The River of No Return

Blackdown that he wasn’t telling. Julia stared at him, willing him to tell. Infusing him with her own powerful desire to know everything about Nicholas Falcott.
    Jemison turned his head slowly toward her. When he met her eyes, she extended herself fully to him, flooding him with her need, her passionate curiosity. She pictured him opening his mouth and speaking. . . .
    “Young lady,” he said. His voice was quiet but firm. “Pray, what are you doing to me?”
    Julia drew back, blinking. “I beg your pardon?”
    “I think you know.” He laid his apple core on the table, uneaten, and walked toward her, his eyes very intent. “I want you to stop.” He took her hand, and she felt his resistance to her will in his very fingertips. “I am a free man, my dear. And I do not choose to tell you anything about Lord Blackdown.”
    Clare looked quizzically at Jemison and then at Julia. “What on earth are you talking about?”
    “It’s nothing.” Jemison came back to his position beside Clare, but his eyes were still on Julia. “Miss Percy was just looking at me so appealingly. I had to explain to her that Lord Nick’s secrets and mine are our own. To share when and with whom we choose.”
    Julia stood rigid. Had she really just penetrated Jemison’s mind with her own emotions? That wasn’t a normal thing to do. Normal people couldn’t do that. And yet . . .
    She had done it once already today. She had done it at dinner, and she hadn’t even realized it until just now. She had done it when she had extended herself to the Russian and made him trust her. She had put her trust in herself into his head, and he had accepted it as his own emotion. Believed it. He had even sung her praises at the end of the evening.
    And now she had tried to make Jemison talk to her, tried to make him tell her his secrets. She had done it thoughtlessly. But he was right. She’d intruded on him. Put her own feelings into him and tried to make him act on them.
    It was a terrifying power. No, it was another terrifying power. She cowered in her own skin, yearning for Grandfather, yearning for a friend.
    Some time later, Clare touched her arm.
    Julia came back to herself. “I’m all right,” she said. “I was just woolgathering.”
    “Woolgathering! How could you, while we were talking about the possible destruction of this house by a mob of angry Londoners!” Clare laughed, but Jemison was concerned for her, she could tell. His dark eyes seemed to see right through her.
    “Let’s go back to bed, my dear,” Clare said. “It is very late, and who knows when Nick will return. He mustn’t find us consorting in the basement with a radical tallow chandler, dressed only in our nightclothes.”
    Julia picked up her burned-out candle. She wished Nick would find her tonight. Even his disappointment or his anger would feel like human contact. Even the fact that she couldn’t tell him about her talent, even the terrible fact that she must hide it from him at all costs . . . being with him and keeping secrets from him felt better than this loneliness.
    Jemison levered himself back into his coat and tucked a third apple into its pocket. “Good night then, and Godspeed.” He sketched them both a bow. “Let’s hope the marquess votes against the bill and makes himself a hero. There are some lords’ houses in Berkeley Square that will certainly draw the ire of the crowd after the bill passes. I won’t be able to protect this one if they turn their rage in its direction.”
    Clare nodded. “I shall do my best to convince him, but the choice must be his.”
    “Yes.” Jemison picked up his lantern. For the first time his voice was cold. “The precious marquess must make his own choice.” But the sparkle returned immediately, and his grin flashed in the glow of his lantern. “‘UP, men of reason . . . !’”
    He opened the kitchen door with a flourish and was gone.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
    F rom some hidden pocket, Ahn produced what looked like a silver card case. He placed it on the table in front of him and said, “First image.” A three-dimensional, fully colored moving image appeared, hovering over the length and breadth of the table. It showed a city in flames, and the sky boiling with red and black clouds. A great ruined dome rose in the center. With a start, Nick recognized St. Paul’s Cathedral, half blasted away. “London, 2145,” Ahn said. “In my time, Nick, the world is in crisis. The Guild is in