Dust Into Gold: Timewaves, #4

Copyright © 2020 by Sophie Davis Books

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Contents

. Chapter

1. One

2. Two

3. Three

4. Four

5. Five

6. Six

7. Seven

8. Eight

9. Nine

10. Ten

11. Eleven

12. Twelve

13. Thirteen

14. Fourteen

15. Fifteen

16. Sixteen

17. Seventeen

18. Eighteen

19. Nineteen

20. Twenty

21. Twenty-One

22. Twenty-Two

23. Twenty-Three

24. Twenty-Four

25. Twenty-Five

26. Twenty-Six

27. Epilogue

28. Note To The Reader

About Sophie

Also By Sophie Davis

For all the time travelers out there….

One

New Orleans, Louisiana January 1st, 1908…hopefully

On a scale from one to ten, our landing in New Orleans was somewhere around a negative three. The four of us—Molly, Gaige, Charles, and myself—were a pile of bodies, with me on the bottom. As if that weren’t enough, Gaige’s elbow was pressed into my boob, hard.

″Can’t breathe," I wheezed.

″You’re such a whiner," Gaige grunted.

One by one, my teammates rolled off me, until I was left flat on my back, staring up at a beautiful mural on the ceiling. I blinked several times, and the artistic masterpiece was replaced by a large silhouette.

″Ah, blondie. That must mean you’re Stassi," the man said, his dark face splitting into a grin.

He offered me a hand with long, lithe fingers. Charles was by my side in an instant. He swatted the man’s hand away and pulled me to my feet.

″How do you know her name?" he demanded.

″You’re hurt, boy, the man said, nodding toward Charles’ torn shirt. Then he saw the patch covering my thigh. You, too, it seems, Ms. Stassi."

″How do you know her name?" Charles repeated more forcibly.

Gaige had joined him, both flanking my sides like bodyguards earning their keep.

The man wasn’t bothered by Charles’ rudeness, though. He simply reached into the pocket of his brown pants and produced an envelope. My name was printed across the front in typewriter font. He held the envelope out to me.

″We’ve been expecting you."

Dread turned my insides to lead. It was from Cyrus. It had to be. If he’d tried to reach us in 1553 and learned that the alchemists had sealed the vortex, he would have gone to Flamel, who was the only person capable of tracking us through time.

Letting out a long, shaky breath, I took the envelope. Cyrus was pissed, I just knew it. The letter was probably a verbal berating for going off the books and jumping to New Orleans instead of taking our acquisition straight to Branson.

I broke the seal with my fingernail and retrieved the letter inside.

″Holy Mother of Wombats!" I exclaimed.

The single sheet of expensive letterhead fluttered to the ground as I struggled to catch my breath.

″Stass? Molly’s hand was on my shoulder. Is it from Cyrus? Is he about to go all Darian the Dreadful on us and send his army of pincher minions to bite our ankles?"

Charles retrieved the letter and scanned the page. Oh, dear.

I wanted nothing more than to tear that stupid scrap of paper into a million pieces and scatter its carcass in the wind.

″Dude, don’t keep us in suspense, Gaige groaned. What did the boss man write?"

″It’s not from Cyrus," I whispered.

Molly snatched the letter from Charles’ hand and began to read it aloud. Each word was poison to my ears.

My Dearest Stassi,

4585 Bourbon Street. Tell Edward and Richard I say hello.

Best of luck in your quest. Always remember that I am here if you need a guide.

Mitchell T. Baylarian

Muffled applause filled the chilling silence that followed the name of the madman who was supposed to be locked away in a syndicate prison over five hundred years in the future. Had he escaped? Not possible, I decided quickly. There was no way my boss would have allowed that to happen.

Gaige rounded on the man who’d delivered Baylarian’s letter, no trace of his usual mischievous expression visible.

″Who do you work for?" he demanded.

″When did he give you that?" I jabbed a shaky finger toward the letter in my roommate’s pale hands.

The man shifted uneasily from one large foot to the other, as if our reaction was unexpected. It seems there’s a bit of confusion here…, he began.

″When did Baylarian give you the letter?" I snapped, fear and adrenaline making my voice thin and strained.

Another round of applause, this time accompanied by whistles and whoops, sounded in the distance. I glanced around the small room like maybe I’d missed the fact we had an audience. Four velvet-covered walls and one incredibly nervous delivery man stared back at me. It wasn’t the strangest place I had ever landed but close. My tattoo hummed softly, letting me know there was prima in the walls. Still, the odd little room didn’t feel like a vortex. And where were the alchemists? The delivery guy did not have the poker face required to be a member of the ancient organization.

If we aren’t at a customs station, where did we land exactly?

″My boss gave me the letter, Miss Stassi. The man held up his hands to show he meant us no harm. Mr. Carter at the courier service on Canal Street, he added quickly. You can ask him yourself."

Canal Street. That’s in New Orleans, right?

Gaige cracked his knuckles, which would’ve been funny in most any other circumstances. All that boxing with Hemingway was making him think he was a tough guy.

″I was told to be here at this time to deliver the letter to a blonde woman answering to Stassi," the courier continued, his voice breaking on my name like he was a prepubescent teenager.

Because the letter wasn’t enough of a confirmation, those words left no doubt that Baylarian had somehow known exactly when and where the four of us would land when we left London and why we’d come to New Orleans. I had to swallow the urge to vomit. Even we hadn’t known those details for certain. So how did he?

″Where is here, exactly?" Charles asked.

″We need to go. Now," I muttered to no one in particular. I started for the lone door in the room.

″Wait, miss! No!" the courier called after me.

But it was too late. Desperate for fresh air, I had already turned the knob and pushed open the door. I stopped short as a man in pancake makeup and a bad wig narrowly avoided crashing into me.

″Watch it," he snapped without slowing down.

Charles was at my side an instant later, both of us staring out at the heavy red velvet draping stretched from floor to ceiling forty feet in front of us. Thick ropes dangled at either end. Two young men with theatrical makeup hustled past, while a lady clapped her hands and yelled, The end of the third act was a mess!

″You’re at the Toulouse Theater, the courier said from behind me. On Toulouse Street in New Orleans."

Okay. We made it to our intended city. That has to count for something. But when were we?

″What’s today’s date?" Gaige asked, clearly wondering the same thing..

″January 14th, sir."

Okay. Two weeks or so off isn’t that big a deal, I told myself. The year was the important part. The princes had landed in 1908. After that, Tessa could have taken them anywhere or any time.

A woman in a flapper-style dress sauntered by smoking a cigarette and muttering beneath her breath.

I swallowed thickly. Flappers weren’t a thing in 1908.

″What year?" I whispered, my voice so soft that I was surprised anyone aside from Charles heard me.

″The year? the courier replied uneasily. It’s 1920, miss."

″What? I whirled on him. No. That can’t be right." My head started spinning. This run was going from ill-advised to outright stupid very quickly.

What have I done?

We had landed over a decade later than our intended target year, which was alarming for a number of reasons. The only one that mattered to me in that moment was that we were too late to cross paths with Tessa. Even if the princes were still in New Orleans, the runner who’d brought them there was long gone. And she was the one with all the answers.

Charles slipped his fingers through mine and squeezed my hand, providing a warm rush of comfort that I didn’t deserve given my poor judgment.

The woman yelling at the cast finally noticed us and marched over. You, there. What are you doing backstage? she asked, narrowing her eyes. Where did you come from? Why didn’t I know about that room? One hand on her hip, she gestured with the other to the door that was still open. Well? Someone speak.

Not even Cyrus could have rendered the four of us—five counting the courier—speechless so effectively. The woman’s eyes bulged when they zeroed in on Charles’ torn shirt. Her lips parted slightly when she caught sight of the patch job on my thigh. Well, I never, she muttered.

″We need to go. Like, now," Molly said, her voice low and calm. She stepped around the annoyed woman, who reached for Molly’s arm. My roommate’s reflexes were catlike, and she easily dodged the stage manager.

Gaige gently nudged the woman aside and marched to the draping.

″No! she cried in protest. You can’t go out there! Stop!"

Gaige was already swatting at the curtains in a lame attempt to find the center opening. Molly was faster. She parted the drapes and slipped through. Charles and I exchanged a brief glance and then hurried after our friends, leaving the courier to deal with the pissed off stage manager.

Gaige held the curtain open for me. I stepped through and then stopped dead in my tracks. Not anticipating the abrupt halt, Charles ran straight into my back. He wrapped an arm around my waist to keep me from face-planting. It would have been particularly embarrassing, given there were dozens of audience members watching the scene play out centerstage.

A hush fell over the room, and then a spotlight appeared from above. I forgot to breathe until a woman at a table near the front stood and began to clap.

″Encore!" a man cried from the table closest to the stage.

Someone else wolf whistled. Molly raised her hand and waved to the audience like a beauty pageant contestant. More people stood and cheered in response.

Charles grabbed my hand and pulled me to a set of stairs that led down and into the audience. Molly performed a curtsey that would have made any governess in sixteenth century England proud, while Gaige gave a less graceful bow.

″Encore!" more people shouted as I followed Charles through the tables in the crowd.

I looked over my shoulder just in time to see Gaige leap from the stage like the theater was an indoor parkour space. As if his antics were a dare, Molly also bypassed the stairs in favor of a more dramatic exit.

″Are we supposed to follow them?" I heard a woman ask as I hurried past.

″No. I am sure they’ll come back around, a man assured her. They are just doing a bit."

″Oh, I get it. They’re mimes. How quaint."

Charles and I found the exit at the back of the theater and sped into a lobby area with a bar to one side. Windows let in late afternoon sun. I blinked and raised my arm to shield to my eyes.

″Where’s the fire?" a gruff voice called out from behind the bar.

″Keep going." Charles put a hand between my shoulder blades and urged me toward a heavy wooden door.

The air was cool and damp outside the theater, which I could only imagine was normal for January in New Orleans. Details like the weather were typically included in the files that runners received once we were attached to an assignment. No official assignment meant that we had no background on the time period.

What have I done? Jumping to an unauthorized time and place to chase my past wasn’t just foolish, it was outright dangerous.

Air suddenly refused to reach my lungs, and I started to see black spots. A jolt of pain ran down my injured leg. I stumbled and reached for the side of the building for support. Panic overtook the adrenaline. All the reasons that I’d taken the risk seemed ridiculous. What was I doing running off in search of two long lost English princes? It was absurd.

Charles ran his palm up my spine as I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to clear my head. The door to the theater banged open, followed by heavy footfalls on the sidewalk coming toward us.

″How long before they realize we aren’t part of the act and come after us with pitchforks?" Molly asked breathlessly.

″I don’t know, but we should keep moving, Gaige replied. His hand was warm on my shoulder. Come on, Stass. Let’s move."

″Move where? Go where? I exploded, throwing my hands up in the air and spinning to face him. Where is it you think we should go?" All my self-aimed irritation was being redirected at Gaige. I knew I would feel guilty over the outburst later, but my panic was making me irrational.

Gaige’s brown eyes darted around the near-empty street. There was a man sweeping the sidewalk in front of the general store beside Toulouse Theater. He pretended not to notice the four of us standing there arguing, but he was going back and forth over the same strip of cobblestones repeatedly.

″We’ll find a hotel and get a couple of rooms. Once we’re off the streets, we can discuss our next move," Gaige said, pitching his voice low.

″With what money? I shot back. We have no money, Gaige!" My voice was rising, loudly enough to catch his attention.

This obstacle clearly hadn’t occurred to him. And why would it have? Money, like the weather, was not something runners ever worried about. Those were concerns for historians and alchemists.

″We do have Jane’s broach," Charles pointed out, trying to be helpful.

I shook my head. My tone was much softer but still firm. We can’t. That belongs to the client. We’re already going to be on Cyrus’ shit list. I don’t want to make it any worse.

Gaige sighed loudly. What’s your idea then? Because we can’t stay here. Do I need to remind you that Baylarian knows you’re here in New Orleans? He knocked on the outside wall of the theater. At this theater. Right now. He’s probably watching us. Or nearby. We need to get the frack out of here, regardless of where we’re going.

I held up my hand to silence his rant. I get it, okay? Just give me a second. I need to think.

Gaige started to protest again, but a glare from Molly effectively clamped his lips shut. Charles continued to rub my back, but his golden eyes made a circuit of the surrounding areas. Like Gaige, he probably wondered if Baylarian was spying on us.

Think. Only logic and facts. Take out emotion, I told myself. It was one of the very first things I had learned at the runner training academy. That was how we were told to approach runs. Never let emotion dictate action. Always stick to facts. Stick to the mission.

I mentally catalogued the facts we knew, trying to process and plan. Fact: we were in 1920 New Orleans, twelve years after the only time we knew Tessa and the princes had been there. Fact: Baylarian knew when and where we would land. Fact: we were utterly broke and wearing filthy, torn clothes from a different time period. Fact: the four of us were unprepared and ill-equipped. We needed help.

There was really only one option….

″We need to go back to Branson," I said, my voice small and hollow.

My three friends exchanged glances. It was Molly who responded.

″No, Stass. This is where we need to be. Right here, right now. She held up Baylarian’s crumpled letter. If anything, this proves it. Wrapping an arm around my shoulder, she squeezed me in a side hug. We’ll figure this out, okay? We’re resourceful."

″We’re already here, Gaige added. If we go home, there’s no way Cyrus is letting us come back. Might as well cause as much damage as possible before the boss man shows up."

My gaze found Charles’. His small smile warmed my numb insides. We’ve come this far. Let’s see it through until the end.

″Exactly. Molly gave me another squeeze. We’ve been up against harder odds. We did just escape a British army and Holton’s attempts to make us his patsies for the whole coup against Jane."

″You and Molls broke me out of a French jail, Gaige said with a grin. And Chuck here hitchhiked to the future."

″Tessa might be gone, but Edward and Richard are here, Charles pointed out. I agree with Molly; Baylarian’s letter proves as much."

The theater doors opened again, and a stream of patrons trickled out onto the sidewalk. In the late afternoon sun, our sixteenth century riding gear contrasted starkly with the long dresses and three-piece suits of theatergoers.

″Oh, look! Mavis, the actors are out here," a man’s voice boomed.

Gaige arched an eyebrow. Time to go.

Without further discussion, he started off in the opposite direction as most of the theater patrons. The rest of us hurried behind him.

″You kids lost?" a deep voice called as we approached the corner.

The shopkeeper rested both hands on the end of his broom handle, finally giving up the pretense of sweeping. He studied us curiously. You actors of some kind? he asked.

″We were part of the show," Molly called back dismissively.

Gaige didn’t slow or acknowledge that he’d heard the shopkeeper at all. I planned to ignore the man too, but then he called after us. If you’re lookin’ for a place to stay, you’re going to want to head to Bourbon and catch a cable car over to Canal. If you’re lookin’ for a place that don’t ask questions, take a left on Bourbon. Ms. Grundy will rent ya a room in exchange for helping out with chores.

He had definitely been listening to our conversation.

″I’m sorry, did you say Bourbon Street? Molly cocked her head to one side. That’s close to here?"

The man smiled knowingly. Not from around here, are ya?

Molly unfolded the piece of paper balled in her hand. Is 4585 Bourbon Street nearby, do you know?

The older man tipped up the brim of his pageboy hat and appraised our group with renewed interest. Bourbon Street is up that away. Using the broom, he pointed in the direction we had been walking. Two blocks passed Royal. 4585 you said? He shook his head. You must have the wrong address. Bourbon only goes up to the 1000 block, then it becomes Esplanade.

The address wasn’t real? No. That can’t be right. It makes no sense. Why would Baylarian have bothered to send a note with an address that didn’t exist? Was that all part of whatever twisted game he was playing with me?

″Thank you for your assistance," Charles told the shopkeeper in the oddly formal tone he adopted with strangers.

The man nodded. Good luck to you.

We crossed the street, continuing up Toulouse toward Bourbon with Gaige in the lead. The adrenaline from the jump had all but worn off, and my thigh throbbed from all the physical activity. Beside me, Charles’ jaw was set in a hard line, his golden eyes in constant motion. So were mine.

Baylarian is here somewhere, I thought. During his murder spree in Paris, Baylarian had been there to witness each one of his victim’s deaths. Voyeurs didn’t change their ways.

Thanks to the increasingly painful ache in my leg, Gaige and Molly reached the crossroads of Bourbon and Toulouse first. The pair waited on the corner for Charles and me to catch up.

The foot traffic on Bourbon Street was much denser than on Toulouse. Men and women laughed and talked as they walked along the line of shops and bars. Some of the couples even pushed prams. Horse-drawn carriages rattled down the cobblestone road next to the cable car tracks. The driver of an early model vehicle shook his fist out the open top at a man who’d stepped into the street to avoid a pile of muck on the sidewalk.

A few people gave us odd looks. One man even stopped and gestured to the dried blood on Charles, Had a run-in with our local vampire, I see?

The guy elbowed his friend and the two started chuckling as they walked off.

A tingling sensation started at the base of skull, traveling down my spine, and settling in my midsection. We were definitely being watched, I decided. Not by an open-mouthed gawker or anything so obvious. But I felt it deep in my bones. Someone had us in their sights.

″The chimney sweep said hang a left, right?" Gaige asked, looking first right and then left.

″He wasn’t a chimney sweep, Molly retorted. I don’t think that’s even a real job."

″I’m pretty sure it is," Gaige countered.

″It is, Charles confirmed. And yes, the shopkeeper said left."

The four of us started down Bourbon. Wisps of white fog floated in the air like spectral beings. One of the larger patches was like walking into a cold shower. I hugged myself. Maybe I was paranoid, but New Orleans had a feel like no other city I had ever visited. It was the type of place that random people on the street would casually joke about vampire attacks. There was a haunted sense in the air, a darkness mixed with mystery that I’d never experienced.

″New Orleans is a bastion of paranormal activity, Charles informed me, as if we had shared the thought. Rumors have surrounded the city since its inception. Immortals who drink the blood of virgins, ghosts that lead travelers deep into the Bayou never to be seen again, practitioners with the power to control the dead...all the creepy things."

″You believe these rumors?" I arched an eyebrow.

Two red spots appeared on his cheekbones. Time travel is real. Why not vampires?

″Because…science."

In front of us, Gaige turned and started walking backward. I’m with Chuck. Remember that girl from our very first run? Agnus or something. She only ate raw meat and smelled like wet dog all the time? She was definitely a—

″Monkey!" a woman’s voice shrieked.

Gaige shrugged. I was going to say werewolf, he muttered.

″The monkeys!" the woman cried again.

My eyes quickly found the source of the commotion. A tall blonde woman was pointing and shrieking to anyone with ears from a balcony just ahead. And all her excitement was directed at us.

She leapt out of her seat with such force, the wooden chair clattered to the ground behind her. The monkeys are real! She jabbed a finger in our direction again, though she was alone on the balcony so I couldn’t imagine who she was telling.

″What the hell?" Molly muttered.

″Do you all know her?" Charles asked, trying and failing to not look at the lady on the balcony.

The woman was gesturing at our group, her expression a little like she’d stared directly at an eclipse. This finally drew the attention of passersby.

″Who the frack is that?" I asked, shifting from one foot to the other.

The balcony lady flung open the French doors behind her and yelled inside to what was likely an empty house. The monkeys are here!

″Yeah. We should definitely go. Molly bobbed her head up and down. Like right now."

I had taken two steps forward when Charles grabbed my arm.

″What?" I asked anxiously.

He pointed to the red door beneath the balcony, over which hung a sign that read: Nicky’s Custom Music Shoppe.

From inside the building, I heard the woman cry again, They are real! Can you believe it?

″We really need to go," I told Charles pointedly.

″Uh, Stass?" Hands on his hips, Gaige was staring at the red door with equal parts wonder and confusion.

″Holy shit! It’s the address!" Molly exclaimed.

That was when I finally noticed the black numbers beside the red door: 458.5.

4585. 458.5.

The red door of the music store burst open and monkey lady ran out in a flurry of skirts and dust. Her low heels clicked against the sidewalk as she hurried over to us.

″You’re here!" she declared excitedly, throwing her long arms in the air. Dark eyes sparkled like she was seeing stars. She seemingly spoke to all of us, but her gaze was on me.

″I believe you must be mistaking us for someone else, Charles said curtly, stepping to put his body between the newcomer and me. Have a good evening."

The woman bent over, hands on her knees, and tried to catch her breath. "No, no, I have been waiting for you. She turned her head to the side, a piece of blonde hair falling loose, and met Charles’ golden eyes. Charles DuPree, right?"

If my eyebrows went up any farther, they would’ve been in my hairline. First and last name—that was more than an educated guess.

″Look, Molly began, we don’t know where your monkeys are, lady. But good luck with that."

The woman guffawed as she stood up straight. "No, Molly—you are the monkeys!"

This was quickly becoming one of the strangest conversations I’d ever had. With Gaige as my best friend, that was saying something. Yet I had a feeling there was sense laying under her senseless words. Her eyes were too sharp, and her smile too knowing.

″Like in Gibraltar, the woman continued. She said it like that would clear up any lingering confusion. Have you never been? It is beautiful if you ever have the chance."

My eyes traveled around my huddle of friends, and then to the monkey lady. A crowd was beginning to gather, drawn by the spectacle. If we attracted too much more attention, Cyrus might show up before we had a chance to send for him. Four battered people in ancient riding clothes being called monkeys in the middle of the French Quarter was just the sort of quirky thing that changed the history books.

Amusement and alarm warred on Gaige’s face, while Charles was firmly in the latter category. Molly kept blinking like maybe the next time that she opened her eyes the woman would be gone.

″You’ve been to Gibraltar?" Gaige asked as though that was the big takeaway from all this.

The woman smiled warmly. Come inside. I have just made tea. Oh, and Liza picked up fresh beignets this morning. We have plenty left. We should speak privately.

All four of us hesitated. We didn’t know this strange woman. She could have been an emissary working on behalf of Baylarian. She did live at the address in his letter and knew our names. That wasn’t a coincidence.

″I get that you think you know us, but we’re not your monkeys, Gaige said, his tone firm, no-nonsense, and very un-Gaige-like. If you’ll excuse us, we need to get to where we’re going. And you clearly need to find a zoo."

The woman’s smile grew mischievous. Oh, but you are—Gaige, right? Please, come inside. We have been waiting a very long time for you.

And to think I was just about to agree to the tea and beignets, I thought.

″Who is ‘we’?" I demanded.

Molly put a hand on my arm in warning.

″The other alchemists, the woman said with a laugh, clearly delighted at our collective befuddlement. She gestured toward the red door. We have been expecting the four of you for quite some time."

Still, none of us moved. My roommate pursed her lips. Charles slipped his hand in mine and squeezed, letting me know that the two of us were in this together—whatever this was. They were both leaning toward taking the chance this woman was truly an alchemist and following her through the red door. I was, too. Only Gaige remained against the idea. One look at my hopeful expression and he caved with a dramatic sigh.

″Fine. But if this goes badly, I will haunt your ass, Stass, he said pointedly. Ghosts are even realer than werewolves and vampires. I would delight in torturing you in my afterlife."

″That’s fair," I agreed.

Charles held onto my hand as we followed the woman through the red door. We entered into a small foyer with a set of steps leading to a second floor and a short hallway that, presumably, led to the music store. The woman started up the staircase.

″Is this a customs station?" I asked, hesitating only long enough to take in the general layout of the first level.

″It is. We are a slow one, not many runners come through here. Our main assignment has been monkey-watch for years."

It was the third mention of the length of time she had been looking for the monkeys. Gaige picked up on it too and couldn’t help but ask, Yeah, so you keep saying. How long are we talking? Three years? Five years?

The woman paused and glanced over her shoulder. I believe it’s been twelve years.

Twelve? The exact number of years after our target destination in which we landed. What were the odds? About as likely as us stumbling across a customs station when we were utterly destitute….

Except, we hadn’t stumbled across the customs station. Baylarian had sent us here. My decision to follow the stranger suddenly seemed hasty. Three of the four of us had lowered our defenses the instant she said alchemist. That one word had inspired a degree of unquestionable trust.

″Who assigned you to be a lookout?" I asked as the woman reached the second-floor landing.

She eyed me curiously, and then gave a soft chuckle. Where are my manners? The woman thrust a hand in my direction. Elizebeth Werlein. I am the junior most alchemist at the New Orleans customs station.

I didn’t reciprocate the greeting. Who asked you to be a lookout? I repeated.

She looked from me to each of my friends. Oh, I see. This is a test. The alchemist smiled smugly. Cyrus Atlic, of course. Did you expect someone else was searching the timewaves for you?

Two

New Orleans, Louisiana January 14, 1920

Follow me. Let’s have a look at your injuries. Elizebeth lead us down a short hallway. What happened to you lot, anyway?

″It’s a long story, I muttered. Charles kept a firm grip on my hand, as if afraid that I might vanish if he didn’t anchor me to this time and place. And I’m fine. Really. Our injuries are all patched up."

″If that were true, you would not have pain lines between your eyebrows," the alchemist replied.

″Do we trust her?" Molly stage-whispered.

Elizebeth chuckled but gave no verbal response.

″I’m not sure we have a choice," I replied.

The alchemist stopped in front of a set of open doors and gestured us inside. This is the parlor, she announced, waving her hand like a tour guide.

Velvet upholstered furniture in dark shades made the open room feel smaller than it was. A fainting couch was perfectly positioned below a window so that the occupant could take a nap if they became exhausted watching the activity on Bourbon Street. Beneath a second window there was a daybed, in case the Nosy Nancy had a partner in crime. French doors led to the balcony where we’d first spotted Elizebeth. Or rather, where she had first spotted us. Soft jazz music played from a Victrola in the corner beside an ornate cabinet.

I sat on the fainting couch, relieved to have a break. Charles lifted my injured leg out straight and propped my foot on a stool.

″This is unnecessary, I argued. My protests grew feeble when I looked down at my thigh; the fabric of my riding pants was wet with blood. I’m sure it’s nothing."

Elizebeth grabbed bandages and an assortment of vials from an armoire. She set the supplies beside me before going to fetch a bowl of warm water and towels. For reasons that made sense to everyone else, it was decided they would cut my pants around the injury. I didn’t care enough by that point to protest. Jane’s broach was tucked safely in my top, so it was still secure.

″Who treated this wound? Elizebeth demanded. It looks to be infected."

″No. My leg looked…." I trailed off when I caught sight of the discolored skin around a fresh-looking cut. The wound had reopened; the quick fix from London hadn’t held up during the jump.

Charles gripped my hand while Molly played nurse to Elizebeth’s doctor. Gaige stood near the balcony doors, staring out at Bourbon Street and chewing his thumbnail.

″I’ve never seen you this worried," I called to him.

Elizebeth pressed the wet washcloth to my leg. The pain made my vision go fuzzy for a brief second. Charles squeezed my hand harder, his golden-brown gaze full of concern.

″Drink this," Elizebeth ordered, handing me a small brown bottle.

″What is it?" I asked.

″It will help with the pain, she replied, eyes focused on my leg. Don’t say I didn’t warn you," she added, right before she poured a horrible smelling green liquid over the cut she’d just cleaned.

I howled. It felt like my leg was on fire, the flames boring deep into my bones. Charles snatched the bottle from my hand, yanked off the stopper, and held it to my lips.