“Who the ’ell is ’e going to send, anyway?” Dead Rick muttered, after they’d retreated to a safe distance. The Onyx Guard, the closest thing Lune had ever had to an army, was down to three knights: Peregrin, Cerenel, and Segraine. Irrith could shoot, and so could Bonecruncher; Niklas von das Ticken could, too, if dragged out of the Academy. Dead Rick himself would fight. Perhaps a few others, especially if Hodge offered something valuable in return. But Nadrett had a great deal more than half a dozen bullies working for him, and the means to hire more, too.
“You have magic—” Eliza said.
Dead Rick snorted. “And so does ’e. It’s Nadrett’s territory, too, so ’e’ll ’ave prepared it. If we ’ad enough bodies to throw at it, I’d say damn the charms, we can just storm the place. But we’ve got ’alf a dozen people and a Prince who would fall over if you blew on ’im too ’ard.”
In her eyes, he saw the same frustrated desperation that burned in his own heart. They were this close; it simply wasn’t conceivable that they could admit defeat now. “There has to be a way,” Eliza said.
The skriker closed his eyes in thought. He’d never been a general, not even before his memories were taken—but he did know a thing or two about fighting dirty. The weak point was the windows: too high to be used for invasion, too small to let people through at speed. Which do you want more? Answers, or revenge? He knew which one Eliza would say. “Give up on finding out what ’e’s doing in there, and chuck dynamite in through the top. Blow Nadrett straight to ’ell.”
The resulting silence gave him time to regret his words. The salvation of the Onyx Hall might lie inside that building; could he really sacrifice it, just to make amends? You don’t know ’e really ’as anything, Dead Rick thought, and knew it was a justification. And a thin one at that.
Eliza whispered, “Dynamite.”
Owen yelped, and Dead Rick’s eyes flew open. “There might be people in there—” the boy protested, far too loudly.
She threw her hands up, stopping his appalled protest. “No, not blowing it up! Jesus, Mary, and Joseph; I would never hurt innocents. And there might be something in it the fae need. But Dead Rick—you said that if you had enough people, you could storm it. Was that true?”
“Where the bleeding ’ell do you think you’re going to get an army?” he asked in disbelief.
Eliza drew in a careful breath, looking as if she was questioning her own sanity. “From the Special Irish Branch.”
Scotland Yard, Westminster: August 27, 1884
No one clapped Eliza in chains when she walked into the offices of Scotland Yard. She felt foolish for expecting it; she was, after all, just a poor woman from Whitechapel, not some famous murderer or highwayman. The number of constables who knew her name, let alone what she looked like, was probably rather small. But she was walking into the lion’s den, and she could not help but be afraid.
The man at the front barely even looked up at her. “State your business.”
Eliza licked her dry lips, and had to make a conscious effort not to hide behind an English accent. “I’d like to speak to Sergeant Quinn.”
“Which one?”
They had more than one man of that name and rank? She tried to remember his Christian name. “Patrick Quinn, of the Special Irish Branch.”
The man jerked his thumb at the door she had come through, back out into the road of Great Scotland Yard. “Small building across from the Rising Sun. First floor, off to your left; look for the name. He might not be in, though.”
Eliza hadn’t considered that possibility. What if they tried to make her talk to Chief Inspector Williamson, the man in charge of the branch? She could hardly ask him for help. And if she walked in, she might not walk out again, except in chains.
Dead Rick’s sharp ears must have caught what the man said, or maybe he just smelled her fear, for he rose from his slouch by the door and came to her side. “You can do this,” he murmured in her ear. “Come on.”
He’d promised he would see her safely out, whatever happened. Taking a deep breath, Eliza went in search of Special Branch.
They weren’t hard to find. Repairs still marked the northeastern corner of the building, where the bomb had exploded in May; inside, the words SPECIAL IRISH BRANCH were painted black and gold on the door. It hung slightly ajar. Eliza listened at the gap, but heard nothing, and at last forced herself to knock and put her head in. “Hello?”
The man inside didn’t wear a uniform, any more than Quinn had; Special Branch constables rarely did. Their job wasn’t to patrol the streets and frighten off criminals by their presence; they operated like spies, more effective when not noticed. Eliza wasn’t surprised to hear the Irish tinge to his answer. “Can I help you?”
Edging into the room, with Dead Rick close behind, Eliza said, “We need to speak to Sergeant Quinn. He—he told me to come to him if I had information.”
“And you would be?”
She’d gone back and forth on the question of what name to use. But it was likely all these men knew the aliases she’d gone by before; even calling herself some form of Elizabeth might get their attention. And a totally new name would mean nothing to Quinn. Still, her heart pounded louder as she said, “Eliza O’Malley.”
The man straightened immediately. She spooked, one hand going to the door as if pulling it shut behind her when she fled would do any good, but his manner wasn’t hostile; more like a dog that just heard an interesting sound. He beckoned her farther in. “No, it’s all right—the sergeant will be glad to hear you’ve come. I’m P.C. Maguire. No need to be scared, Miss O’Malley. Quinn’s just down this way; you and your friend just follow me.”
Deeper into the lion’s den. Maguire led them through a large room with several men at work in it, to a smaller office holding four desks. Two were in use, and Quinn almost knocked a stack of papers off his when he sprang to his feet. “Miss O’Malley!”
The head of the other man came up sharply. Was her name so notorious? “Sergeant Quinn. I—I have some information you might want to be hearing.” She glanced at Maguire and the other man. “Can we speak to you alone?”
Quinn frowned slightly, at her and Dead Rick both. She’d gotten the skriker to put on shoes, at least, but he still wore no shirt beneath his stained waistcoat, and generally looked like a ruffian. “If ’tis police business, ye should know, I’ll be sharing it with the others. We can’t do our work, otherwise.”
“’Tis what I told you of before,” Eliza said. Habits of reticence made it hard to say the rest, even though these men certainly knew. “In the workhouse.”
He hadn’t forgotten. Quinn’s eyes widened fractionally, but his tone was perfectly level as he said, “All right. Maguire, Sweeney—let us have the room. And no listening at keyholes, ye mind!”
Dead Rick clearly did not trust it; he listened at the door, then nodded that the men were walking away. Quinn, in the meanwhile, dragged two chairs from the neighboring desks over to his own, and sat facing Eliza, bracing his elbows on his knees. “You gave me a fair surprise, you did, vanishing from the workhouse like that. How did you get Miss Kittering to arrange your release?”