6:14 a.m. Wednesday.

PEOPLE ARRIVED IN ONES AND TWOS IN THE CRISP EARLY hours of the morning. Despite the bombing, there were still buildings standing behind the toy factory, and there was still an alleyway where folk could congregate out of sight of the main road. Not that there were many pa.s.sersby that morning to see the growing crowd. The air along Threadneedle Street stank of ash and aether, like cigar b.u.t.ts drowned in mint liqueur.

Tobias leaned against the back wall of the factory, falling into conversation with the arrivals as Bucky handed out tin mugs of tea. It was bitter and dark-not at all the drawing room beverage Lady Bancroft would have served-but it went perfectly with the heavy bread one of the local bakers brought around in enormous wicker baskets.

The baker had come like the rest, gathering in the alley behind the factory in response to Lord Bancroft's summons. "If you don't mind my saying, it's past time to put an end to this, Mr. Roth," the big man said. His name was Moore, and though he wore no ap.r.o.n there was still flour clinging to his clothes. He seemed not to notice it. "First they tell me I have to buy coal instead of burning good wood as before and then the bread never tastes right. And then we go to central heat at twice the price, and all the lights have to be gas. And then the Gold King or the Green Queen or whoever puts their lights on my street wants a piece of my profits. Well, sir, there won't be any this month. The banks are all gone and no one in these parts"-he waved a huge hand at the burned-out streets-"is going to be buying cinnamon pastries for some days to come."

Tobias swallowed his mouthful of bread, wishing there were a few of those pastries looking for a good home. Lately, his appet.i.te came and went, sometimes fading under a wash of nausea. Last night, he had felt particularly bad. But the thick, fragrant bread was going down easily. Moore had talent with salt and flour that said his business was well worth fighting for-but he also had mentioned a family, and that made Tobias balk. "If we march on the Gold King, we'll be facing the Yellowbacks. Some of us won't make it through."

The baker smiled in a way that made Tobias's muscles twitch. "I was a sergeant in the Forty-fifth, sir. I'm good with a rifle. And there's no shortage of guns and ammunition laid by. We've been waiting for this day, Mr. Roth. We just never knew we'd be opening the door for a prince."

"We?"

"London, Mr. Roth. The bakers and shopkeepers and guttersnipes, West and East both-we're the city."

"Did you meet him, sir?" The speaker was a small man who looked like he might have been one of the Green Queen's clerks, or perhaps a ferret bespelled into human form. "Have you met Prince Edmond?"

Tobias met the small man's eyes. "I have. He was, um ..." he hesitated, searching for the right adjective. Engaging? A bit new to the whole prince business? A tiny bit frightening behind that grin? But Tobias knew these people needed something to hang on to while they offered up their lives in hope of something better. "He was very fair to me. He is a man of honor."

The little man nodded, as if that was exactly what he'd wanted to hear. "Fair is what we want. All a man wants in life is a chance to show what he's worth."

Tobias wondered what the fellow's story was, but there wasn't time and a dozen more had shown up in the alley behind the warehouse while they were speaking. His gut was reconsidering breakfast. Part of it was the alley, which was beginning to stink as the sun warmed it. The rest was Scarlet's poison. Tobias reached into his pocket, taking out the small tin of medication Dr. Watson had given him. He pressed the catch and the lid popped open. There were a dozen pills left-a better indication than anything else of how long the doctor had estimated that they would continue to help him. One-handed, he fumbled out two of the little white spheres and put the rest away.

The noise level was growing as yet more voices were added to the excited babble. Not all of them looked to be from the immediate neighborhood. This area was relatively prosperous, and some of the newcomers looked like the ragged denizens of London's rookeries. The air was growing charged with expectation and Tobias began to be nervous. Windows were opening in the clutch of buildings that still stood behind the factory. Heads were poking out to see what was going on.

"What made you change your mind and fight for our side, Mr. Roth?" asked Moore.

There were a lot of answers, including the fact that he had never really been on Keating's side. Not really. But again he picked something they would easily understand. "The Gold King took my infant son. He's holding Jeremy so that I won't cross him."

The two men recoiled in shock. "That's pure evil," the baker said, the words a curse.

"It won't work," Tobias answered with more calm than he felt.

It wasn't going to work because he knew Keating wouldn't kill an heir with a t.i.tle until he absolutely had to. Jeremy was everything the Gold King wanted-a living embodiment of old tradition and new wealth who would be groomed to steer Keating's businesses into a glorious future. No, Keating wouldn't kill his grandson as long as Tobias was dancing in his crosshairs, playing the enraged but ineffectual buffoon. His job was to make himself a highly visible target that would hold Keating's attention while others used the knowledge he had about the Gold King's armaments. In other words, Tobias was the sacrificial decoy.

And he would probably die-but he'd gladly lay down his life for Jeremy because that was what fathers did. It would be a gift compared to a shivering, puking end courtesy of the Scarlet King's poison. But he was worried about these men. "I might be leading you straight into the Gold King's armies. I'm not a general."

"We don't need a general," Moore said. "We know our business and we've planned this for a long time. What we want is someone to lead the way."

Church bells began to toll the hour, a voice answered far away, and then again to the west. It was the city calling to itself, an individual and collective spirit. Tobias squinted up at the sun, the warmth on his face like a blessing. "It's time to get started," he said, finally ready to say the words. They tasted of defiance, but they left the lemony sweetness of freedom behind.

And then a handful of men and women pushed open the enormous doors at the back of the factory. This was where the lumber and other supplies were delivered, but what came out was extraordinary. And big. The head of it sc.r.a.ped the top of the doorway, and a train could have driven through those doors. Tobias stared open-mouthed, flashing back to that defining moment when the Society for the Proliferation of Impertinent Events had built the mechanical squid that destroyed the opera house. But that was a primitive ancestor to what he saw now. b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l!

Bucky was the son of the North's most prominent gun maker, but he was also a toy maker. And it showed. This was a lethal engine of destruction disguised as an amus.e.m.e.nt.

The gigantic caterpillar had a dozen jointed sections that swayed side to side as it steamed forward, an engine churning in each segment. It was brightly painted in yellows and greens, a happy smile on its round face. A pair of legs emerged from each joint, each foot tipped with a bright red boot.

Bucky rode at the controls behind the head. He leaned down, smiling widely for the first time in as long as Tobias could remember. "Do you like it?"

"Festive" was all Tobias could think of to say.

"I told the Yellowback inspectors that I was making it for the amus.e.m.e.nt park." Bucky waved to the ladder that ran up the side of the machine. "Come on up. There are plenty of seats."

Tobias complied, finding the first two sections were in fact fitted with seats covered in brown leather-eight in all. The back sections were piled with weaponry, food, and what looked like the making of barricades. Three men, including the baker, scrambled up and began tossing rifles to the crowd below. And that crowd was becoming a mob as more and more people arrived, many in the uniforms of a dozen different military units. The baker began shouting orders, and men fell into line.

Tobias took the seat beside Bucky. "Can I run this with one hand?" He could still use his right arm, but his hand was useless.

"Absolutely." Bucky pressed a bright red b.u.t.ton on the toy's head, and the legs began to move. The motion began with the back legs and slowly rippled forward, each pair of legs lifting and setting down, pushing forward and then lifting again in waves. It reminded Tobias of the oars on a boat, rhythmic and graceful. The caterpillar sped across the ground, each red boot making a thump on the hard-packed earth. Bucky pushed a blue b.u.t.ton to stop the machine, and then pointed to a long wooden lever mounted between the two seats. "That will steer it. The gun controls are on the other side."

Tobias recognized the array of switches and levers from Bucky's other projects. There would be plenty of projectiles when he needed them. "I'll need a gunner, then."

"Corporal Yelland will a.s.sist. He was trained as a sharpshooter."

Tobias turned to see the ferret-faced clerk behind him. The man gave a short nod. "I'm as accurate with a bullet as I am with my sums."

"Excellent," Tobias said, his spirits lifting despite everything. He could do this. He had managed the rescue party that had brought Imogen back to the Helios. He commanded a small army of craftsmen every day. He was no soldier, but he knew how to point people in the right direction and look confident while doing it.

"The controls are far easier than the ones on the squid," Bucky said, rising from the seat. "You won't have any trouble with them."

They stood facing each other. They all had their roles to play, and Bucky's wasn't on the caterpillar. This was farewell.

Wordlessly, Bucky held out a hand. His left one. Tobias gripped it, grateful he hadn't had to fumble with his numb fingers. His friend's grip was firm and warm, familiar as an old coat. Time stopped as memories slammed into Tobias, so vivid they left him light-headed. They'd been friends so long-school, cricket, clubs, women, SPIE-and the chance that they'd see each other again was next to nothing.

"I'm glad you're with us," Bucky said evenly. "It's about b.l.o.o.d.y time."

"Look after Jeremy and Alice. Look after my sisters." There was a lot more he wanted to say, but his chest was beginning to ache, and he couldn't afford grief.

"You know I will." Bucky inhaled, the sound of it uneven. "Good luck, Roth. London has your back. And may you get what you need from this."

What I need? All Tobias had ever wanted was a workshop and the freedom to indulge his imagination. But nothing had ever been that simple. He squeezed Bucky's hand tight one last time, and then let it go. His friend left quickly, his motions those of a man holding too much inside.

Tobias swallowed hard, the world around him blurring with sadness. But he heard Corporal Yelland slide into the seat to his right, and the presence of a stranger forced him to gather his wits. He turned, and was shocked to see that the alley was full, and the alleys beyond that, and all the distant streets winding to the horizon. London had turned out in force.

His mouth went utterly dry. Blood and thunder! Not even his father had been asked to deal with this kind of mob. But Tobias wasn't his father. He knew what it was to put in an honest day's work in the sweat and noise of a workshop. He wasn't there for ambition, but because he was so angry that the pit of his gut boiled like the steam engines beneath his feet. He was one of them.

"Friends," he said, raising his good hand into the air for silence, "we have work to do!"

The crowd roared like an ocean, and Tobias smiled. The rebellion wasn't just a handful of spies or n.o.blemen pa.s.sing notes in the back rooms of their clubs. It went down to the very grime in the gutters.

The steam barons had no clue what was coming.

London, October 16, 1889.

HILLIARD HOUSE.

7:35 a.m. Wednesday.

POPPY TRULY DIDN'T KNOW WHAT TO DO NEXT. THEY'D spent another day yesterday hunting for Jeremy. She'd put Alice to bed at Hilliard House after Lord Bancroft had administered a hefty gla.s.s of brandy and-after another bout of weeping-she'd fallen into a stupefied sleep. Poppy, on the other hand, had stared at the ceiling until murky waves of exhaustion had finally claimed her just as the first birdsong chimed in the pearl-gray sky.

She couldn't have slept more than a few hours before Alice was shaking her awake. "Poppy, wake up!"

"Alice?" Poppy groaned, more grumpy than she meant to be but really, she'd hardly napped. She pushed a tangle of hair out of her face, realizing she hadn't bothered to brush it out the night before. It felt like something had nested in it, and she really wished she had taken the time to clean her teeth.

Alice sat on the edge of the bed. She looked haunted, the bones of her face too prominent under pale skin. Even the glorious waves of her fiery hair were subdued in the cold morning light. "I think we're going about finding Jeremy the wrong way," she said in a steady voice nothing like last night's sobs.

Poppy blinked, pushing herself up on her elbows. Alice had her attention. Gone were the hysterics of the night before, and the Gold King's daughter had taken charge. "All right, then. What are we doing wrong?"

"If Father is using Jeremy as a means of keeping us in line, he has to be able to prove our baby is still alive." There was a slight hitch in Alice's voice that said she wasn't as calm as she was putting on. "That means keeping him close."

"I suppose that means a place he thinks will be safe from attack."

"Deep in Gold territory," Alice agreed. "Preferably someplace he owns."

Poppy struggled to sit up properly. "Isn't that where we've been looking?" And holy hat ribbons, did Jasper Keating own a lot of properties. She felt like she'd tramped through half of London in the last week.

"We've looked at all his factories and private residences. They're all places that he knows I know." Alice slumped forward, her elbows on her knees. "I've been stupid to even suggest such places."

"Don't be daft, you're doing wonderfully well," Poppy rea.s.sured her, stifling a yawn. "But where else is your father going to put Jeremy?"

Alice turned pasty pale. "Think about it. What would happen if, say, the Blue King trampled through London and found Keating's grandson?"

Poppy didn't like that scenario at all. "What do you mean?"

Alice pushed on. "He'd hide him in plain sight. Just look at Prince Edmond. The newspapers said he was adopted by Sir Charles Baskerville and n.o.body noticed that he was at all different. He went to school with the other boys, played on their rugby teams, and did whatever normal boys do."

"Maybe," Poppy said softly. "But remember Mr. Keating took the wet nurse, so she would have to be inconspicuous as well." Then she succ.u.mbed to another yawn.

"There are two possible places." Alice waved a finger, her eyes bright. "First, my father established a foundling hospital in Soho."

Poppy clapped her hands. "That's perfect: deep in Gold territory, and with plenty of nurses and babies."

"Let's start there, then!" Alice said urgently.

Despite herself, Poppy glanced at the window. She could hear the distant boom of something exploding. The skirmishing between Gold and Blue forces was getting worse, and word had it the rebels were just outside the city. There was no point in asking if it was safe to walk the streets because it clearly wasn't. And that was all the more reason Alice had to find her son. Fear twisted in Poppy's stomach, but she wasn't about to desert Alice now. She wasn't that kind of girl.

"I need tea," she said. "And then I'll follow you into the jaws of h.e.l.l."

Alice grabbed her in a desperate hug. "You're the best."

"Remember this when I ask to borrow one of your Worth gowns."

THERE HADN'T BEEN any cabs for hire-the chance of being bombed had kept them all at home-but there had been a steam tram still running from Mayfair toward the intersection of Oxford and Regent streets. It had been a matter of minutes to get there from Hilliard House.

Soho wasn't the nicest part of town. Poppy had been through the area plenty of times, but never on foot. At least half of it looked starved for money, the houses cramped and ragged from lack of repair. There were lots of theaters, taverns, and coffeehouses, but most ranged from shabby to mildly dangerous. And there were any number of places with purple doors, and even Poppy knew that meant they were houses of dodgy repute. She'd never seen a brothel before, but after walking past the third one, the novelty wore off. There were plenty of other things to worry about, like getting shot by enemy soldiers or what her mother would say when she discovered Poppy was missing. Best not to think about it.

And best not to think about the men she saw here and there, watching as two well-dressed women scurried past. Instead, she stayed glued to Alice's side as they hastened down Marlborough Street, not letting her out of sight. In her present mood, Alice was moving with a careless desperation that spelled trouble. A single glimpse of an infant was likely to send her bursting through brick walls to s.n.a.t.c.h it from some innocent nursemaid's hands.

But that was far from her only concern. Although there were no signs of damage here, there weren't as many people on the street as there should have been. It felt as if London was holding its breath, waiting for the next a.s.sault.

"There's Poland Street," Alice said, pointing to the sign at the corner of a soot-stained brick apartment block. "It should be right down there."

They were about to turn when Poppy caught her arm. "Wait!"

Alice let out a cry. Yellow flags hung from a dozen windows, fluttering in a halfhearted breeze. The signal was one Keating had borrowed from maritime conventions and inst.i.tuted in his territories. Quarantine.

Alice began pelting down the street, her skirts flying out behind her. Poppy bolted after, running hard to catch up. "What are you doing? Have you lost your wits?"

"Maybe." Alice stopped abruptly in front of a shabby-looking door, and Poppy nearly crashed into her. She was about to make some scathing remark about running headlong into contagion when she read the sign above the door: Beatrice Keating Memorial Foundling Hospital.

"Who was Beatrice?" Poppy asked.

"My grandmother," Alice replied absently.

It was hard to imagine the Gold King having a mother, much less one he wanted to honor. But the matter quickly faded to unimportance when Poppy saw more yellow flags hanging from the windows above. The hospital was infected. Oh, no.

"What if it's a trick?" Alice said hoa.r.s.ely. "What if he's made them say there is disease so that I won't go in and find my son?"

What kind of a father is he that she can even think that? Poppy wondered, but she knew the answer. He was a steam baron. "You can't go in."

"I have to know."

"What if you do, and then you find Jeremy later, and then you make him sick because you're coming down with some fatal disease?"

Alice fell silent. Good. Poppy put a hand to her head, wishing her brain would work faster. "Let me think."

"Let's at least knock on the door," Alice suggested. "Surely we can ask some questions."

"All right." Poppy crouched, scrabbled in the dirt for some pebbles, and stood, trying to ignore the dirt clinging to her gloves. She tossed a pebble at the window, then another. Both smacked with a satisfying clack against the gla.s.s. It didn't take long before the sash next to Poppy's target slid up.

The woman who leaned out was terrifying-square, stern, and looking as if she was in severe want of ears to wash. "What is the meaning of this?"

Poppy heard the distant spatter of what might have been gunshot. Her entire body went cold and she searched frantically in the direction of the noise-but she couldn't see that far with all the buildings in the way. A wail of terror sounded deep inside her, but she bottled it up as tightly as she could manage.

"Well?" the woman demanded.

Poppy glanced at Alice, but the young woman looked about to cry. It was up to her. "Have you received any babies in the past eight days? A boy about seven months old."

The gunshot sound repeated, and she began shifting from foot to foot, anxious to be gone. The shots had been closer this time. And somewhere inside the building a baby started to cry-a weak, frail squalling like the mew of a kitten. Poppy took Alice's arm, and felt her tremble.