Chapter 8 - The Chase Through the Fog
We didn't take Julian’s carriage from the front drive. We took Silas Wathbone’s own private coach parked in the service stable, Julian throwing the stunned stable boy a sovereign before leaping onto the bench and cracking the whip over the four powerful horses.
The carriage exploded into the rain-soaked London streets, flying through the thick midnight fog.
Behind us, two police whistles shrieked through the gale. Inspector Vance and three mounted constables were in full pursuit, their lanterns bobbing wildly through the mist like malevolent fireflies.
""Hold on!"" Julian roared from the driver’s bench.
The carriage took a violent turn onto the cobblestones of the river embankment, the wooden chassis groaning under the strain. Cold rain pelted through the window, plastering my hair to my neck, but inside my coat, the naval ledger remained bone dry.
""They're gaining on the left!"" I shouted up through the driver's hatch.
""They won't catch four bloodstock hunters on a straight road!"" Julian yelled back, his voice full of wild, exhilarated adrenaline. ""Josie! Prepare the telegraph sequence when we hit Kensington!""
The horses thundered past the iron gates of Kensington, Julian pulling hard on the reins to skid the massive carriage into the hidden service barn behind the estate. The heavy barn doors swung shut behind us just as the distant thunder of police horses surged down the main road, completely bypassing our hidden driveway in the blinding downpour.
We had five hours before sunrise.
We tumbled down into the underground vault, soaked to the bone, mud-spattered, and breathing hard.
""How long will it take you to typeset the names?"" Julian asked, stripping off his ruined evening coat to reveal the muscular lines of his linen shirt, his chest heaving with exertion.
I walked straight to the American steam press, tying my hair back with a piece of twine.
""With a double cylinder and eight columns?"" I looked at him, my heart pounding with pure, unadulterated fire. ""Three hours. But we aren't just printing a dozen doorsteps this time, Julian.""
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""No,"" Julian agreed, his gray eyes shining with fierce pride. ""I’ve paid two hundred newsboys across every borough in London. By six o'clock this morning, ten thousand copies will hit Parliament, Fleet Street, the Stock Exchange, and the gates of Buckingham Palace.""
""Then start the steam engine,"" I commanded, pulling out the type drawers with furious, practiced speed. ""The Midnight Mirror goes to war.""
