They deserved to know. Her throat closed up. What would she say? There was no way to soften the blow. It would be devastating. She was a grown woman, and seeing Éléonore’s body burning had torn a hole in her life that fil ed with grief, guilt, and anger. They were children who had known Éléonore al of their lives. She was the safe haven of their childhood, the one person besides their sister who loved them no matter what and would never abandon them. She made their world safer, and now that il usion of safety would be ripped away. Charlotte swal owed. She had to find the right words somehow.
It occurred to her that George sat in filth on a street. “Why is George dressed as a beggar? I thought the Camarine family had adopted the boys?”
“He and his brother work for the Mirror.”
They’re spies? Wait a minute.
“Richard, George’s only sixteen. Jack should be fourteen.”
He took a second to glance at her.
“Yes?”
“Aren’t they too young? They’re barely in their teens.”
“Some children are less childlike than we like to pretend,” he said. “At George’s age, I had kil ed two people and watched my father’s head explode as he was shot dead in a market. What were you doing at sixteen, Charlotte?”
The long field fil ed with moaning people surfaced from her memory. The coppery scent of blood, mixed with the toxic stench of warped magic, and the smel of smoke rising from the town a few fields away.
“At sixteen I was healing the victims of the Green Val ey Massacre.”
“And George is being inconspicuous to—”
A boy shot into the al ey ahead, slid on garbage, caught himself, and dashed toward them. Reddish brown hair, cropped short, handsome face, dark eyes, completely wild with excitement. She’d seen this boy before in a photograph . . .
Jack!
“Run!” Jack yel ed. “Run! Go,
George!”
Behind him a mob of enraged people spil ed into the al ey, brandishing knives and clubs.
The beggar-George jumped to his feet.
“What did you do?”
“There he is!” the man at the head of the mob roared. A rock whistled past their heads, ricocheting from the side of the building.
“Run!” Jack yel ed.
Blue lightning shot out of the crowd—
someone had flashed. Oh no.
Jack jumped six feet in the air, avoiding the glowing ribbon of magic by a hair, bounced off the wal , and sprinted straight at them.
“Hi, Richard, hi, pretty lady!” Jack dashed past them.
Richard grabbed her hand. ‘We have to go!”
They broke into run and chased after Jack, running fast on the cobbled stones.
George swore and tossed something over their heads at the crowd. A dry pop burst behind them. Charlotte glanced over her shoulder. A plume of dense white smoke fil ed the al ey. People coughed.
The blue-glowing whip of someone’s flash struck out of the smoke, licking the cobbles. Someone in this mob was throwing magic around blind. This city was insane.
They cleared the courtyard and the narrow al ey, burst out onto the boardwalk, and pounded down the street.
The entrance to Jason’s hideout flew by.
The air grew hot in Charlotte’s lungs.
A smal wooden dock rose on their left. “Go right!” Richard yel ed, too loud, and leaped off the boardwalk into the dark water, pul ing her in with him.
The tepid water swal owed her. Charlotte gulped a mouthful of salty liquid and nearly choked.
Gods alone knew what sort of
contamination was in that water.
Charlotte kicked her feet and surfaced, spitting the water out. Richard pul ed her under the dock, just as two other bodies hit the water a foot away.
A moment, and George and Jack broke the surface next to them. The four of them huddled under the dock, their backs against the canal wal , among dirty foam and garbage.
The mob spil ed onto the boardwalk.
Charlotte held her breath.
“They went right!” someone yel ed.
“To the Reed Al ey!”
Boots pounded above them, shaking drops of water from the dock’s boards onto them.
The filthy wet creature that was George raised his hand, gave his brother a death stare, and drew his thumb across his neck. Jack grinned.
A dead fish floated up from the depths right next to Charlotte. Ew. She pushed it gently aside with her fingers.
The last of the stragglers ran past, the noise of the mob retreating. Richard waded to the left, walking along the canal wal at a brisk pace. She waited to make sure the kids fol owed and went after him.
Fifteen minutes and two canals later, they climbed out onto the boardwalk. Jack shook himself. Filthy water ran from George’s rags in dirty streams.
His hair dripped. He stared at his brother, his face grim. If stares had temperature, Jack would’ve turned into a burned-out match.