Revolutionaries were too easily mistaken for madmen.

And George would not have that. No, when he revealed magic to this world—if he revealed it—it would not be a whisper, a rumor, but a demonstrable, undeniable threat.

But Henry Tavish was different.

He was essential.

He was a Scotsman, and every good Englishman knew that a Scotsman had few qualms about getting his hands dirty.

“No sign of him as yet,” said the man in his gruff but lilting way.

“You checked the Stone’s Throw?”

King George was no fool. He’d been having the foreign “ambassador” followed since before he was crowned, had his fair share of men reporting that they’d lost sight of the strange man in the stranger coat, that he had simply disappeared—apologies, Your Majesty, so sorry, Your Majesty—but Kell never left London without a visit to the Stone’s Throw.

“It’s called the Five Points now, sir,” said Henry. “Run by a rather squirrelly fellow named Tuttle after the death of its old owner. Gruesome thing, according to authorities, but—”

“I don’t need a history lesson,” cut in the king, “only a straight answer. Did you check the tavern?”

“Aye,” said Henry, “I went by, but the place was closed up. Strange thing, though, as I could hear someone in there, scurrying around, and when I told Tuttle to open up, he said he couldn’t. Not wouldn’t, mind, couldn’t. Struck me as suspicious. You’re either in or you’re out, and he sounded even more wound up than normal, like something had him spooked.”

“You think he was hiding something.”

“I think he was hiding,” amended Henry. “It’s a known thing that that pub caters to occultists, and Tuttle’s a self-proclaimed magician. Always thought it was a scam, even with your telling me about this Kell—I went inside once, nothing but some curtains and crystal balls—but maybe there’s a reason your traveler frequented that place. If he’s up to something, perhaps this Tuttle knows what. And if your traveler’s got a mind to stand you up, well, maybe he’ll still show there.”

“The insolence of it,” muttered George. He set his cup on the table and hauled himself to his feet, snatching up the letter from the table.

It appeared there were still some things a king must do himself.

* * *

It was getting worse.

Much worse.

Ned had tried banishing spells in three different languages, one of which he didn’t even speak. He’d burned all the sage he had stockpiled, and then half the other herbs he kept in the kitchen, but the voice was getting louder. Now his breath fogged no matter how high the hearth was stoked, and that black spot on the floor had grown first to the size of a book, then a chair, and it was now larger than the table he’d hurriedly pushed against the doors.

He had no choice.

He had to summon Master Kell.

Ned had never successfully summoned anyone, unless you counted his great-aunt when he was fourteen, and he still wasn’t entirely sure it was her, since the kettle had been overfilled, and the cat quick to spook. But desperate times.

There was, of course, the problem of Kell’s being in another world. But then, so was this creature, it seemed, and it was reaching through, so perhaps Ned could whisper back. Perhaps the walls were thinner here. Perhaps there was a draft.

Ned lit five candles around the element kit and the coin Kell had gifted him on his last visit, a makeshift altar in the center of the tavern’s most auspicious table. The pale smoke, which was spreading even in the absence of the sage, seemed to bend around the offering, which Ned took as a very good sign.

“All right, then,” he said to no one and to Kell and the darkness in between. He sat, elbows on the table and palms up, as if waiting for someone to reach out and take his hands.

Let me in, whispered that ever-present voice.

“I summon Kell—” Ned paused, realizing he didn’t know the other man’s full name, and began again. “I summon the traveler known as Kell, from London far away.”

Worship me.

“I summon a light against the dark.”

I am your new king.

“I summon a friend against an enemy I do not know.”

Goose bumps broke out along Ned’s arm—another good sign, at least, he hoped. He pressed on.

“I summon the stranger with the many mantles.”

Let me in.

“I summon the man with eternity in his eye, and magic in his blood.”

The candles shivered.

“I summon Kell.”

Ned closed his hands into fists, and the quivering flames went out.

He held his breath as five tendrils of thin white smoke trailed into the air, forming five faces with five yawning mouths.

“Kell?” he ventured, voice trembling.

Nothing.

Ned sank back into his chair.

Any other night, he would have been over the moon to extinguish the candles, but it wasn’t enough.

The traveler hadn’t come.

Ned reached out and took up the foreign coin with the star at its center and the lingering scent of roses. He turned it over in his fingers.

“Some magician,” he muttered to himself.

Beyond the bolted door, he heard the heavy clomp of a coach and four drawing up, and a moment later, a fist pounded on the wood.

“Open up!” bellowed a deep voice.

Ned sat up straight, pocketing the coin. “We’re closed!”