With trembling fingers, Anna undid the many buttons on the front of the dress, and it slid to the ground in a pile. Ariadne turned so that Anna could undo the stays of her corset. Ariadne wore a cotton chemise underneath, trimmed in delicate lace. Her chemise and bloomers were stark white against her brown skin. Her eyes glowed.

“You must rest a bit, Anna,” Ariadne said. “You cannot leave right now. Come.”

She took Anna by the hand and led her to the bed. Anna realized as she sank into it how exhausted she was from the fight, and also that she had never been so awake and alive.

“Lean back,” Ariadne said, stroking Anna’s hair.

Anna put her head down on the pillow. Her boots were gone. Her hair had come down, and she pushed it back impatiently.

“I would like to kiss you,” Ariadne said. Her voice shook with a fear Anna understood all too well. Ariadne was afraid Anna was going to push her away, reject her, run screaming. But how could Ariadne not know how she felt? “Please, Anna, may I kiss you?”

Unable to speak, Anna nodded.

Ariadne leaned forward and pressed her lips to Anna’s.

Anna had lived this moment in her mind a hundred times or more. She did not know her body would grow so warm, that Ariadne would taste so sweet. She returned the kiss, then kissed Ariadne along her cheek, her chin, down her neck. Ariadne made a low sound of delight. She brought her lips up to Anna’s again, and they fell back against the pillows. They were tangled together, laughing and warm, intent on only each other. The pain was gone, replaced by rapture.

During the day, the streets and alleys of Soho could be hard to navigate. At night, they became a dangerous and confusing warren. Jem kept his staff aloft. At this late hour, the only people about were drunkards and ladies of the night. The alleys smelled of refuse, and there was broken glass and the assorted detritus of a London day.

Jem made his way to a storefront on Wardour Street. He knocked, and the door was opened by two young werewolves, neither of whom seemed surprised to see him.

Woolsey Scott is expecting me.

They nodded and guided him through a dark and empty shop that sold buttons and ribbons and through a door. On the other side was a dimly lit but tastefully furnished room. Woolsey Scott was stretched out on a low divan. Sitting opposite him was Leopolda Stain, surrounded by a half a dozen more werewolves. She seemed calm and composed, and was even sipping from a cup of tea.

“Ah, Carstairs,” Scott said. “Finally. I thought we’d be here all night.”

Thank you, said Jem, for looking after her for me.