A Thousand and One English Nights (Book Three of The Powder Trail)

Chapter Forty Three: Yes

In the cab, Robin was as restless and excitable as a child on his way to the Zoological Gardens. He kept loading and unloading his revolver, shuffling his feet and leaning out of the window.

Ellini kept her eyes on the rain-washed streets and said nothing. His behaviour reminded her of Jack, which was both soothing and aggravating at the same time.

"Well?" he said at last, when it seemed he couldn't bear the silence any longer. "Are you going to make him remember?"

"I've told you, I'd need the blood of the conjuror."

"I think she's the conjuror. The more I look at her, the more she seems like one of Myrrha's pupils. It's the sprightliness, I think. And the slightly disconnected look of someone who doesn't believe other people can feel pain."

"Yes, I suppose you're familiar with that look from the mirror," said Ellini.

Robin grinned. The more she seemed to hate him, the more he seemed to like it, as if he only wanted a hold on her, and didn't care whether it was good or bad.

Still, the grin faded quickly, and he reached a hand inside his shirt – apparently without thinking – to trace the scars that represented each of his past victims. 

"You don't see it?" he mumbled. "I suppose you wouldn't. You've never had to dread all those characteristics rolled into one woman. I'd be very surprised if she wasn't one of Myrrha's girls. And if she is, we'd only have to scratch her to bring Mr Whittaker's memories back." He licked his lips. "Assuming that's what you want to do?"

"I don't know," said Ellini truthfully. "I don't think he's had his ability to care taken away. He felt very sorry for the drowned girl. But he still knows something's missing, and craves distractions to fill the gap. If we leave him like this, he might spend the rest of his life chasing after champagne and women."

"And what a terrible existence that would be."

She ignored him, still keeping her eyes on the wet pavement. "I'll decide when we get there."

Robin said nothing. They both knew she was stalling, desperately putting off the moment when she would have to choose.

Her instinct was that the truth was the truth. The drowned girl had to be remembered, had to be vindicated, even if it caused the living a world of pain. But she was afraid. It wasn't like with Jack. She couldn't just punch his lights out and run away. She would have to watch the realization dawning in his eyes. And, worse still, she might enjoy it.

The cab soon clattered into the leafy suburb of St John's Wood, which was famously an area where rich men housed their mistresses and illegitimate children. All the foliage might have been there to mask unsavoury goings-on, but Ellini still thought it rather pretty. The leaves were rain-soaked and sparkling with moonlight.

Their cabman – who had clearly followed other cabs before – pulled the horses to a halt a little way down the road from the house at which Isabella and Mr Whittaker got out. It was a pretty villa of white stucco, with ivy twisting over it like the black ribbons on the arms of a Charlotte Grey.

She and Robin walked slowly towards the villa, Robin occasionally placing a hand on her shoulder to make her walk slower still.

"The problem is," he explained, "I'm not sure whether she's planning to kill him before or afterwards. If it's afterwards, he won't thank us for interfering even if it saves his life."

Ellini made a face. "You don't paint a very flattering portrait of your sex."

"Have you ever seen or heard anything of men which would lead you to suppose that I'm wrong?"