One.

They needed to be strategic about things. If Abigail showed up and was introduced formally as A New Friend for the girls to hang out with, they'd know something was up.

So, instead, she was at Bev's place doing her homework in the garden when the girls walked out of the Thames in their fancy wetsuits and swim caps.

"Who're you?" one of the girls asked, wrinkling her nose up.

"Abigail," Abigail said absently, trying to figure out where she'd gone wrong. Bev had given her a hint and said to call for help if she needed it. Abigail would much rather have the satisfaction of figuring it out herself than having the answer handed to her, but the carbon cycle was proving a bit tricky. "Peter's my cousin. Bev's helping me with my science homework." She looked up. "You're Bev's sisters, yeah? I've seen you around. She said you'd be around today."

"I'm Brent," said the second girl. She was shorter than the one who'd spoken first. Her nose was broader and her cheekbones not quite as high as Nicky's, and her skin was a deep tawny brown. "This is Nicky."

"Neckinger," said the other girl with a scowl. She was a bit taller, with a sharper nose and cool brown skin. Bev had said she was currently flip-flopping on whether she'd rather be Neckinger or Nicky. Apparently it was a Neckinger day.

The air was filled with the smell of animals, and the feeling of sun on your face, and the distant hum of machinery and church bells. Underneath it was a low grinding and the chill of ice. The church bells and machines were probably Neckinger, but the animals could be either, and the ice was probably Brent, as her river dated back to before the last ice age. This was the seducere, the glamour, that all genius loci gave off to a greater or lesser degree. They weren't seriously trying anything; it was just sort of feeling her out, a test, to see how vulnerable she was. Abigail was good at tests, and even better at this sort since last summer's adventure, but that had put her off this sort of thing.

"Hey," Abigail said. "Bev's around somewhere." She turned back to her worksheet.

By the time she'd finished it and set it aside for Bev to check, Brent and Neckinger were out of their wetsuits and in jeans and t-shirts, and Maksim had brought out bottles of squash—Robinson's, no own-brand in the Thames family. Personally, Abigail thought that having Bev's devoted worshipper (and manager of her Conservation Trust) waiting on the girls wasn't likely to be much help convincing them that they shouldn't be putting the fix in any time they could.

"I want to watch Pirates of the Caribbean tonight," Neckinger said.

Brent rolled her eyes. "Again?"

"So that's your favorite movie, then?" Abigail asked.

"She likes the scenes when they're hanging pirates," Brent said.

"They used to do that, where I flow into the Thames," Neckinger said. "'S where my name comes from." She cracked open her bottle of apple-and-blackcurrant and took a sip.

"Really?" Abigail asked. "How's that?" She'd looked up their rivers of course, so she already knew the answer, but she liked seeing how people answered questions.

"It comes from 'Devil's Neckcloth,'" Neckinger said. She mimed placing a noose around her neck and made a face like she was being hanged.

"I see," Abigail said. Neckinger was a bit bloodthirsty, but no worse than some other nine-year-olds Abigail knew.

"I'd rather watch the Hunger Games," Brent said. She eyed Abigail over her bottle. "Are you staying?"

"Maybe," Abigail said. "Depends, don't it. I'm waiting on a call." She wasn't, really, or not about anything important, but the whole point was to seem cool and exciting.

"From whom, your boyfriend?" Brent asked. Neckinger went oooh.

"Nah," Abigail said. "I look into things for people sometimes."

"What kind of things?" Neckinger asked, perking up.

"Confidential things," Abigail said. "Besides my investigative skills, they also pay me for my discretion."

"No, really, what kinds of things do you investigate?" Brent asked. "You can tell us something, can't you?"

Abigail pretended to consider. "You know the house near Hampstead that was a genius loci that trapped kids in it to play pretend? That was one of mine."

"I haven't heard about it," Neckinger said.

So Abigail told the story, with suitable embellishments, and the girls were properly amazed at it. Abigail liked it better this way, as an adventure with a plucky girl hero saving the day, rather than what it had actually been, which was confusing and terrifying. But the fact that it made her feel better to tell the story that was reason not to. Abigail would rather have the hard truth than the comforting story. But she needed the Thames girls to be impressed.

"Tell us another one!" Brent said.

Abigail had other stories, but none were adventures on anywhere near that scale. And many of them were private, or confidential. "Nah," she said. "That one doesn't have a client, so it's fine to tell. But like I said, I get paid for discretion."

"You can tell us something, though," Neckinger said. "What about the case you're working on now?"

Abigail looked to either side, as if checking the bushes for eavesdroppers. There weren't any, she knew; the foxes had some sort of business of their own that was keeping them busy tonight, which they hadn't shared. She leaned closer to the girls. They leaned towards her. "Can you keep a secret?" Abigail said quietly.

Both girls nodded vigorously.

"So can I." Abigail gave them a smirk and leaned back again.

Brent pouted.

"You can tell us," Neckinger said, with the weight of her river behind her.

Abigail's expression didn't change.

"Tell us," Brent said, adding her own pressure.

And that was interesting; either she was trying harder, or she was more powerful. Abigail wondered if it was because her river was longer and had more water, or because it was open instead of underground, or maybe it was that the river they called Brent today had been carving out a place for itself for the last half a million years, and the Neckinger had only existed for a bare thousand or so. And maybe it was only that two orisha acting together multiplied their powers, instead of adding them.

But no matter which explanation was true, even together their pressure didn't add up to the overwhelming power of that stupid house's memories.

Abigail waited until it was clear both girls had noticed she was unmoved. "You know, that house by Hampstead Heath wanted me to be a nice obedient puppet, too."

Brent looked stricken at the analogy, but Neckinger was less moved.

Abigail stared them both down. They'd been told often enough that there were boundaries, and that forcing someone to do something they didn't want to do was well past them; they knew—or should know—that they'd been in the wrong.

"Sorry," Brent said, looking down. Neckinger muttered something that passed for an apology.

"Apology accepted," Abigail said. She gathered up her homework. "I'm going to go find Bev." Both as a matter of strategy and as a matter of pride, she wasn't going to hang out with people who did that to her. If they wanted stories so badly they'd try and force it, they wouldn't get any, at least not on this visit.

She'd definitely earned her pay this time.