Before Barron could squeeze off the second shot, Holland’s fingers twitched, and the weapon went flying out of Barron’s hands and across the narrow room, crashing against the wall. He lunged for it, or at least he meant to, but his body refused, remaining firmly rooted to the spot, not out by fear, but something stronger. Magic. He willed his limbs to move, but the impossible force willed them still.

“Where are they?” asked Holland. His voice was low and cold and hollow.

A bead of sweat rolled down Barron’s cheek as he fought the magic, but it was no use. “Gone,” he said, his voice a low rumble.

Holland frowned, disappointed. He drew a curved knife from his belt. “I noticed that.” He crossed the room with even, echoing steps, and brought the blade up slowly to Barron’s throat. It was very cold, and very sharp. “Where have they gone?”

Up close, Kell smelled of lilies and grass. Holland smelled of ash and blood and metal.

Barron met the magician’s eyes. They were so like Kell’s. And so different. Looking into them, he saw anger and hatred and pain, things that never spread, never touched the rest of his face. “Well?” he pressed.

“No idea,” growled Barron. It was the truth. He could only hope they were far away.

Holland’s mouth turned down. “Wrong answer.”

He drew the blade across, and Barron felt a searing heat at his throat, and then nothing.

NINE

FESTIVAL & FIRE

I

Red London welcomed Kell home as if nothing were wrong. It had not rained here, and the sky was streaked with wisps of cloud and crimson light, as if a reflection of the Isle. Carriages rolled in rumbling fashion over street stones on their well-worn paths, and the air was filled with the sweet steam of spice and tea and, farther off, the sounds of building celebration.

Had it really been only a matter of hours since Kell had fled, wounded and confused, away from this world and into another? The simple, assuring calm, the rightness of this place, set him off-balance and made him doubt, if only for a moment, that anything could be amiss. But he knew the peace was superficial—somewhere in the palace that bridged the river, his presence had surely been missed; somewhere in the city, two men lay dead, and more with empty eyes were likely looking for him and his prize—but here, on what had been Whitbury and was now Ves Anash, the light of the river spilling in from one side and the morning sun from the other, Red London seemed oblivious to the danger it was in, the danger he was dragging through it.

A small black stone capable of creating anything and razing everything. He shuddered at the thought and tightened his grip on Lila’s hand, only to realize it was not there.

He spun, hoping to find her standing next to him, hoping they’d been pulled apart only a step or two in the course of their passage. But he was alone. The echo of Antari magic glowed faintly on the wall, marking the way he’d come with Lila.

But Lila was gone.

And with her, the stone.

Kell slammed his hand against the wall, splitting open the cut that had just begun to close. Blood trickled down his wrist, and Kell swore and went to search for a cloth in his coat, forgetting that he’d draped it over Lila’s shoulders. He was halfway through swearing again when he remembered Lila’s kerchief. The one she’d given him in exchange, tucked into his back pocket.

Seems right somehow, she’d said. You gave me something of yours. I give you something of mine. Now we’re linked.

Linked, thought Kell. His mind spun as he dragged the square of fabric free. Would it work? Not if she’d somehow been torn apart or trapped between the worlds (there were stories, of non-Antari who tried to open doors and got stuck). But if she’d never come through, or if she was here somewhere—alive or dead—it might.

He brought the bloodstained kerchief to the wall and pressed his hand flat against the echo of his recent mark.

“As Enose,” he commanded the magic. “As Enose Delilah Bard.”

*   *   *

Lila opened her eyes and saw red.

Not a bold red, splashed like paint over the buildings, but a subtle, pervasive tint, like she was looking through a pane of colored glass. Lila tried to blink away the color, but it lingered. When Kell called his city Red London, she assumed he’d picked the color for some arbitrary—or at least ordinary—reason. Now she could see that he meant it literally. She drew a breath and tasted flowers on the air. Lilies and marigolds and stargazers. The scent was overpowering, verging on sickly sweet, like perfume—no wonder it clung to Kell. After a few moments, it calmed a little (so did the tint), as her senses adjusted to her new surroundings, but when she drew too deep a breath, it assaulted her again.

Lila coughed and lay still. She was on her back in an alley, in front of a rather pretty red door (painted, not tinted). A loose street stone dug into her spine through the coat. Kell’s coat. It was spread beneath her on the ground, billowing out like wings.

But Kell was not there.

She tightened her fingers to make sure she could move them, and felt the black stone nested in her palm, still humming. It worked, she thought, letting out an amazed exhale as she sat up. It had actually worked.

Not perfectly—if it had worked perfectly, she and Kell would be standing in the same place—but she was here, which was to say there. Somewhere new.

She’d done it.

Delilah Bard had finally escaped, sailed away. Not with a ship, but with a stone.

As for where she was exactly, she hadn’t the faintest idea. She got to her feet and realized that the red tint wasn’t coming from the sky, but from the ground. The world to her right was considerably redder than the world to her left. And, she realized, senses tuning, considerably louder. Not just the usual noise of peddlers and carts, for the Londons seemed to have that in common, but the din of a growing crowd, all cheers and shouts and celebration. Part of her knew she should stay still and wait for Kell to find her, but the other part was already moving toward the swell of light and color and sound.