“Then why is it you’re so set on leaving?” He gave her a pointed look.

Why? She knew why.

Her friends might’ve been able to keep her somewhat safe, but so long as she was in London and the Kincaids were determined to find her, Gemma couldn’t keep the Donnellys or Baz safe.

She couldn’t live with that.

Several months earlier, the Dread Penny Society had facilitated the escape of a particularly mischievous young orphan named Very Merry, who’d been forced by the Mastiff to undertake increasingly dangerous acts of thievery. She now made her home with Hollis and Ana Darby, safe from her one-time thief master but every bit as much of a troublemaker as she’d ever been.

She was well-known to all the Dreadfuls, yet all of them looked as shocked as Barnabus felt seeing her rushing toward their CALL effort.

Ana intercepted her. “Is something the matter?”

“Bob’s Your Knuckle climbed in the window at the house sayin’ Olly sent him to say Miss Vera needs to see Doc at her place.”

“Did Bob’s Your Knuckle say if Olly said the need was an urgent one?” Barnabus asked.

Very Merry nodded. “Seemed to think you oughta skip over straight off.”

“Is someone ill or injured?”

“I ain’t a newspaper, Doc. I ain’t got all the gossip.”

Ana didn’t quite manage to hold back her amusement. “You had best make your way to Piccadilly, Barnabus. Vera wouldn’t disrupt your efforts here if you weren’t truly needed.”

He couldn’t argue with her on that. And knowing Gemma was at the flat, too, added a degree of concern. Was Gemma ill? Was Vera’s back causing her more misery than usual? Had the Kincaids found them?

Barnabus pulled Brogan away from the cart where he and Fletcher were distributing vegetables. “I just got word that we need to go back to your flat.”

Brogan paled. “Is something the matter with Vera?”

“I don’t know.”

Fletcher motioned for them both to go. “We’ve hands enough.”

They were soon on their way, the journey made in silence. Barnabus suspected Brogan’s mind was as uneasy as his over what they’d find upon arrival.

At the flat, Brogan unlocked the door and let them both in. They followed the sound of voices to the sitting room.

A young girl, likely thirteen years old, lay on the sofa, pale and listless. Near her sat Vera with her arm around the shoulders of a boy likely five years the girl’s junior, who was standing beside her chair. Gemma laid a cool cloth over the girl’s forehead. Mr. Sorokin, of all people, knelt on the floor beside the sofa, holding the girl’s hand and watching her with concern.

Mr. Sorokin looked up as they entered. “Do you have your doctoring bag?”

“I do.”