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“I can’t,” Harte said, his voice breaking a little. “It’s not possible.”

“But it is. You’ve already done it,” she told him. “Don’t you see? We found that book eighty years from now. It’s already happened. There is a time line where you do kill me, and because you do, Nibsy doesn’t win. He ends up a bitter old man, waiting for a future that never comes.”

“Please, don’t ask this of me,” he told her, his voice breaking. “Even if the world is cracking in two. Even if the Brink is about to erupt and everything will end because of it. I can’t be the one.”

“You’re the only one who can, Harte. You’re the only one I would trust with this.” She cupped his face gently and forced him to look at her. “My life isn’t worth the entire world.”

“Yes, it is,” he told her, taking her hand from his face and clasping it in both of his. “It absolutely is.” His eyes were shadowed with pain, their stormy depths like the wave-tossed sea. “Don’t you understand? Everything I’ve done since I decided to stay in the city, since I met you on the bridge that day, has been for you. To me, you’re the only thing that matters. The world can go to hell if you’re not here in it.”

His words made her feel like she would break into a million pieces, but she couldn’t let them sway her. “You don’t really mean that,” she told him.

“I do,” he said softly.

“Promise me, Harte,” she whispered, begging him. “Please. I need to walk in there knowing that there is no possibility of Nibsy winning. Please.”

“Fine,” he told her. “I’ll promise. But only because I’m not going to ever need to make good on it. We’re going to do this, Esta. We have our way in, and we know how to stop Jack. Nibsy is not going to touch you. It’s going to be okay.” He kissed her then with an ardent fierceness that let her know just how terrified he was. And just how determined as well.

The carriage came to a stop in front of the entrance to the Garden, and before she could say anything more, it was time to face their fates. They lifted the hoods of the cloaks Ruby had stolen for them up over their heads until they shadowed their faces and hid their identities. Then Harte alighted first, reaching back to help Esta down as well.

The walls of the Garden were aglow with electric lamps that cut through the depth of the night. Flanking the door were enormous cauldrons burning with multicolored flames. She looked back only once to see Cela on top of the driver’s perch, dressed in a top hat and cloak. They nodded up at her silently, and she tipped her hat at them before steering the carriage away.

Harte offered Esta his arm, and knowing that the time for argument was over, Esta accepted it. Together, they followed the line of robed figures up a path that glowed with electrical lights toward the Garden.

As they stepped up to the entrance and handed over their stolen tickets without any trouble at all, Esta thought that maybe she’d been wrong to demand his promise. She’d asked too much, but not because she was afraid. Tonight, fear could not drive them. Only certainty. Tonight, the future could be anything they made it. Arm in arm, they pressed into the crowd of the Conclave, walking steadily onward toward their destiny.

WHAT LAY AHEAD

On the night of the Conclave, Jack Grew didn’t particularly mind being one of the faceless masses seated in the Garden. As far as he was concerned, it was better if his uncle and the rest of the Inner Circle believed he had accepted their edict to keep out of trouble. Let them assume that he was no better than one of the sheep sitting around him. At least there in the crowd, no one was paying him any attention. It would make it that much easier to step forward when the time came and accept his place as their savior.

He could not deny there was a sense of anticipation in the air that night that went beyond his own. The grand arena was filled with men from around the country, along with their wives or consorts. Many, clearly, had never been outside their own backwater towns before. Jack had enjoyed watching them as they descended from their carriages, craning their necks to look up at the buildings around the park. They marveled at the size of the Garden and at its beauty.

Perhaps some had come with the idea to wrestle control from the Order. They all had come ready to judge whether the Order still had any right to claim supremacy over the Brotherhoods. But none had any idea at all of what lay ahead. By the end of the night, the tides would have changed, and Jack himself would be the one to bring their boats to shore.

The first half of the evening’s event was filled with endless speeches and posturing. He’d expected that. Planned for it. It gave him time to settle himself, to take another of the morphine cubes and let its bitter warmth fortify him. He barely paid attention as, one by one, the leaders of each of the Brotherhoods stepped forward to present themselves and their platforms to the Conclave as a whole. They spoke of their growing numbers, of the burgeoning cities, and of their plans for the future. They exposed their craven desperation for power and importance and their distinct lack of good breeding.

Jack saw the threat they posed, but unlike the Inner Circle, he understood that you couldn’t simply bat them away like the annoying insects they were. They’d only come back for another try. No, the only way to deal with men like this was by giving them what they wanted—a sense that they were equals to the titans of New York. Only then could the Brotherhoods be brought together under one banner—but it wouldn’t be the Inner Circle who led them.

By the time the night was over, his era would begin.

Eventually, the time for talking finally, blessedly, came to an end. The High Princept called for a brief recess to allow the group to move from the general assembly hall to the rooftop, and Jack followed along amiably, a wolf among sheep. The Book pulsed against his chest in anticipation, urging him on toward a future that could only be glorious. And within, the voice that had become his second conscience purred its approval.

The rooftop of the Garden was usually closed in the winter, but the ritual ahead required open air and a sense of drama that the vaulted hall below could not provide. Jack couldn’t deny that the setting was an excellent choice. In addition to the space it afforded and the grandeur of the star-swept sky above, it provided an extraordinary view of the city beyond. The buildings already climbing toward the clouds. The electric lights turning night into day. The promise of it all. The power held within its streets.

The Flatiron Building, like the prow of a ship, was impressive, but it was only the newest feature of a larger, far older design. New York itself was a city made for magic, elegantly planned and meticulously designed. Now it was on the cusp of unimaginable greatness. Only here could the men from the other Brotherhoods—those from the middle and far west, who had neither polish nor cultural refinement—see that this city was the center of everything. Only here would they understand that a new century was just beginning, one that would carve itself out from the chaos of feral magic. A new world.

The sharpness of the icy December night was a welcome relief after the hot air that had been spouted in the preceding hours. The night sky was clear enough to view the steady progress of the constellations that watched over their proceedings. All around the roof, the towers of the Garden loomed like sentinels, dark fingers against the light of the city beyond. At the top of the highest tower, a naked Diana was illuminated from below, her arrow pointing southward toward the Bowery, as though she, too, were interested in hunting the vermin in their midst.

Along the outer perimeter of the roof, large iron cauldrons churned with flames that sent plumes of incense-laden smoke into the air. Other than alchemical lamps that had been positioned along the aisles of seats and the stars above, the cauldrons provided the only light. It gave the whole area an ancient, mystical atmosphere that it never had during the summer months, when the small stage was used for reviews featuring long-legged chorines and singers in spangled gowns. It was impressive, even to Jack’s jaded eyes, but it was also perfect for his own uses. The shadows cast by the flames were exactly what he needed.

As the robed men of the various Brotherhoods began to settle themselves into seats that had been arranged in a half circle, facing the direction of the park, Jack found the person he’d been watching for all evening. He made his way through the crowd to where Ruby Reynolds stood not far from the High Princept. He saw her stiffen when she realized he was approaching and felt pure satisfaction when he saw she understood that there was no way to avoid him without drawing attention.

“Miss Reynolds,” he said, inclining his head slightly.

“Mrs. Barclay,” she corrected primly, lifting her chin. She was still studying the crowd, her eyes searching for something or someone.

“I wasn’t aware you’d had a wedding night,” he said, amused at the way her head snapped around and by the fire in her eyes. It would be gratifying to see that fire go out. “I wonder,” he drawled. “Is a marriage that remains unconsummated truly a marriage?”

“You’re a pig, Jack,” she told him. “And tonight you’re going to get exactly what you deserve.”