There was chaos on Bedford Square as bobbies’ whistle blasts filled the air and the bells of an approaching fire engine clanged across from the West End. Some people had fainted dead away, and young lads clambered over the rubble heap, calling for survivors.

“We should run,” said Riley. “The police will question everyone in a posh gaff such as this.”

Chevie tore off her bulletproof vest and took several breaths. “Yeah, okay, Riley. I make the strategy decisions, remember? Anyway, we should get out of here before the local police blame us for something.”

Riley tucked the magician’s cloak under his arm. “A good strategy. Lead on, Agent Savano.”

The pair trudged to the corner of Bedford Square, against the flow of the crowd straining to see the collapsed foundations of what the London News would call the “House of Hell.”

Riley and Chevie left a trail of dust behind them. They did not speak for a while, both engrossed in thoughts of the future. Eventually they realized that they had linked arms as they walked.

“We are like a couple off to the opera,” said Riley.

Chevie laughed and a puff of dust escaped her throat. “Yeah, a zombie couple.” Her laugh petered out. “You could have died back there, fighting Garrick. That was not part of the plan.”

“I thought of him, leaning over my dear ma,” said Riley, “with his knife ready to do its business, and I couldn’t help myself.”

Hooves clattered alongside as a hansom cab slowed, the driver sniffing a fare, despite of their appearance.

“We’re content on foot,” Riley called, without glancing upward. “Move on down the avenue.”

“Perhaps I am content to ride beside my mates,” said a familiar voice.

It was Bob Winkle, who had somehow kept a grip on the stolen carriage.

Winkle stood on the driver’s seat, peering down toward the corner of Bedford Square. “You pair had a right knees-up on that gaff,” he commented. “A cove might expect a life of high adventure partnering with such a duo. Like Holmes and Watson, ye are, but with extra munitions and explosions.”

Chevie shook herself like a dog and something resembling a teenage female emerged from the dust.

“That’s a nice face, princess,” said Bob Winkle. “If you gave it the lick of a wet cloth, I might lower meself to kiss it.”

They breakfasted like royalty on grub purchased with sovereigns found sewn into the lining of Garrick’s cloak. They ordered coffee with toast, oatmeal with brown sugar, fried eggs and sausage, curried chicken with potato, a platter of bacon, with extra grease for strength. All finished off with beer for the boys in spite of Chevie’s health warnings.

They sat at a street table on Piccadilly after breakfast, watching the avenue fill up with the day’s business.