She didn’t dare go directly to the Donnellys’ house. She’d not bring danger to Brogan, Vera, and Móirín. And Baz came by often enough; he might be there as well. But she couldn’t keep wandering the streets forever, hoping to shake him. She slipped her hand in her pocket, comforted by the knife she had at the ready.

A few quick turns brought her to a narrow lane that ended at a churchyard. No passage. No escape. She’d been taught to fight. Seemed the time had come to do so again.

Gemma planted herself in the middle of the road, took her knife from her pocket, then turned to face the man in the green hat.

He tipped his hat back. The late evening sun lit his face. She knew him: Uncle Silas.

“You know my father taught me to fight.” She tightened her grip on her weapon. “I ain’t opposed to a chivy duel even if you are family.”

“I ain’t interested in that bit of your education, girl. He taught you skills far more valuable to me.”

She could hold her own against a lot of people in a fight, but not Uncle Silas. He was far bigger than she was. And he was as cold as an icehouse in December, too well acquainted with death to be bothered by the possibility causing it. Among the Kincaids, loyalty was demanded, but love didn’t exist.

“You’re wasting your breath,” she said. “I want none of that life.”

“You’re a cleaning woman at a wax museum. You grunge up coins to buy carrots on the street. We can offer you far more.”

She knew the Kincaids’ purse was heavier than usual, but she didn’t mean to tip her hand. “The resurrection game ain’t never made a Kincaid wealthy.”

“We’re in fine feather, girl,” he said, crowing a bit. “Could be in finer still iffen we had more skilled hands.”

Gemma shifted her knife, keeping it fight-ready. “These hands won’t never be put to that work again.”

Far from intimidated, he pulled out his own knife, a sinister, self-assured smile tipping his mouth. “Think you’re above us now, do you?” He spun the knife casually. “You ain’t never been worth a groat without a shovel in your hand. You’ll be taking it up again.”

“Take yourself off, Silas. I ain’t going nowhere.”

“I can be very persuasive,” he drawled.

From behind Gemma came a welcome and familiar voice filled with the sound of Ireland. “I think you’ll be discovering, sir, that we can be quite persuasive ourselves.” Móirín’s presence would tip the balance.