The River of No Return

bowl of a pipe that his foot had uncovered. As his fingers closed around the smooth clay form, the hair lifted at the back of his neck. He was being watched.
    Nick took his time. He straightened up with the pipe in hand—it was more intact than he had at first seen; only the end of the stem was broken off. He turned it over in his fingers, this little relic of his own era, then let it fall. He turned and scanned the embankment with a casual air. Men and women were beginning to hurry by on their way to work. A few people were leaning against the railing, looking across the river at the city. Was one of them the Guild’s spy? He passed his eyes across two young Asian tourists, the woman looking out toward St. Paul’s, the man with his iPhone lifted. A jogger taking a rest and swigging from a red bottle. A trio of teenagers in school uniform, smoking cigarettes.
    Then he saw him. Not on the embankment, but standing halfway down the steps to the river. The thick brown hair was the same, and the big, meaty body. This time the suit was an absurd three-piece concoction of pale green tweed. The trousers were plus fours, of all the unbelievable things. Mustard-colored socks, brown brogues . . . and big, mirrored aviator glasses.
    Mr. Mibbs.
    How he thought he could blend in, Nick didn’t know. Or perhaps he wasn’t trying to, for when Nick caught sight of him he made no motion to pretend he wasn’t staring. Nick almost raised a hand and waved, but that blank, mirrored stare reminded him of how he had felt the first time he had seen the man, all those years ago in Chile. And the way that Leo had warned him away when Nick started to approach. And what Leo had said about Mibbs and stolen babies later on.
    Nick turned back to the river. So Leo was right. Mibbs was some kind of Guild official. Probably police, or a spy, though you could hardly describe him as “plainclothes.” His taste was atrocious.
    Well, let him follow. Nick had no intention of going back to St. James’s Square any time soon. He was playing truant today, and Mibbs was welcome to watch.
    * * *
    That night Julia exulted in her ability. Locked in her bedchamber long after the household was asleep, she lit five candles around her room so that she could measure the strength of her ability to freeze time. She stood on the bed, holding another candle. For a moment she watched their flames tremble. Then she willed them to stop.
    And stop they did.
    Excitement bubbled up in her and spilled over, like boiling milk. She gave in to joy, dancing on her bed in the midst of the stalled moment, twirling with her candle held high, its flame still as a painting, her loose hair spinning around her face and shoulders.
    “‘I drink the air before me!’”
    She pointed her finger dramatically and started time again in a wave, beginning with the candle by the door and bringing each flame back to life one by one.
    A moment later she lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, time moving sedately about her. Her soul was rigid with fear. This was rough magic.
    * * *
    At first it was mildly amusing, leading Mibbs around the city. The man was nothing if not persistent, plodding along a block behind as Nick wandered through the streets, getting reacquainted with London. Nick would catch sight of him now and then in a shop window, his hands always flat at his sides, his mirrored glasses glinting in the sun. Then Nick would forget about him for ten or fifteen minutes at a time. After all, he was in London and there was so much more to pay attention to than one badly dressed Guild thug.
    But Nick quickly realized that London wasn’t his city anymore. Many Georgian houses remained and many were missing, knocked out like teeth by bombs or Victorians. Those that did remain weren’t being used as houses; nobody seemed to live in the center of town, though the place was teeming with humanity. Nick cut up through Seven Dials and knew for certain: This new city had long forgotten Nicholas Falcott, Marquess of Blackdown, and Nick Davenant was a tourist here, among thousands of other tourists. He stepped into a thronged coffee shop and elbowed his way toward an organic sausage roll and something called a “flat white.” He paid with his Amtrak Guest Rewards card, and wondered, as the espresso machine shrieked, if he would ever board the Vermonter at Penn Station and rattle over the river and through the woods to his little house again.
    After breakfast he stopped counting the