“Exactly,” the young woman echoed, her haughtiness firmly in place.
Wren shuffled the deck with expert hands. Flipping the cards in a row on the wooden table, long fingers moving with dexterity.
“Instead.” She laid down a card—the ace of clubs. “She hides them in plain sight. But I shall enlighten you. She plays on your unschooled ignorance of illusions, gentlemen.”
“I hardly think this is—”
Wren flipped another card, staring back, silencing the young woman by revealing the ace of hearts.
“And also on your greed . . .”
And another, the ace of spades.
“Even your hope that you can eventually best her . . .” And the final card, the ace of diamonds. Wren laid it out for all to see. It was timed with a muffled gasp from the men. “But you will never win. As you can see, that kind of luck is quite impossible.”
If another could shuffle the deck with such precision and reveal an entire suit with ease, it cast palpable doubt that the young woman’s magic was anything but artful trickery.
“How’d she do that?” a man cried.
And another, “She’s got magic too!”
“Magic? No, sir.” Wren drank in a deep breath, then flipped another card. “I’d never claim that.”
Another ace of spades.
And then another ace of clubs. Then hearts. And finally, diamonds.
“But I will tell you that you’ve been tricked. Every single one of you. She’s had extra cards all along. It’s much easier to find the card she wants when they’re already stacked against you.”
Tempers flared at once as they realized the deck had been stacked with multiples of the same cards, and the men stepped forward—ale and anger emboldening them.
Wren stepped in front of the young woman, who actually stood up with her, realizing the men’s threats had quickly turned murderous.
“Just a moment, gentlemen. You’ll get everything that’s owed to you.” She glanced over her shoulder, connecting with the defiant green eyes of the woman standing behind her. “Yes?”
The young woman hesitated only seconds, then nodded. She watched, keenly and with a tense jaw, as the men swept up the bounty she’d collected. Some cheered, falling their way back to the bar for another pint. Others grumbled, stuffing their goods in their pockets. And the last one, a man with teeth still grinding behind his beard, glared daggers at the young woman as he swiped a folded paper from the tabletop and shuffled away.
The woman hurried to sweep up the few things she had with her: a leather satchel worn at the edges, a tatty wool cape, and a few coins that had been left on the table. She sifted through the handful to see what was there, then tossed a button out of the mix.
“Well, you got your way, whatever it was. So leave me be,” she bit out in Wren’s direction, attention fixed on her palm.
A small glass bottle, stoppered with a cork, dropped from her bag and rolled across the floor. Wren stooped to retrieve it.
“It’s an odd thing to carry.” She handed the bottle back, noticing when the young woman went to put it away, she had a trove of others tucked in her satchel.
“It’s not odd. My mother was a healer. Herbs and plants.” She shrugged, as if it were the most commonplace trait to find in a pub. “She taught me.”
“A healer?” Wren tipped her head to the side, something striking a familiar chord about her. Her mind kept working to place her. “Where? In London, perhaps?”
“And other places. She was a singer with a traveling show.”
“But you’re not English.”
The young woman looked up, fire in her eyes.
“My mother was from the islands, or can’t you tell with those sharp eyes of yours? All I know is that haul could have fed me for a month. Now I’ll have to start all over in a different pub—preferably one that’s far away from you.”
“I feel certain we’ve met somewhere before.”
She shook her head. “I’ve never seen you before in my life, London or any other place. Wish I hadn’t seen you now. I’d have remembered if I met another girl who was as good with cards as I am.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Who do you think you’re fooling with a getup like that? You’re no young man. You’d have already been conscripted to some trench in France if you were. Or at the very least, signing your morals up for service in the Women’s Auxiliary Army Corps.”
Touché.
Wren allowed a slight smile without meaning to. “I suppose we’re both found out then.”
“Not with those fools at the bar. They’re no real judge of ability. You saw how I was doing.”
“But you claimed the use of magic and I’m sorry, but it just wasn’t true. I had to say something.”
“Who are you, the pope?” she demanded, lip curled. “The magic police? It’s not a crime to survive, you know. With bombs blowing the world apart at our front and back, who knows when another supply ship will come in? I just lost the first meat I’ve seen in two months’ time, thanks to you and your scruples. And I’m still without a way out of this blessed port, which means I have more work to do before I find a pillow to rest my head for another two days at least. Now, if you’ll let me pass.” She shoved by, heading for the door.
Wren had a sinking feeling in her gut because the young woman was right.
The streets of Piccadilly may have been a learning ground for her, but Wren always had a home to return to. The streets were cruel when they wanted to be; merely about survival for some. No matter if the young woman had used trickery or not, Wren’s quest for truth had swiped provision from her, and she couldn’t leave her with next to nothing now.
“Would you claim the use of magic if you didn’t have to?”
The young woman turned. “What?”
“Do you claim magic because you want to or because you have to in order to survive?”
“There’s a difference? I’ll starve either way.”
“Not if you don’t want to.” Wren pulled the piece of paper from the inside pocket of her coat. “Tomorrow morning. That’s when another merchant ship is expected.”
“And just how do you know that? Crystal ball?” the young woman snapped and her eyes drifted to the paper Wren held out.
“A business associate of my uncle’s owns a shipping company, and he’s bringing in supplies for the troops. This will secure you passage on his boat, leaving from the White Star Dock tomorrow morning. If you’re set up with the proper paperwork to travel to America, then this is your ticket out of here.”
She stared back at Wren. “Why would you help me?”
“Because I shouldn’t have pushed in. Not in that way. It felt like the right thing to do at the time, but I see better of it now. I offer this as reparation for what you lost.”
She took the paper from Wren’s hand, examining it.
“Don’t you need it?” She looked up. “How will you sail?”
Wren took another paper from her pocket. “That one was for my uncle. He’s recently passed, so I’m bound for America on my own, and a job, eventually. It will just go to waste unless you take it.” Wren pushed the ticket into the young woman’s hand. “Please. With my apologies.”
She folded the ticket, keeping a keen eye on Wren as she slipped it in an inner pocket of her mandarin-collar coat. “I go by Irina.”
The measure of familiarity in the exchange of names took Wren by surprise. “Wren.”
“Wren. A scavenger bird that takes flight with others’ goods. That’s rather Machiavellian, isn’t it?”
She shrugged, the comment not even scratching the surface of her skin. It did tell her that despite appearances, the young con artist was smart and had absorbed cultured speech somewhere along the way. That combination was curious. “No more than your profession.”
Irina looked to a back corner of the pub and nodded to an empty table by the fireplace. “Well, Wren. What do you say to a bowl of their watered-down stew and a cider before they run out? Perhap
s you can tell me about this job. If it’s anything like the skills you just showed off, I think I’d like to hear about it—whether magic is involved or not.”
“Remember what I said,” Elliot whispered in Wren’s ear as they exited the downtown Bureau’s second-floor elevator. “I’m putting you in my office—the room next to Amberley’s. It’s got one window. There’s a lever at the bottom and it’s not locked, just in case.”
“Just in case what? I need to shimmy down a drainpipe from the second floor?” She frowned. “Honestly. At least I know how to maneuver my way out of a proper fix. I’ve done it before. I suppose I can manage it again today.”
“As much as I’d love to see the ever-composed Wren Lockhart make one of her quick escapes, I hope it doesn’t come to that. I think your shoulder needs rest, and hanging from a second-story ledge isn’t the best way to accomplish it. Nevertheless, the window’s there. I always like to plan two steps ahead.”
“I understand.” She nodded as he walked her through the office.
Usually she could feel the eyes of every passerby burning through her. She wasn’t inconspicuous by any means. But the office was so busy, it seemed the one time Wren could waltz through a crowd and not have whispers follow her the entire way. Elliot escorted her past smoky offices and rows of occupied desks, ringing telephones and the punching of typewriter keys generating a steady click-clack hum in the background.
“Just try to ignore them,” he added, reading her thoughts. “It is a weekend, but they’re still too busy to notice us anyway.”
“It’s been quite a long time since I’ve cared whether I receive stares or not. That worry died a long time ago.” She willed defiance to triumph with each step she took through the precinct.
“And I can guess what you’re thinking,” he said, a laugh just hidden in his voice. “That you’d like to wring Amberley Dover’s pretty little neck for ensnaring you in the middle of all of this. But we need her alive. And our conversation from earlier, about the fact that she’s rumored to be a murderess? We’ll continue that later. Just please don’t make me sorry for going along with this.”
“You won’t be. I’ve known Amberley for a long time, and there’ve been sparks of friction between us from the start. But I know what we need, and no matter what, I’ll work to get it.”
He opened the door to his office and flipped the light switch on the wall. She stepped in front of him, looking around.
“Do me one favor, Wren?”
She turned, finding him hovering in the doorway. The intensity in Elliot’s eyes softened, and he lowered his voice to a whisper. “Don’t open this door unless you’re absolutely sure it’s me on the other side, okay?”
“I won’t.”
He gave her a quick nod to show his confidence, then clicked the door closed behind him. Wren heard the key turn and click in the lock, and all at once, she was alone.
A quick look around told her what she already knew: Elliot was meticulous, detailed, and heavily invested in his work. There was nothing personal about. No family photographs. Not even a coffee mug or potted plant on the windowsill. Just a small desk lamp with a frosted glass teardrop shade, a jar of sharpened pencils and a Remington typewriter tucked away in a back corner, and endless stacks of papers, files, and books that created a sense of neat and proper organization around the small room.
More stacks of papers seemed to occupy every inch of the desktop.
Volumes of law books lined the bookshelves in neat rows. On a wall opposite the desk, case photographs and hand-written notes were pinned about like a haberdashery paper mosaic. A glance told Wren it wasn’t the Stapleton case, however. She suspected that was because, for his own reasons, Elliot wanted to keep it private. The files they’d looked over in her dining room must have stayed in the leather briefcase he kept with him.
Wren shook out of her momentary distraction and went to work, remembering what she had to do. She unhooked the cuff link from her left wrist and pulled the metal pick from its hiding place in her sleeve.
With a bum shoulder and her senses on high alert, it took her a bit longer to unlock the handcuffs, even though Elliot had thankfully left them a bit loose at the wrists. But she was soon free, rubbing at the skin where the memory of cold metal lingered.
Wren moved to the inner door, pausing to hold her ear against the panel of wood separating the two rooms.
Nothing.
If Amberley was in there, she was alone. Alone and quiet.
It took Wren only a few seconds to pick the lock—what a relief to find it was old and gave quite easily. She slipped into the adjoining room, then eased the door closed behind her. Amberley’s gaze darted to the door the second Wren had stepped through, a look of instant irritation flaming through her rouged cheeks.
For all of Amberley’s airs about dressing for every occasion, Wren had to do a double take when she saw the society queen positioned at the table in the center of the room.
Her hair was mussed out of her usually sculpted waves, several strands having fallen down to graze the fox-trimmed coat of orange paisley draped across her shoulders. It had been pulled over a deep purple-and-black beaded dress in a clash of luxurious fabrics, giving her the appearance of a confused socialite who’d dressed for two different parties. A rolled paper cigarette hardened the look, a trail of smoke spiraling up as she exhaled, then fanned away the smoke with her manicured fingertips.
“I should have known,” Amberley scoffed, her lips pressed in a haughty smile.
Wren stepped forward, undeterred.
“When that ferret of an agent—Shenanigans or something—showed up at my door and went on about taking me downtown for spiked punch at my party, I should have known it would be for something like this.”
“I’m surprised I’m standing here too,” Wren whispered, crossing the room to slip into the chair across from her. “The least you could do is keep your voice down. You’re supposed to be in here alone.”
She scanned the layout of the room.
It was a noticeably larger space than the one in which Wren had been put, and their voices would carry if too loud. A light fixture hung overhead, but it let off so little light that it made the room feel cold and the figure of Amberley Dover lonely in it.
Wren glanced over her shoulder to the door leading to the hall, the movement of shadows through the pebbled glass passing in waves every few seconds. The inability to see through it made her uneasy.
“Expecting the boogeyman to join us?”
“I wouldn’t be so lukewarm about this if I were in your shoes.”
“We’ll see how lukewarm I am when I have those agents hauled into court. My lawyers will have a free-for-all with this. I’ll sue the federal government for every cent. And then some. I had an afternoon tea scheduled with the mayor’s wife—one I couldn’t get out of. You know that little twerp dared to put cuffs on me, with her sitting right in my parlor? I’ll start with him and then move on up every ladder from there.”
“The agent you’re referring to won’t let anyone come in. The way I heard it, hauling you downtown was a courtesy Agent Finnegan offered for your own protection. And the fact Agent Matthews let me find my way into this very room should tell you they’re on your side. You might think of holding your tongue from now on and show some gratitude that they’re willing to protect you.”
Amberley set her jaw, staring across the table as if she could look straight through Wren to the wall behind. She scoffed. “Protect me from what?”
Wren leaned in, looking Amberley dead in the eyes. “From bullets whizzing by your head. At least, that’s what I had to dodge on the way home from your party last night.”
An unmistakable ripple of surprise swept over Amberley’s face, lightening the hardened edges that had been there.
“You mean to tell me that wasn’t you who arranged it?”
“I don’t like you, Wren. That’s no secret. But there’s something I don’t like even more, and that’s getting my
hands dirty. Murder is most decidedly dirty business.”
“There’s been more than one rumor about your experience with it before.”
Amberley straightened her shoulders. “And just like their opinion of you, the public will believe whatever they want to believe, won’t they? Regardless of whether it’s true. I could tell you that I had nothing to do with Al’s death, but what good would it do? You’ve obviously made up your mind. You made up your mind about me from the moment you waltzed into my auditorium. And you’ve been an iron thorn in my side since. Someone else’s too, I’d say, if they tried to shoot you down.”
Instinct told Wren that Amberley wasn’t the one pulling a hit man’s strings. In truth, she looked a bit wild in the eyes. Wild, caged, and scared in the interrogation room.
That kind of honest she couldn’t hope to hide.
“I hope I’m not sorry for it later, but I actually believe you about last night. And so do the agents who brought me here.”
“And about Al?”
Wren shook her head. “They don’t know about him or your past relationship—at least not the details. That’s your story to tell. But the agents want to see if you’re ready to talk about Stapleton, though heaven knows why I’m sticking my neck out this far to even ask you.”
“Is that why they hauled me in here? To turn me into an FBI snitch? I’m smarter than that.” She flicked her gaze down, tapping cigarette ash into a glass ashtray on the table. She met Wren’s eyes again, though she looked wary, as if her ability to hold an air of superiority in place was crumbling.
Wren leveled her glare at Amberley.
“These FBI agents know you’re smart—or at least, you were, before you thought it a wise idea to pack your car and run. By my estimation, you’re pretty sure to have half of Boston’s underworld chasing you before the night’s over.”
Amberley shrugged with a delicate tip of the shoulders, then fluffed the fox-trim of her coat against her collarbone.
“Well. Everyone knows a lady never goes anywhere without her best hat.”
Wren leaned in, elbows to the table.
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