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  “You need the undines to bring it to the surface, and you want me to convince them,” Christopher interrupted.

  Keeling chuckled. “Straight to the point, just like your daddy.”

  “Where did it fall?”

  “Into the Thames off Blackfriars, well beyond the low tide mark.”

  Christopher raised his head to stare at the man as if he’d gone mad. “You can’t possibly be serious?”

  “Deadly serious.”

  “The undines don’t enter London waters. They haven’t for well over a century.”

  “No, they don’t,” Keeling agreed. “Not since fair Prince Henry died from the typhoid fever he caught sportin’ with them in the Thames in 1612. But it’s no bootless errand, this. If the cunning man were flash and beautiful, and as beloved of the watery ones now as he was when he was a child, and if he were to start in a particular spot upriver where they’ve been known to frequent, and was to draw them down to Blackfriars with him swimmin’ in their midst, and them wrapped in his shields with him, it could be done.”

  “Westminster Bridge is the closest they ever frequent,” Christopher shot back. “And any cunning man witless enough to try and swim to Blackfriars would sicken before he’d gone a hundred yards. A school of undines couldn’t keep him healthy in that filthy cesspool, no matter how beloved he might be.”

  Or how beloved he might have been, his mind added bitterly.

  “Oh, there’s ways to stay safe in any waters,” Keeling replied with a sly smile. “Ancient ways.”

  Christopher’s eyes narrowed. “You mean magical ways.”

  Keeling shrugged. “All it takes is a simple charm, one that even Prince Henry might have worn if he’d stopped to think of it.”

  “A charm won’t protect the undines.”

  “No, but you can. I’ve seen you do it as a babe before you even knew you could do it. On the Madras docks you sent out a shield like a little tube and drew them right up to you through it, laughin’ the whole time.”

  He straightened as Cedric appeared, a ring of keys in his hand. “O’ course, if you’re happy lickin’ your half-brother’s boots for sixpence a week, I can’t help you. But I’d like to help you. When a man’s carried a little fellow on his shoulder, he gets to thinkin’ of hisself as a kind of godfather. But you ponder on it, now, Master Kit,” he added as the constable released him. “And if you change your mind, have the boy here get a message to me.”

  Angry words first growled, then shouted. A door slamming on home and family. An unbidden memory swimming before his eyes as he stormed across Queen Square, the memory of Uncle Neville and his father standing on the Madras docks together, deep in whispered conversation while another man lifted him high onto his shoulder. A sense of urgency spurned on by the scent of magic and a knot of grief and anger . . .

  You’ll never make it. One mouthful, and you’ll sicken, whatever Keeling thinks his charm might do, his mind jeered. You’ll sicken, and then you’ll drown. The undines won’t come. They won’t help. Just like they didn’t help Father.

  They might. Even he could hear the plaintive note, and it made him bare his teeth in anger.

  They won’t!

  But they might. And if they did, wouldn’t that be worth it? Wouldn’t it?

  . . . Yes.

  “Wait.”

  • • •

  The air was chill as Keeling led him through the narrow Southwark streets, and Christopher wondered, not for the first time that morning, if he’d made the right decision. He’d frequented many of the borough’s dockside stews, but this area was deep within the maze of twisting alleyways and closes, and he doubted he’d be able to find his way out again if the other man decided to abandon him here.

  His pace slowed, and Keeling glanced over with a sly smile. “Not nervous, are you, lad?” he asked in an innocent voice.

  Christopher frowned at him. “Should I be?”

  “Not at all, a big, strong fellow like you. Ah, here we are.”

  The street opened up to reveal a dilapidated house with peeling paint and yellowing plaster. It might have been splendid once, two or three centuries before, but now it had a deserted air that hinted of dark secrets and danger. Keeling took him around the back to where a man in a shapeless black hat pulled low over his eyes loitered by a locked garden gate. Keeling gestured impatiently, and the man passed an insolent gaze over them both before pulling a key from his pocket. As the gate opened, Keeling waved Christopher forward. With a certain amount of trepidation, he passed through.

  Powerful spells tingled across his body, triggering a deluge of memories: a door slamming on home and family, a tavern full of angry men shouting, blows, Keeling pulling him from the fray and the high-pitched shriek of police whistles . . .

  When he came back to himself, he stood in a surprisingly well-maintained garden dotted with rose bowers and ivy-covered alcoves. A marble fountain splashed in the center, and Christopher averted his gaze as Keeling lead him down a crushed-stone path to a cane gazebo at the bottom of the garden.

  The man waiting inside was the most extraordinary-looking person Christopher had ever seen. Although of average height and dress, he had piercing gray eyes that almost glowed with power, and eyebrows so sparse and pale, it was as if he had none at all. Christopher gave the two men flanking him no more than a single dismissive glance as Keeling sidled up to the man respectfully.

  “Kit Walcot, sir,” he said. “Kit, this here is Mister Hart.”

  The man thrust out a hand, and Christopher accepted it stiffly, trying not to react as a spell shot up his arm and across his temple. He knew a moment’s disorientation as another spat of angry memories flowed over him before Hart released his grip and turned to the man at his right as if nothing had just transpired.

  “A pint o’ purl all ’round, Georgie.”

  One of the men peeled off, disappearing into the house, and Hart looked Christopher up and down with an appraising eye. “Henry here tells me you’re a dab hand with the water ways,” he said bluntly.

  Relying on his upper-class education to get past the sudden, fearful churning in his stomach, Christopher inclined his head.

  “He also says you’re a bottle cove that falls to fighting when he’s in his attitude,” Hart continued, watching him closely. “And he’s not the only one I’ve heard that from. Now I need a dab hand, and I’m prepared to pay if the hand is prepared to do as he’s told, but only if he stays off the bottle while he’s doin’ it. If that’s going to be a problem for you, the gate’s back the way you came.”

  Georgie returned with a wooden tray of tankards, and Christopher accepted his before giving Hart a pointed look. “The bottle doesn’t rule me except when it pleases me to allow it,” he answered, taking a measured drink before handing the tankard to Keeling. “Henry tells me you need an item recovered from the Thames. I told him it couldn’t be done.”

  Hart’s eyes narrowed. “Did you now? So why are you here, then?”

  Why was he here? Was it really just because he missed the undines so much it felt as if he’d had a hole torn through his chest? Ignoring the suddenly overloud sound of splashing from the garden’s fountain, Christopher made himself shrug. “I have a few gambling debts,” he said, playing the feckless gentleman card. “And because, if it can be done at all,” he added, “I can do it.”

  “And if you can’t?” Hart pressed.

  If you can’t? If they won’t?

  “If I can’t, then I’ll drown, and you won’t have to pay me.”

  Hart snorted. “Fair enough.” He drained his own tankard. “To business, then. The item I need fetchin’ up’s housed in a small, leaden box about yea big.” His hands traced out a space five inches square. “Weighs no more’n a pound or two. You go in just north of Westminster Bridge, call the water folk to you, an’ take ’em to Blackfriars. Two of my men’ll
be followin’ along the bank, with Henry here to keep things honest on both sides. You have the water folk draw up the box, you pass it to my men, they pay you, and we go our separate ways.”

  Something in his voice caused the hair on the back of Christopher’s neck to rise, but he kept his expression even. “And the payment is . . . ?” he asked.

  “Forty shillings.”

  “Agreed. When do we set out?”

  “Directly.”

  • • •

  Keeling’s particular spot upriver turned out to be a secluded pool carved from the north bank, just past Westminster Bridge. Sheltered by a stand of willow trees, their long, graceful limbs trailing in the water, the pool would be teeming with salmon fry and undines come summer, but today the gray water slapped against the rocks, empty and uninviting. Christopher stared into the depths for a long time, feeling the strange sense of magic and urgency growing with each passing moment, before abruptly pulling off his coat. It had been a long time since he’d needed to build shields against cold water. Nine years, his mind supplied accusingly, since you needed to build anything at all. Are you sure you even remember how?

  Shut up.

  Closing his eyes, he reached out, not for the vast currents of energy surging past him in the Thames, but for the thin rivulets of power that trickled into the pool at his feet. Trailing his thoughts in their midst like he might trail his fingers in their physical counterparts, he scooped up small handfuls of energy, flicking the sparkling droplets of green and blue power around him as he’d done when he was young, before—

  He brushed the resurge of memories away with a shake of his head. As he’d done when he was young, as his father had taught—

  Again he brushed the memories aside, concentrating on the shields, only on the shields. When he had enough layers swirling around him so that he felt more or less secured against the frigid river waters, he gestured to Keeling, who stepped forward.

  “This here’s a Fire charm,” the older man said almost apologetically, “but it should burn up most diseases you may come across if your own magic don’t fight it.”

  “Most?”

  “Everythin’ has its limits, so best not dawdle about, yeah?” Doing up the chain’s clasp on the back, Keeling leaned in close. “You’ve been estranged from the little ones for far too long, lad,” he whispered so quietly that Christopher could barely hear him. “You’re gonna need ’em now, so don’t let pain and pride get in the way. Don’t force ’em, don’t question ’em, just call to ’em. They’ll come to you, ’cause all they’ve ever wanted to do was just be with you.” He squeezed Christopher’s shoulder. “Just like all them years ago in Madras, eh?”

  He moved off quickly, joining Hart’s two men farther up the bank. “Off you go, colt,” he shouted, his voice slightly jeering now. “Earn your pay.”

  With a deep breath to still the sudden overloud pounding of his heart, Christopher stepped into the pool.

  It had been nine years since he’d summoned the undines to him for any reason other than accusatory interrogation, nine years since they’d sent sprays of rainbow-colored water at him from the fountains at Eton, nine years since they’d danced for him at Queen Square, nine long years.

  They won’t come.

  They will come. His father’s voice took him by surprise, and he almost stumbled, throwing his hand out to hit the water in a spray of cold gray droplets as his shields faltered.

  “How?”

  The word skipped across the surface of the water, evoking no answer but the call of ravens on the bank. Shaking himself firmly, Christopher gathered the remnants of his shields about him once again and stepped deliberately out into the Thames.

  The cold hit him like a knife thrust, causing him to gasp out loud as the current immediately tried to jerk him into deeper water. His outermost shield shredded under the onslaught, the next shuddered . . .

  Concentrate, boy! You were trained better than this!

  His father’s voice again, dark with disapproval. Struggling against the current, Christopher fought to plant his power as he planted his feet. He steadied, took a deep breath, rebuilt his shields, reached out, and called.

  For a long time there was no answer save the roaring of the river, and then, slowly, he felt them, a school of silvery undines speeding up the Thames. He opened his mind and his arms to them, and as they swept him up in their embrace, nine years of hurt and recriminations melted away. He stood there for what seemed like forever, drinking in their presence. Then, drawing them into his shields with him as if it was the most natural thing in the world, he turned and plunged into the river proper.

  The swim to Blackfriars was the longest he’d ever made. Despite his shields, the water was bitterly cold, the current powerful, and the waves unpredictable, threatening to overwhelm him at every stroke, his untrained talent no true match for them. The undines did what they could to send him strength, but as he drew closer to London and the waters grew increasingly dark and fetid, they fell back, one by one, until only four of the largest of them were able to stay by him, growing more and more agitated moment by moment. Tiny hands caught at his arms and legs, trying to draw him to the safety of the bank, but he swam on, and they swam with him, keening their distress. His head began to throb, the cold leaching in through a dozen rents in his shields as his focus began to slip, then deserted him entirely.

  He went under.

  Christopher!

  His father’s voice, strong, commanding, and impossible to ignore, sounded in his ears.

  Christopher! To the undines! Now!

  His eyes snapped open to see the delicate creatures writhing in the murky waters beside him. With a surge of will, he threw a shield around them like a net and dragged them to the surface. Then all he could do was swim.

  By the time he fetched up against the dock at Blackfriars, he was fading in and out of consciousness, his only thought to maintain the shield around the undines who clung desperately to his face and neck. But there was still Hart’s box to retrieve, so scrabbling at the wooden pier made slippery by years of rot and excrement, he blinked rapidly to try to clear his mind before sending out a shaky tendril of power into deeper water. He found it just within reach. Before he could lose it again in the shifting tide, he threw a pulse of power into the tendril to strengthen it.

  “On the Madras docks you sent out a shield like a little tube and drew them right up to you through it, laughin’ the whole time.”

  “Wul, les hope laughin’s . . . not . . . impor . . . ant,” he slurred. Trusting to instinct to do the job properly, he formed the tendril into a tube of clean, clear water, then made his request to the undines as best he could through chattering teeth and a heavy, encroaching darkness. He had to repeat himself twice to be understood, and finally it was only the promise that he would leave the river that convinced them, but eventually the two largest turned and plunged down the tube.

  “Just a little while longer now, Christopher. Can you hold on a little while longer?”

  “Yes, Papa.”

  “Good boy.”

  Time flowed past on a tide of resurging memories: the vague, fuzzy recollections of his first year in India, his mother lighting candles with a flick of her wrist, his father standing tall and proud in a host of red-jacketed men, danger, fire, then England, a new land, a new family, safety. His father’s death looming like a storm on the horizon, heavy with loss and confusion, and he turned away, only to see Uncle Neville standing in his brother’s parlor, his face a mask of grief. His lips moved, and Christopher strained to hear his words, yet the now familiar magic rose up to block him—his own magic, he suddenly realized, cast to hide a plan hatched by the children of Robert Clive. A plan to catch the man who’d ordered their father murdered for a magical artifact in a small leaden box three days ago . . .

  Three days . . . ago . . .

  “Kit!”


  Three days . . .

  “Kit, boy, answer me!”

  Shaking the memory away, he stared up at Henry Keeling, crouched on the dock above him.

  “Do you have it?” the older man shouted. “The box?”

  He blinked, and saw it clutched in his hands just below the surface of the water. “Y . . . yes.”

  “Then here, take my hand and I’ll pull you up!”

  He looked down to see the four undines who’d made the journey with him all the way from Westminster Bridge, lying half in and half out of his ragged shield, their eyes glassy, their delicate features unresponsive. He shook his head.

  “N . . . no,” he rasped. “Undines . . . can’t leave them . . . Must . . . take them back.”

  “S’all right, lad! It’s raining fit to drown a man up here! They’ll be fine once we get you all out of there!”

  “Oh . . . all right . . . then . . .”

  Strong arms pulled him from the water. His last sensations were of the undines’ tiny fingers tangled in his hair and the high-pitched shriek of police whistles as the rain washed the Thames from his body.

  • • •

  The London Chronicle, March 6, 1783

  On Wednesday night about nine o’clock, three men were taken into custody by the Bow Street Runners on charges of theft and murder in connection with the attack on the East India Company Ship Woodford.

  • • •

  His rooms in Queen Square were bright and airy and smelled of sandalwood and lavender. When he awoke, Christopher lay in bed for some time, enjoying the feel of clean sheets and the sound of birds singing outside his window, before finally opening his eyes. The man sitting by the bed and reading a book looked up with a smile.

  “All right, Kit?” he asked, his voice warm with love.

  Christopher smiled weakly in return. “As right as I’ll ever be, Teddy,” he answered, striving to allow the relief he felt to color his voice. “Did we get him?”

  “We got him. Keeling arrested his men on the dock, and they gave Hart up at once. He’s in Newgate as we speak. He’ll hang for certain.”