“For the moment, it is your carriage, ma’am,” said Winkle, winking through the roof hole.

Riley grabbed the long-handled whip from its holster and cracked it expertly between the horse’s ears. Part of his magician/assassin training had been whip work, and Riley could snap a playing card out of a punter’s fingers blindfolded. The horse reared once in fright, snapped strong teeth at its tormentor, then took off across the cobbles toward Bloomsbury and Bedford Square.

Garrick opted to run toward the house on Bedford Square. A hansom would be swifter, but there were none to be seen.

It vexed him, even as his lungs burned, that he, the great Albert Garrick, was forced to run down an urchin and a girl.

There was no question now of letting them live.

They know my secrets, and I suspect that soon enough Agent Savano will turn her wiles to the task of plotting my downfall.

Garrick knew that these two links to the future must be comprehensively severed lest they use the Timekey to reconnect with Chevron’s time and bring justice down upon him.

The magician felt his hat fly off his head and he let it go, allowing his long hair to stream out behind him. The wind in his locks made him feel primal and unstoppable.

Riley drove the hansom as though the devil were on their tail, which was not far from the truth. The trip was a little more than two and a half miles, and Riley clipped almost every footpath on the journey, tossing Bob Winkle and Chevie like bulls-eyes in a jar, but they never complained or cried halt; they were all too willing to wear a few bruises if the prize was escaping Albert Garrick.

Riley, not content simply to graze footpaths, seemed determined to drive the cab to destruction. He thundered past a lord’s carriage and was only saved from tipping upside down by the steadying steel of a lamppost, which buckled under the weight of the hansom’s broadside.

Their progress along Gower Street was marked by two constable’s whistles; a baker’s tray tossed into the air, showering the boys trailing the cart with hot rolls; and a sea of roast potatoes rolling from an overturned grill.

Chevie tried to hold herself steady enough to look out for Garrick, but the city flashed past, and her senses were addled by the jostling.

“Nearly there,” she said to herself, teeth clacking as she spoke. “I know this area.”

And she did, as the general architecture and layout of the streets did not change substantially over the next century.

Riley stood on the board, hauling on the reins, and slowed the beleaguered nag to a trot. He leaned into the roof aperture.

“Out you get, Chevie,” he ordered. “Bob, you dump this hansom in Covent Garden so as to draw the bluebottles away. Take it steady from here; no need to draw any sharp looks.”