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Esta looked back to see that Maggie’s eyes were wide and her face had drained of color. She was clutching her hands to her side, and North’s hands were pressed over them as well, but blood was already seeping from beneath their fingers. For a moment all Esta could do was stare numbly, while Cordelia’s unhinged laughter continued to vibrate beneath her. Then suddenly Cordelia wrenched herself to the side, throwing Esta off-balance.

Cordelia was on Esta before she’d even hit the ground. The sharpshooter’s hands grabbed Esta’s neck and started to squeeze, even as Esta tried to fight her off.

“That’s enough,” a voice said, accompanied by the second click of a pistol being primed. “Get off her now.”

Cordelia went still at the sound of the voice, which was enough for Esta to throw her off. She looked up to find George standing over them with Cordelia’s gun in his hand.

“What in the Sam Hill is going on in here?” he asked. He took in the scene, and his mouth opened in a kind of disbelief when he saw Maggie bleeding in the corner of the tent. Then he looked back to Cordelia, and understanding dawned. “You did this?” he asked her.

Cordelia started to cackle.

“Hand me that rope,” Esta said. They didn’t have time for long explanations, and she doubted Cordelia was in any mind to give them anyway. “We need to get her secured before she can hurt anyone else.”

On the other side of the tent, North was still cradling Maggie as he tried to stop the bleeding. “Maggie… Stay with me, honey,” he pleaded. “Come on now, darlin’. Just keep looking here in my eyes. Right here, Mags…”

As George finished securing Cordelia’s arms, Esta went over to help North with Maggie. He was cradling her in his arms, and Esta suddenly had the strangest sense that this scene had already played out. Maybe not quite like this, but… She shook away the thought. North was trying to get Maggie to focus on him, but she kept blinking and staring off, like she was seeing something in the distance.

“You can go back,” Esta told him, feeling the full horror of what had happened. “A minute or two is all you’d need to fix this. You can use your watch—”

North was shaking his head. “It’s gone. Gunter destroyed it when they got me earlier.”

George had finished securing Cordelia and crouched next to them. “Let me?” he asked. When neither of them moved, he gently took North’s and Maggie’s hands away from the wound in her side. “It looks like the bullet went clean through. Maybe with a doctor—”

“Too much of a risk,” Maggie said. “They’ll realize—” She gasped in pain.

“The doctor I have in mind won’t care,” George said. “And she won’t talk.”

“Is she Mageus?” Esta asked.

“No, but Dr. Ford would be understanding,” George said. “You’d be able to trust her.”

“No, Jericho—” Maggie gasped.

“If there’s a chance of saving Maggie, we should take it,” Esta told North. “But we need to go now. Someone will have heard that shot, and with so many people swarming around looking for us—”

“Leave me and go,” Maggie said, each word coming with visible effort. “While you can.”

“No.” North shook his head again. “I’m not going anywhere without you.” He was already arranging her skirts so he could lift her in his arms.

But Esta had gone to check the flap of the tent, and what she saw outside made her stomach sink. “It doesn’t look like we’re going anywhere,” she said. “We’re surrounded.”

THE HANDS THAT HELD HIM DOWN

1904—San Francisco

Harte struggled to stay on his feet as he took the steps down from the temple two at a time. The weight of the Dragon’s Eye was secure within the inner pocket of his coat, and deep within him, Seshat was rioting, pressing at the boundary between them. He couldn’t tell if she was trying to stop him or urging him on, so he ignored her. He had enough to worry about with the feverish haze that coated his vision and the ache in his upper thigh that made each step feel like he was being stabbed. When he got to the second-floor landing, he paused long enough to catch his breath and to consider his options. The clerks in the bank lobby below would probably already know what happened. It was possible that his father might have even warned them. There was no way he was going to be able to walk out the front door.

Then Harte remembered the fire escape he’d seen from the street below.

Instead of continuing down the staircase, he went down the hall cutting through the middle of the building. Taking a chance, he opened one of the doors to find a small office with a pair of surprised clerks sitting behind desks piled high with stacks of papers and ledgers. The room was plain, nothing like the grandeur of the temple above, but there was a portrait of Lady Justice, her eyes wide and accusing, hanging on the wall behind them that told Harte these must be more of the Committee’s offices. The men glanced up when Harte burst in, but his attention was on the open window on the other side of the room.

He pulled on his most charming smile. “Pardon the interruption, gentlemen. I need to do a routine check. I’ll be out of your hair in a few minutes.”

He was nearly through the window when the door opened again and another pair of men burst through, yelling orders at two office workers. Their surprise turned to action, and the closer of the two clerks lunged for Harte, catching him by his coat.

The man cocked his arm, ready to swing, but Harte had grown up in the streets and new how to fight fast and dirty. He blocked the blow and then shoved the man, pushing him into the others. As they stumbled back, Harte was out the window and onto the fire escape, which creaked under his weight. He’d almost made it to the ladder when he was pulled backward again. His head spun with the motion, and this time he didn’t manage to dodge. Instead, he took the blow straight to his temple. The instant the fist connected with the side of his face, Harte’s vision flickered.

Then came another blow, and another before Harte could fend them off. He felt the crunch of his nose breaking, followed by the warmth of blood running down his face. The coppery tang of it on his lips shook him into action. He finally managed to fend off the next fist, but before Harte could regain his balance completely, the man had bent him backward over the railing of the fire escape, holding him by the throat. The structure creaked under the pressure of their combined weight, but Harte couldn’t do much to fight the man off—especially not with the world tilting and his vision blurring.