too exhausted to care. No one had slept much following the events at the Nitemarket. They all realized how little time they had to stop a deadly future from unfurling. Even with the short nap Esta had forced on him before they left, Harte felt every bit as old as North looked. Seshat might have been silenced by another tablet of the Quellant, but in his muscles and in his bones, Harte felt every second of every minute that he’d been awake.

The mood of the enormous crowd congregating around the building was boisterous. A group of women in white dresses held signs and shouted at every man passing, demanding women’s suffrage. Other groups held signs supporting candidates, men whose names Harte didn’t know and didn’t particularly care to. Occasionally, a shout would go up—America first!—and in unison, the rest of the crowd would respond with raucous shouts and chants of Harding! Harding! There was an energy in the air despite the heat, an excitement that even Harte, who’d never cared for the often dirty dealings of the political machine in New York, could feel.

There was another emotion running through the crowd as well—fear. Or maybe it was anger. From the hushed whispers and anxious expressions many of the attendees wore, it was clear that the attack on the convention the night before was fresh in their minds. Many of the people in line to enter wore black armbands in solidarity with the fifty-three men who had been killed during the previous night’s attack. Others held signs of support and shouted for an end to the threat of feral magic. None of them had any idea that the attack had been staged, and Harte wondered if they would care even if they did know—or if the attack had simply given them permission to put their truest and ugliest beliefs on display.

“It’s exactly like Sammie described,” he murmured to Esta. He realized then that he hadn’t quite believed his brother’s story. Not completely. Deep down, he’d hoped that Sammie had been exaggerating or had misremembered past events, but now Harte saw how naive that hope had been.

He understood fear, of course. He was well acquainted with the quiet, often unexamined hatred it inspired, and he knew as well what that hatred could do when channeled and directed. But he’d never imagined that it could unite so many people so quickly and absolutely. Short of standing in Khafre Hall that night so many weeks ago, Harte had never really seen the hatred against what he was—who he was—made quite so obvious.

“They’ve added security,” Esta whispered. She nodded up toward the roofline, where men holding rifles lined the top of the building. “And that banner’s new too.”

The Coliseum was an enormous structure with a facade that reminded Harte of a castle with its multiple medieval-looking towers and arched entrances. The whole building was decorated with patriotic bunting and flags that hung limp and still in the windless air. In the center of the roofline, a tower rose, its steel frame a dark outline silhouetted by the setting sun. The tower bore a placard with the logo of American Steel at its apex, and hanging from that was an enormous silken banner. On it was an image Harte recognized: the Philosopher’s Hand.

Harte had seen copies of this familiar alchemical formula many times before in his studies. He’d seen it in the warehouse where Jack Grew had built his first machine, and he’d seen it again in the bowels of Khafre Hall. But this version was different. The emblem on the banner reminded Harte a little of the moving picture box that had been in the San Francisco hotel room, because the image seemed almost alive. It had clearly been charmed in some way. The five elemental icons floated above the disembodied hand’s fingers—crown, key, lantern, moon, and star—each rotating slowly, glowing with their own unique phosphorescence. The palm held the fish in a flame-bound sea with softly undulating waves. It was the symbolic representation of quintessence—Aether. But though the flames churned, the banner did not burn.

“Jack showed me a similar image back in New York,” Harte told Esta. “This one appearing now can’t be a coincidence.”

“It’s happening tonight.” She sounded more worried than she had earlier. All day, she’d worn her usual air of confidence as they’d gone over the plans and preparations, until everything was excruciatingly clear and everyone was ready. Now she looked nervous.

Harte couldn’t say anything to bolster her, though, because they’d finally reached the entrance. Esta fell silent as Harte handed over the tickets Dom had procured for them, and a man wearing a too-familiar silvery medallion on his lapel waved the two of them through.

“They’re everywhere,” Harte whispered, noticing that every few yards there was someone else wearing one of the medallions that served to detect illegal magic. Many wore badges bearing the enchanted image of the Philosopher’s Hand as well.

“Of course they’re everywhere. The Brotherhoods will be the reason Jack gets the nomination,” Esta reminded him. “Unless we stop him.”

Once inside the building, they allowed themselves to be carried with the crush of other attendees toward the main hall. Harte pulled the pocket watch Everett had given him from the inside pocket of his vest, but he was disappointed to see nothing but the time displayed by the hands. The watch was one of Everett’s contraptions—not magic, because that would have been too dangerous in a hall filled with members from the Brotherhoods. Instead, the piece worked with some kind of radio signal. Apparently, where Maggie was adept with mixing formulas, her son had the same touch with machinery. When Everett and North were done with the tower, the watch would vibrate and its hands would begin to spin. So far they were holding maddeningly steady.

“I hope we weren’t wrong to trust North and Everett,” Harte said as he watched the steady ticking of the seconds, waiting for something to change.