The policemen led Aubrey to a brick building at the end of the street. Inside, they deposited her in a square office. She huddled on a chair, panting but ecstatic. I won. The police will send a message. My family will come. It’s all over.
Outside the open office door, men grouped and broke apart.
“Assault—”
“Find the man—”
The police had started working in Kingston nearly five years ago. Aubrey and her friends would tell each other stories about them: the clever detective who tracked down stolen jewels; the handsome officer who rescued kidnapped girls. The policeman versus the soldier: which to choose? Most of her friends voted for the beribboned soldier, but the policeman exuded a sort of romance. Soldiers belonged to troops and fought battles in far off countries; policemen operated in pairs and their job was to protect people very like themselves in their very own capital.
“Tradesmen with the right to be rude,” Mother’s set called the police. Of course, Aubrey’s family was a bare step up from trade themselves; still, it was true that the police mostly hunted muggers and prostitutes.
At least I’m safe.
A slight man wearing glasses entered the office and headed for the room’s desk. “Have you sent a message to my family?” Aubrey asked him.
“No. Who is your family?”
“The St. Clairs. My oldest brother’s name is Richard.”
“Are they in Kingston?”
“I don’t know. Maybe Rostand. I was transformed in Sommerville.”
He swiveled, desk forgotten. “What do you mean—transformed?”
“There was a philter in the punch. I became a cat.”
“You’re the girl from Lady Bradford’s ball?”
“Yes. I—reverted.”
“Good Lord Almighty,” he said. “Smithy—”
An immense policeman filled the doorway.
“Has Patrick left for headquarters yet?”
“Just out the door.”
“Catch up with him, will you? He needs to send Charles over.”
“All right, Mac,” Smithy said unperturbed and ambled away. Mac called after him, “Tell him to tell Charles there’s a woman here claiming to be the cat girl from Sommerville.”
A short silence. A harrumph. The outside door banged.
“I am she,” Aubrey said. “Aubrey St. Clair. I have claws.”
Mac started as her claws unsheathed. He whistled softly, eyes rising to her face. “Academy students—is that right—put a philter in the punch?”
“I don’t know. Dmitri said he’d take me to the Academy. He—”
“Dmitri—?”
“The man I scratched,” Aubrey said. “He kidnapped me—and his uncle, Kev.”
“Kev Marlowe? Slum magician?”
“Yes. He works for Lord Simon.”
Mac went very still, hands flattened on the desktop. “How do you know that?”
“I saw him there.”
“Ah.” He clapped his hands together on a soundless whistle. “Perfect.” He beamed at her and finally seemed to take in her appearance. “Uh, would you like to tidy yourself?”
