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“It’s a problem I might be able to take care of.” Maggie took a small white pill from the leather pouch and held it up between her fingertips.

Esta knew all about Maggie’s concoctions. She’d experienced some of the more potent ones back in St. Louis when she’d had her first run-in with the Antistasi, and she’d seen for herself what Maggie’s serum was capable of. “What, exactly, is that?”

“It’s sort of an oral version of Quellant,” Maggie explained. “Unlike the fog we used back in St. Louis, this tablet can mute an affinity without leaving the person completely unconscious. It’s also a lot more potent—it’ll last close to twelve hours instead of the usual two.” She held it out to Esta. “It stands to reason that if you can’t reach your affinity, Seshat won’t be able to either.”

“You want to take my magic from me,” Esta realized. Her body felt suddenly cold. She remembered what it was like to have her affinity stripped away by the Quellant back in St. Louis, especially the strange emptiness she’d felt.

“No,” Maggie said, shaking her head. “I’m asking you to consider giving it up. Temporarily, at least. It would only be until we get the artifact.”

Maggie’s explanation seemed completely reasonable, but everything in Esta was screaming for her not to take the pill. The idea of willingly relinquishing her link to the old magic made her recoil. To give up the power that was so much a part of her—even for a short time…

But Maggie could be right about the danger Esta might pose to them. Esta had felt Seshat’s furious determination back in St. Louis, and she had no other explanation for her inability to control her affinity now. If Seshat took her over the way she’d taken over Harte…

Reluctantly, Esta accepted the pill from Maggie. It was small and unimpressive, but she could feel the warm energy that spoke of old magic coming from within. Every instinct she had was screaming for her not to place it in her mouth, not to put herself at such a disadvantage. But she remembered the darkness, uncontrollable and absolute, as she’d run from that train. If Seshat actually did have a connection to her, it might happen again.

No. It would happen again. There was no denying that Seshat would keep trying. The ancient power wouldn’t stop, not until they stopped her.

Still, Esta couldn’t bring herself to do it. She was already starting to hand the tablet back, when another thought occurred to her—one that tipped the scales. If the Quellant could truly hold back Seshat’s power, then perhaps it was an answer to a problem Esta had believed to be hopeless. Maybe with the Quellant, she and Harte could keep Seshat controlled enough to return to 1902 together.

It wouldn’t do anything to protect the stones. If they returned to 1902 with the artifacts, they would likely lose the ones they currently had. But if they could return to the time they should have been in, Julian would never have given the necklace to the Society. The Devil’s Thief never needed to exist. The Antistasi wouldn’t have stoked the hatred of the Occult Brotherhoods with their violent deeds, the Defense Against Magic Act would not have been ratified, and the attack at the Festival Hall never would have happened. The serum wouldn’t have been deployed—it might never be invented. Even if they couldn’t find a way to bring the artifacts with them, she and Harte could fix the mistakes they’d made. They could start fresh.

They could have more time.

Going back wouldn’t give Esta a future. She understood that. Seshat would still need to be dealt with, and if they couldn’t retrieve the Book—if the Book didn’t hold the answers they needed—Esta would willingly give her affinity and herself to control the ancient being. She would stop Seshat from taking her revenge on the world and save Harte from what that power would do to him. She would give him a future.

As she placed the pill in her mouth, Esta told herself that it was worth the risk. It was only temporary, and besides, she didn’t need her affinity to steal the Pharaoh’s Heart—and she still needed the dagger, especially if the Quellant didn’t work. When she crushed the bitter pill between her teeth, she felt her affinity draw away from her almost immediately. Where her magic had once been, Esta felt only a strange, indescribable hollowness, but little else. There was no way to tell if it was enough to block Seshat’s connection to her. There might never be, she realized. Not unless it didn’t work. As the train rattled on, Esta could only hope that she’d made the right decision and that she hadn’t just managed to hook herself.

FURY AND GRIEF

1902—New York

Cela Johnson didn’t have any magic, and she hadn’t ever particularly wanted any. But as she’d watched Jianyu grow paler and weaker over the past few days, the wound in his shoulder steadily seeping even as it had started to turn with infection, she had to admit that having something more than hot water and a few old herbs at her disposal might have been helpful. Especially when there wasn’t anything natural about the wound itself.

She was fussing with the bandage and trying to ignore the way Jianyu’s breathing had grown shallower since Abel had gone to get Viola a little while before. The house was mostly quiet now. A few of Abel’s friends were in the kitchen, working on an article for the New York Age. The paper belonged to Timothy Thomas Fortune, the man who’d lent them the use of his house after their own had been burned to the ground by men from the railroad who’d wanted Abel to stop his organizing. But Cela couldn’t hear the others from where she was in an upstairs bedroom. It might as well have been only her and Jianyu in that big old house, all alone.

Taking another blanket from the shelf, Cela layered it over Jianyu, knowing full well it wouldn’t do a thing for the way his fingers had been growing colder. Still, if he was in there, she hoped that this bit of comfort might help.

“Just hold on a little longer, now,” she murmured, tucking the blanket around his too-still body. “You said this friend of yours can help, and she’s on her way.”

Or she’d better be. Still, Cela couldn’t help but think that they should’ve already been back.

A few minutes later, she felt her nerves unwind a bit at the sound of the door opening in the hallway below. The familiar rhythm of Abel’s steps sounded on the stairs, and Cela turned from her vigil to see her brother standing in the doorway. Standing behind him was the white girl from the gala—the one who’d tried to kill her and who had created all this trouble in the first place. She wasn’t overly tall, and Cela supposed there were those who might consider her pretty, but the uneven stitching of her hem and the rough material of her shirt made it clear she was as poor as everyone else.

Abel had been against getting mixed up with Jianyu from the start. Nothing good could come of messing with magic, he’d said, and he’d been right, like he usually was. But after all Cela had been through, she also knew that trouble had a way of following you just as soon as you tried to walk away from it.

“Is he—” Abel’s voice was soft, and Cela could hear the worry in it. For all his blustering, he cared what happened to Jianyu as much as she did.

“He’s still with us, but only just,” Cela whispered, not quite stepping aside even as she could see the girl—Viola, Jianyu had called her—try to peer around her. From her deep olive skin and thick dark-brown hair, she looked to be one of the Italians who’d been filling the area around Mulberry Street since a few years before Cela was born.

Cela shifted her gaze to study the girl. At the gala, Cela had only seen a lady dressed in silken finery, but she’d known even then from the cut of the ready-made gown that the girl wasn’t one of the Order’s women. Now, Viola was dressed in a simple, serviceable navy skirt, her hair pulled back from a heart-shaped face. Her eyes were a strange shade of violet, but they were sharp, and a certain intelligence lurked behind them. If she attacked again, Cela was certain Jianyu wouldn’t survive it.

“Even after what you did, he told us to send for you.”

“We’re friends,” the girl said, her voice carrying the cadence of another land.

Cela only frowned, crossing her arms.

“Or we were once.” The girl stepped forward, her face dappled in the shadows thrown by the lamp in the corner. “I didn’t mean to hurt him.”