Two men hustled Kit between them across the room. Holding tightly to her forearms, they were able to lift her enough that she could not dig her heels in. She had to hurry to keep from falling.

Harry strolled along behind them, nodding pleasantly to those he recognized. Any looks of interest were met by the unspoken challenge in his cold eyes.

Overall, a very few of the patrons noticed the departure. The tall woman had garnered a few interested looks when she had entered. Her face was too striking to entirely ignore. She had drawn an admiring eye or two, but for the most part the gamblers were too involved in their own affairs to care about her. Kit was shocked at how many heads stayed bent over their tables.

She was conducted across the hazy room and into a narrow hallway. At the end of which was a heavy wooden door. This was opened for her and closed with a resounding thud the moment the group was inside.

After which the gambling floor returned to normal. As if by mutual consent, they all forgot that such a woman had ever existed. All except one old man, who disengaged himself from his table and shuffled towards the shadowy hallway.

Harry Wilcox crossed behind his desk and sat, gesturing for Kit to do the same in a straight backed wooden chair across from him. Kit shook her head. One of the two men behind her, a bald giant with thick side whiskers, pushed her down roughly by the shoulders. The hard wooden seat jarred her back and shoulders. The second man behind her had dusky skin and thick black hair curled into Newgate Knockers, a style where the whiskers were set back over his ears.

The room was narrow and high, like the rest of the rooms on this floor. There was a settee against one wall and a vase of dusty peacock feathers sat on a round stand beside it. The plank floor was without carpet, and years of dust and dirt were trammeled into the surface, making it look almost polished.

Harry's padded leather chair creaked comfortably as he settled his weight into it, placing his elbows on the top of his desk and leaning his chin against his laced fingers.

This was the first chance Kit had to really look at him, and she found that his face matched his voice admirably. His cheeks and forehead were smooth and unblemished. A dark sleek mustache curled under his nose, and his black hair was pomaded into a slick helmet over his head. He had liquid brown eyes, and a quick easy set about his mouth. He was dressed impeccably. She could tell that everything he wore was hand-tailored. His jacket and waistcoat were a light caramel color, his watch chain of gold. Obviously the collection business was treating him well.

"Miss Rushford," he said, his smooth voice filling the silent room. "What are you doing here?"

Her throat felt dry and tight, but she lifted her chin. "What do most people do at a gambling hall, Mr. Wilcox?"

He smiled at her, displaying a row of straight, though stained teeth. His fingers tapped on his desktop. It was a large piece of furniture, obviously well-made. So far, it looked like the only thing in the entire building that had had any money or thought put into the purchase of it.

"I hear you've been looking for me?"

The office door behind them opened and closed. Kit fought to swallow. Under no circumstances would she give this man any ground if she could help it. "I don't know where you would have heard that Mr. Wilcox, but you have been misinformed."

Harry's eyes flicked behind her and Kit swiveled her head to take in the newcomer standing behind her. It was her Haymarket Hector, the man who had threatened her in the boxing ring. He smiled down at her.

"This is my place," Harry carried on, selecting a cigarette out of a large carved wooden box that accompanied his ink pot and other writing tools at the front of his desk. He offered one to her. Kit declined with a shake of the head.

"I know everything that goes on in those rooms." He nodded towards the gambling floor. "And I was surprised after our last meeting that you would be so eager to see me again."

Kit stifled the feelings of rage that were growing in her.

"How are you adjusting by the way?" He asked. "Growing used to your new lifestyle? It must be hard without your hands."

There were a few stray chuckles from behind her. Kit started to rise, but rough hands pushed her back down. Hector came forward and whispered something into Harry's ear. A frown momentarily creased the demander's brow. He waved his hand towards the door. "Bring him in," he said.

Hector exited, and then returned a few moments later in the company of two other men, One with the hammer fists of a boxer, the other built like a barrel with arms and legs. They dragged an old man between them.

His thin body was bent almost double, and they dropped him unceremoniously into the seat beside Kit. He stirred feebly, and set about trying to straighten his disheveled clothes. Kit recognized his grey tousled hair from the opium den, and then again from the gambling room. She had no idea why he had followed her, and she didn't know if she should be more concerned or comforted by the presence of another person in the midst of her situation.

Especially since now instead of two men in the room with her and Harry and the old man, there were four, standing silent and ready behind her. One of the new men carried a cane hooked over the crook of his arm. It looked stout and well-used.

Hector returned to Harry's side, and this time Kit was able to catch a few words.

"…Not sure, but something has 'em all spooked."

"Send a runner to find out what's going on." Harry instructed Hector, and then waited until he had left the room again before turning his attention back to his two unwilling visitors.

"And you are?" He addressed the old man.

"A friend." The man's voice was a breathy wheeze.

"A friend I've never met before, snooping around outside my office door?"

"I was about to knock when your guard dogs set upon me. I tried to explain that I had something very valuable to offer you, but they wouldn't listen."

"What could you have for me?"

"A deal. Send the woman away and we'll talk about it."

"The twist stays. What kind of deal would I possibly be interested in talking about with an old duffer like you?"

"I've no stolen goods for you."

"Then what are you?"

"A fence. Unless I am mistaken, you have an item that you'll need getting rid of. I can help with that."

Harry's face paled, and then laughter burst out of him, rocking him back and forth in his chair. He dropped his cigarette to the floor and crushed it out. "Well done, Jack. Who told you that?"

"I have my informants, as you have yours sir."

Harry lit another cigarette, blowing the smoke in the air above his head. His face danced in the candle light thrown from the sconces on the wall. Kit felt her muscles tighten as she watched him.

The room was so still she could hear the scrape of his fingernails over fabric as he smoothed one of his pant legs over his knee. There was a distant scratching as well, dull and rhythmical, the small sound of a rodent burrowing for warmth or food. She could even smell the men standing behind her, warm and unwashed, sour with sweat and the pheromones that accompanied aggression. Adrenaline, hot breath, musk.

"You've been lied to, Jack. I've got nothing like that." Harry said, laying his hands flat on the desk, caressing one of them over the polished wood.

"You are the one who is lying," the old man returned, unshaken. "But it doesn't matter. I will come back another time and take it."

Harry came around his desk and leaned his hip against the front of it. He smiled at Kit, gesturing to the old man. "This one's all mouth isn't he? Too bad for both of you. I was hoping you and I would be able to get along. But now I'll have to send the both of you for a nice long float down the Thames."

"You are scum, sir." The man wheezed back.

Kit blinked at him, hardly believing that she had heard him correctly. Hadn't he gotten them into enough trouble as it was?!

"You are a worm that only survives by collecting debts for larger earth-crawlers," he continued. "If I had my way I would see you locked away to rot somewhere small and cold."

There was a slow rustle of moving bodies from behind their seats, drawing closer. Harry took a long drag from his cigarette, then stood. His hand fell to Kit's shoulder, then slid up to the back of her neck, where he snatched a fist-full of hair, tilting her head back. He took another drag of the cigarette, now bringing the burning end closer to Kit's face.

"I've already done you down once already, girl," he whispered. "Didn't realize I'd get a second chance at it. So it'll be you and me now, and the boys here will take care of your friend. I promise you, by the time we're done, no one will ever recognize either of you again."

Kit shot a sidelong glance at the old man beside her. For the first time he was looking straight at her, his head cocked to one side. There was a strange look in his eye. Something familiar and mocking. If she hadn't known better, she would have sworn that she had seen that look somewhere before.

He smiled at her.

Kit would have been shocked if she had the time, but something blurred from behind her companion, and the barrel chested man with the cane draped over his arm swung it up and dropped it over the old man's head across his throat.

Harry pulled her head closer to him, bringing the smoldering end of his cigarette in line with her eye. The move cut off her view of the old man, and she missed seeing his lightning reaction to his aggressor. His hands snapped up from his lap to grab the cane at either end, twisting it end over end and yanking it out of the younger man's grasp.

He pointed the end towards Harry and smashed the tip directly into his nose, sending the mustached man sprawling backwards across his desk.

He then darted the hooked end behind him, connecting with the human barrel's gut. The man groaned and clutched his stomach.

The old man now sprung from his chair, turning to face the four men behind him.

Harry staggered up, seeing the man's back to him, and hurried around to the far side of his desk. He started to rummage in one of his drawers. Kit stood, took the chair from under her, and flung it at Harry with all her might. It caught him in the chest, sending him back into the wall.

Kit knew that she had only stalled him, and that he would soon regain his balance. Without thinking she lunged forward, crawling onto his desk, grabbed the heavy carved box of cigarettes and threw it at his head. Harry's hands came up to defend himself, and Kit was able to twist into a seated position on the desktop and drive both booted feet directly into his unprotected middle.

Harry groaned and dropped to his knees, and Kit scrambled back off the desk onto the floor.

She found the old man holding the cane over his head, hooked end towards him, in a stance that looked vaguely like a flamboyant fencer. Two men came at him, the bald one and Newgate Knockers, and he delivered a stab to Newgate's throat, dropping him instantly to his knees, choking and clawing around his collar.

The bald man he rained down blows on from his en garde above his head. Mercilessly the hard wood of the stick connected with the man's elbows and knees, smashing away at the joints repeatedly. Then the old man stepped deftly forward, snaking his foot behind that of his opponent and pushed him backward, sending him off balance and tumbling to the ground, landing hard on his back and smacking his head into the wooden floor.

The boxer pushed his way through now, blond and built like a bull, with massive shoulders. The cane was there to meet him again, shooting forward and catching the man around the back of the neck. The old man jerked his attacker's head forward, driving a slim knee into the man's stomach, and then using the cane again to pull the man's face down into a second knee to the nose. He jerked the boxer past him, sending him sliding across the desk into Harry, who had staggered to his feet.

Both men fell in a heap to the floor.

Barrel Chest had managed to recover enough to re-join the fight, and he took advantage of the old man's momentum to come up behind him and grab him by the throat. The old man dropped the cane, choking loudly.

Kit scooped the cane up and delivered a sharp hard hit across the back of the Barrel's skull. He crumpled before her, leaving the old man staring at her with saucer eyes, rubbing his angry red throat. A second later he regained his head and took her firmly by the wrist, dragging her towards the door.

The door swung open to meet them, and Hector ran in, yelling as he did "Harry, it's the Blue Bottles! They're coming through the street entrance, lots 'a them, the whole place has gone up."

He stopped short, taking in the scene, his eyes finally coming to rest on the old man and Kit, who drew up, waiting. There was one short hard breath between them all, and then Kit drew back her foot and kicked Hector in the groin. He dropped with a cry, coughing and gagging. "Take that to your crib." She realized that this was becoming a favored move of hers.

She brushed a stray lock of hair out of her face and turned to her elderly companion, who was still frozen in shock. "Well?"

He hurried out the door, sure now that she could follow without his assistance.

It took Harry and his men only a moment to collect themselves and run after them. Hector stayed on the floor, waiting for the pain to subside before he could move.

Kit followed her new friend out into the gambling floor. Everything was in movement. People hurried different directions, dealers scraped up chips into open sacks, while the bouncers elbowed their way across the crowds.

The old man charged through the swarms of people, dragging Kit by the wrist after him. It didn't occur to her in the speed of the moment to notice that despite the number of times he had grabbed her, it was always her wrist or elbow, never either of her hands.

Harry's men came spilling out of the office hallway after them, but crashed into a large group, giving Kit and her friend time to escape out the steel door.

The opium den was loud and crowded, people called to each other over the stacks of recumbent bodies. Anyone there with enough sense to move was lurching off their pallets to join the exodus.

The old man dragged Kit to one of the isles closest to the wall, and in the dim light she saw that he was shedding his clothes as he did. His jacket and waistcoat flew under one of the bunks, followed by a blur of grey, which it took a second for her to realize was a wig. His strong hand grabbed her again and pulled her up short.

She looked up into the very angry face of Sherlock Holmes. Make-up still streaked his face, and his skin beneath was flushed.

"Mr. Holmes?"

"Under the pallet, Miss Rushford. Now."

She asked no questions, just dropped to her knees, and then her stomach, crawling under the empty set of bunks beside them. The space was barley high enough for her to fit, but she sucked in a deep breath and wedged herself as far back as she could.

Holmes picked up a pipe that had been abandoned by a fleeing customer, and threw himself out on his stomach over the pallet above her, cushioning his face in his crossed arms. The rush of people subsided. Soon he was able to make out distinct sets of footsteps. There were five of six in particular that cross-crossed the room. As the silence settled he could hear them talking back and forth to each other.

"They must have gone on ahead."

"I didn't see them go through the door. They must be here somewhere."

"Bloody hell."

"Here, turn these people over. One old man can't be that hard to find!" That was Harry, Holmes recognized the voice.

The only people left in the room were either unconscious, nearly so, or looking for himself and Kit. Two sets of footsteps distinguished themselves as they approached, only a few bunks away. He heard a muffled sound. A rustling of clothing maybe?

He realized that the men were turning the sleepers over to look at their faces. A rough hand grabbed his shoulder. Holmes allowed himself to be jerked up and tossed over onto his back. He fluttered his eyelids, but did not open them. All he could do was hope that without his disguise on, they would pass him by. In the dark behind his eyelids he picked out the sound of heavy breathing, and then a foot nudged his hip.

"Look at these toffs. Waste of skin in'e?"

"Come on, the others are getting ahead."

The footsteps continued on, fading with distance until silence reigned again.

Holmes rolled back onto his stomach and dangled his head over the side of the pallet. Kit's eyes were wide and glittering. She waited patiently. He gestured for her to come out. She shuffled out with care, only able to support her weight on one hand. Finally, she raised herself to her knees, then her feet. Holmes stood and faced her, casting the opium pipe aside.

"Don't tell me," his voice was hard. "You're here to help."

"Are you suggesting that I'm not being helpful right now?"

Holmes swallowed the beginnings of several sentences, before his index finger rose between them and pointed into her face.

"If you ever…" He was so angry he couldn't finish. He dropped his hand and spun away from her, stalking quickly towards the exit. "Follow me."

The crossed the deserted boxing ring, headed for the stairs.

"What exactly is happening?"

"Someone has called the police. The rats are abandoning ship."

"Don't we want the police here, though?"

"I fear soon they will wish there were anywhere else."

"Why?"

They pounded up the stairs and turned down the long hall now devoid of working girls. All the doors were shut tight. Kit noticed a dull roar coming from somewhere ahead. It was a sound she could not quite place.

"Do you remember that you once asked me why there were no guards on the front doors? And I told you that I thought it was on purpose?"

"Yes."

"Can you deduce why?"

"No. Tell me." The roar was growing louder the closer they got to the end of the hall.

"Because if you're leading a group into a canyon ambush, you don't post sentries at the mouth of the canyon. You wait until the victims have entered the trap, and then attack them from above."

"So you're saying that the police…?"

"Won't be able to fight their way far enough in to gain the upper hand. They will be bottled up in the hallway. Just like lambs shunted together in a slaughterhouse."

"Oh, my God."

They reached the end of the hall and ducked through onto the landing of the staircase leading down to main entrance tunnel. Here they were forced to stop. The crush of bodies made it impossible to go any further. The roar came from the mouths of the mob, pressed together, struggling and pushing to get closer to the exit. The staircase was packed. The floor below it as well.

Kit could see over the bobbing heads through the small opening in the wall that the main hallway was full of men in blue uniforms, jostling and flailing. The mob closest to the door was a mass of hands and arms, pushing the police back, throwing fists and debris randomly into the room.

A shot rang out, deafening in the closed space, and a woman screamed.

Beside the small ground level doorway, the plaster cracked and buckled. A moment later the wall shattered and several officers fell through, pushed by the weight of all the men behind them.

"Why don't the police just pull back?" She shouted at Holmes.

"Disoriented." He yelled back.

The scent of smoke reached her, and another sound hummed under the jumble of human voices. It sounded like a rush of fast air.

"They've knocked over the candles in the hall." Holmes was shouting in her ear, pushing them back up the steps against the sweeping crowd. "We can't get out this way."

The wooden staircase under them creaked and swayed. Kit realized that the weight of the large group on it was causing it to separate from the wall. With a loud squeal it wrenched free.

"Back up." Holmes yelled as he pushed her towards the top of the stairs. "Back up."

Kit whirled and ran for it, praying that he was close behind her. The smoke thickened, and she could hear the jumble of voices increase as more people realized that the stairs were about to give way beneath them.

She felt Holmes' hand on her lower back, pushing her the last few steps up and through the narrow doorway back into the hall. With a prolonged crack the stairs slumped sideways, hitting the opposite wall and then collapsing all at once to the floor, throwing dust and splinters.

The few people who had managed to make their way off the structure and back into the hallway ran away, searching for another exit.

Holmes took a few deep breaths. He could feel the temperature in the small space rising. Kit stood close to him, pressed against the wall, shoulders slumped.

Holmes' anger left him in that moment. He knew it was only a mask covering his fear at the thought of anything hurting her. He was almost blind with it. He felt powerless, while at the same time willing to go to any lengths to see her safely away from here.

Her shoulders shook slightly, and he went to her, pulled her tight against him and pressed his cheek to the top of her head. "It's all right," he crooned. "You're fine. I won't let anything happen to you."

She broke a way from him, frowning up into his face. "Me?! I'm worried about you, you stupid man. The building is on fire!"

He blinked down at her, startled, and in that moment came to one very important life decision. He never again wanted to spend another day without Kit Rushford.

Which meant that they had better hurry.

They ran down the hallway, away from the creeping smoke and sounds of struggle, knocking on each door as they hurried past, checking that the women within had escaped from the tiny rooms. Everyone seemed to have fled already.

They carried on across the abandoned boxing area, the canvas of the ring glowing yellow in the candle light.

The operators of the opium den had departed as well. Incense and pipe smoke swirled in the quiet air. It was an eerie quiet, interrupted only by the occasional distant thud or muffled cry.

Holmes pulled her through the outer rooms into the inner den, back to where the ones that had truly given themselves over to the drug remained, many unconscious and insensible to the danger around them.

"We'll never get them all out of here," Holmes breathed. "There are too many for us to carry."

"There must be another way out," she pleaded, scanning the room for anything that might help move the insensible bodies. Her eye fell on the storm shutters she had noticed earlier.

"Sherlock, the windows!"

He didn't need to be told twice. Many of the windows were sealed with brick and mortar, but a few had steel storm shutters bolted closed to stop the candle light from leaking out. The shutters were fastened with long iron crossbars, fitted through brackets much like those used to bar the doors of a medieval castles. These here were shorter and lighter, but in many cases rusted into place.

Holmes hooked his shoulder under one such bar and used the strength of his legs to try and press upwards, dislodging it.

"Stuck," He grunted. "Try another."

Kit ran from window to window, applying her shoulder to the bars until she found one that gave slightly under her pressure.

"This one."

He hurried over to her, and pushing and jiggling together they managed to break it free from the brackets and hurl it to the ground. Holmes jammed his fingers into the center join of the shutters and was able to pull them open. The metal shrieked as it slowly parted, revealing the tall windows beneath.

"Find something to break it," he commanded.

There was an overturned chair a few feet away from them. Kit pointed it out to him. Homes retrieved it and flung it with all his strength at the window. Glass shards exploded outwards, larger pieces dropping to shatter dangerously on the floor at their feet. He kicked out the remaining razor sharp pieces that clung to the frame, clearing a safe path to move the bodies through.

He leaned out into the night air.

The street roiled with movement. Police officers ran back and forth in the rain, citizens of the neighborhood stood fascinated on the street across from the building. There was a mass of indistinguishable yelling and flailing. A few windows on the lower levels had been broken out, and men and women flowed out like water overcoming a dam. Officers were able to grab a few, but the bulk were disappearing down the endless and winding streets surrounding the neighborhood, most of them making in the direction of the docks.

The opens windows had also allowed a rush of air to enter the building, feeding the already growing flames and blowing them into even greater life.

The fire brigade had yet to appear, and there was a general panic, fed by fear and disorder.

"Oy!" Holmes yelled down into the street. He had to yell several times to be heard over the tumult.

Finally, a police officer looked up at the window. Seeing Holmes, he nudged the man beside him and both ran over to stand below him, heads craning up.

"There are people up here," Holmes yelled down at them. "We'll have to jump. Do you have a net?"

The officers shook their heads. A few more people had stopped in their travels to see what was going on, and one young officer, barley out of his teens from the looks of his ash-streaked face, spoke up.

"We have a blanket. How would that be?"

"Yes, anything. These people will need help." Holmes replied.

Inside, Kit ran over to the first man she saw, unconscious, head lolling against the cushion of his bent arm, and tried to haul him off his pallet over to the window. Sherlock joined her, taking the man's upper body. Together they were able to drag him to the window.

By the time they had managed it several of the police had retrieved a wool blanket out of the back of one of the Black Marias and stretched it between them under the opening, making a landing area for the trapped people to jump into.

Holmes draped the man half over the sill, and with an inelegant shove sent him tumbling the rest of the way down.

The man plummeted, hitting the blanket with a grunt. The police bounced him once, and rolled him safely out onto the pavement.

Meanwhile Kit had already gone in search of the next person.

"Wait for me, wait for me," Holmes calmed her, helping to maneuver the next woman, with long stringy hair and pale lips off her pallet between them. "You can't lift them all on your own. Let me help you."

Smoke crept into the room, obscuring the ceiling. Body after body, Holmes and Kit dragged the unconscious or disoriented people to the window and tipped them out, until a running inspection of the room proved in empty. In all they have evacuated nine people. Just in time it seemed, as the air was becoming too thick to breathe, the heat causing sweat to flow freely from them both.

Holmes motioned Kit to the window. "Your turn."

She pulled away. "I'm not going without you."

"Yes you are. I'll be right behind you."

"You're going back for the earrings aren't you?"

"Of course not."

Her left hand connected with his face in a resounding slap.

They both froze, staring at each other. Kit's hand flew to her mouth. She hadn't planned to do it, but her desperation had changed to anger against him. Couldn't he just throw away his damnable stubbornness this once? The thought of him trapped here, without anyone to help, filled her with terror. He opened his mouth, but snapped it shut again, unsure what to say.

"That's for lying to me," she explained.

Holmes scooped her up into his arms, carrying her to the window. She clung to his neck, feeling his heart pounding between them. "Sherlock! Don't you dare!"

She struggled, but he was too strong for her. Her forehead grazed the sandpaper of his unshaven cheek. She was amazed at how effortlessly he managed her weight. Amazed and furious. He held her close, minimizing her ability to struggle. She clawed at him, finally managing to spit her words at him. "If anything happens to you I'll never forgive you!"

His chest rose and fell in a laugh. "If anything happens to you, my dear, I'll never forgive myself either."

He leaned out the window with her. "I promise I will be with you directly."

Then he let her go.