"The Eastern Star is hard to find," the man with the scar says. "Very hard to find." I spy the sword-and-skull pin on his lapel. The others don't have one.
" 'Ello, mate," one of the burly men says, coming closer. He pats the stick against his palm with a thwack."Remember me?"
Kartik rubs absently at his head, and I wonder what on earth they're talking about.
"Mr. Fowlson 'ere requires your presence at a business mee'in' of sorts by the lady's carriage." He pulls Kartik hard. The other man escorts me.
"Fowlson," I say."So you have a name."
The man scowls at the big hooligan for this.
"There's no need for pretense. I know you are Rakshana. And I'll thank you to stop following me about."
The man speaks in a low, controlled voice, as if he might be gently admonishing a wayward child. "And I know you are an impertinent girl with no regard for the seriousness of the business before you, else you should be in the realms searching for the Temple rather than dallying about London's seamier streets. Surely the Temple is not here. Or is it? Tell me, just where did this one take you?"
He doesn't know about Kartik's hiding place. Beside me, I feel Kartik holding his breath.
"Sightseeing," I say, standing a stone's throw from a slaughterhouse."I wished to see these slums for myself."
The big man with the club scoffs at me.
"I assure you, sir. I am in earnest about my duty," I say to Fowlson.
"Are we, now, lass? The task is simple: Find the Temple and bind the magic." "If it is so simple a matter, why don't you do it?" I answer hotly."But no, you can't. So you will have to rely on me, an 'impertinent girl,' won't you?"
Fowlson looks as if he would like to hit me very hard. "For the present, it would seem so." He gives Kartik a cold smile. "Do not forget your task, novitiate."
He tucks his newspaper under his arm and motions to his men. The three of them back away slowly, vanishing at last around a corner. Kartik springs into action, practically pushing me into the carriage.
"What did he mean, do not forget your task?" I ask.
"I told you," he says, leading Ginger into the street."My task is to help you find the Temple. That is all. What did you mean when you asked Fowlson to stop following you about?"
"He has been following me! He was at the train station the day I arrived in London. And then when I was out walking in Hyde Park with Grandmama," I say, purposefully avoiding Simon's name,"he rode by in a carriage. And I saw a woman in a green cloak with him, Kartik. A green cloak!"
"There are plenty of green cloaks in London, Miss Doyle," Kartik tells me. "They do not all belong to Circe."
"No. But one does. I am only asking if you are certain that Mr. Fowlson can be trusted?"
"He is one of the Rakshana, part of my brotherhood," he says."Yes. I am certain."
He doesn't look at me when he says this, and I'm afraid that any trust we've begun to have has been frayed by my questions. Kartik takes his perch behind the reins. With a snap, we are off, the horse's blinders keeping her docile but her hooves kicking up a storm of dust on the cobblestones.
In the evening, Grandmama and I take up our needlework by the fire. Each time a carriage passes by, she sits a bit straighter. At last I realize she is listening for our own carriage, for Father's return from his club. Father has been spending a great deal of time there, especially in the evenings. Some nights I hear him coming home just before sunrise.
Tonight it is particularly hard for Grandmama to bear. Father left in a terrible temper, accusing Mrs. Jones of losing his gloves, practically tearing the library apart looking for them before Grandmama discovered them in his coat pocket. They'd been there the entire time. He left without so much as an apology.
"I'm sure he'll be home soon," I say, when another carriage clip-clops past our house.
"Yes. Yes, quite right," she says absently. "I'm sure he's simply forgotten the time. He does so enjoy being among people, doesn't he?"
"Yes," I say, surprised that she cares so much about her son. Knowing this makes it harder to dislike her.
"He loves you more than Tom, you know."
I am so startled I prick my finger. A tiny bubble of blood pushes its way through the flesh at the tip.
"It's true. Oh, he cares for Tom, of course. But sons are a different matter to a man, more a duty than an indulgence. You are his angel. Don't ever break his heart, Gemma. He has weathered too much already. That would finish him."
