Gemma moved along the edge of one of the walls to where it appeared to meet another. But if a person looked closely enough, like she always did, it was clear that the two walls only touched at the top. Nearer to the ground there was a gap that seemed far too small for a person to pass through. But it was all a trick of the eye. Even the walls in Southwark knew how to lie.

Gemma stepped through sideways, as that was the only way to manage the thing.

The space beyond was a hodgepodge of fallen walls and supporting beams. The building was only standing out of sheer stubbornness. But that had been true for many years; something in it must’ve been sturdy and steadfast.

Gemma slipped carefully around leaning walls and the thick, rough-and-tough beams holding them up. Halfway through the maze of building carcasses was an overhang, another puzzle piece one had to know about to find. She slipped under and turned left. Tucked beyond a barrier of almost complete darkness, a length of fabric hung from the sagging ceiling.

“Leti, soroka,” she called out softly. Mr. Sorokin had told her to use that Russian phrase if ever she needed his help but couldn’t risk anyone knowing.

While she waited for a response, she didn’t make a sound. Resurrectionists depended on stealth, and she’d learned to be as silent as the very graves they’d dug up.

She heard footsteps, but only because resurrectionists also learned to listen very, very closely. On the other side of the curtain was someone as skillfully quiet as she.

The fabric pulled back, revealing a silhouette. Taller than she was—a decided advantage. And the man’s eyes’d be adjusted to the dark—even more of an advantage. She had her knife, though, and she’d a knack with it.

“Leti, soroka,” she repeated.

“Gemma Kincaid?”

They’d each said only two words, but both had twigged the other. She’d found Mr. Sorokin, and he’d remembered her. Blimey, that was a relief.

“I’m in bad loaf,” she said. “I need help wrigglin’ out of it.”

He took her by the arm, then pulled her into the darkness. He kept firm hold, guiding her into an open space, broken up only by more hanging fabric. Old windows missing their glass were covered with thick burlap. Peepers wouldn’t manage to see in, but a bit of light did slip through.

“It’s a friend,” Mr. Sorokin said, the flavor of Russia seasoning his voice. “All’s safe and well.”