SAVERIO

August 14, 1899

Something horrible has happened. The most horrible thing that could have possibly happened! And I am helpless to do more than sit here scribbling when I should be by my love’s side. My hope is that transcribing it here on paper will help to clear my anxious mind. With that clarity, maybe I can start thinking of ways to help Thomas.

What is worst of all is that it is my own fault.

Thomas had a rehearsal with Neville tonight at Covent Garden, and so I wanted to surprise him. I gave myself plenty of time and waited outside the theatre, not sure how long their practicing would take. I had brought a book with me to pass the time, but as evening set in, it did little good, so I stashed it away in my coat pocket and waited for my Thomas.

I looked at the different buildings up and down Bow Street, wondering if I had time to do a little exploring of my own, but I caught movement out of the corner of my eye. Expectantly, I flashed a smile toward the doors of the theatre, but it was Wighton who emerged.

Wighton has always had an odd look in his eye, something manic and tense, but even so, he was giving me an odd look as he considered me, then he walked off into the night. Shortly after, the man I had been waiting for emerged.

He asked what I was doing there, and I asked if he wanted to take a walk. He looked around. If he was worried Neville or someone else had already spotted me, he was a little late for that. Eventually, though, he smiled and nodded.

We made our way down Southampton to the Strand, then we crossed over to the Thames. A cool breeze danced off the river as we were crossing Waterloo Bridge. I saw Thomas shiver (well, more than usual), and I wanted to alleviate the chill—plus I was thinking selfishly and wanted to have him close to me. I wrapped an arm around his shoulders, certain that the cover of night would keep us safe.

I had not even heard the footsteps.

“What have we got here, Mickey?”

Thomas and I whirled. Two men, not much older than us by the looks of it, were standing at the end of the bridge but then slowly started making their way over to us. From their dress, I could tell they were working class. Suspenders held up loose pants that they likely could not afford to have tailored. One was gaunt, with dark-red hair that was tied back behind the nape of his neck, and had grease stains on his shirt. The other hid what little hair he did have beneath a threadbare wool cap and was shorter but broader, with thick muscles.

“Looks like a pair of sods to me,” the thin one jeered.

Closer and closer they got. I had already removed my arm, but I could already sense the discomfort coming from Thomas for the impending confrontation.

“You boys headed to the pub, I presume? By all means, don’t let us stop you.” I stepped to the side and fanned my arm out, presenting the clear path I had just made for them. But they were not interested in my mock chivalry.

“We don’t like your types ’round here,” the big one grunted.

The thinner one stuck his hand out in front of him. “What my friend here is trying to say is that we are just a couple o’ good Samaritans. As I am sure you must know, buggery is considered a crime. And we can’t have you out committing crimes on our streets. Think of the families that might be out and about…the children. Can’t have ’em witnessing your foul display.”

I could sense Thomas’s anxiety rising, and apparently so could they.

The big one with the cap moved in toward Thomas and nodded to him. “This one don’t look much older than a child himself.”

The redhead stroked his chin, pretending to consider his friend’s statement. “That would make your actions especially lewd.”

I ignored him and focused on the gorilla. “You leave him alone, you blundering oaf!”

He grinned, revealing some gaps where teeth should have been. “And what’s a couple of Nancies like yous gonna do about it?”

At the time, I did the most unintelligent thing I could have done in that scenario—and now looking back on what it has brought about, it is an action I regret more than I can say. I stepped forward and, even though his mass far outweighed my own, I took a swing at Mr. Wool Cap.

“Sav, no! Don’t!” But Thomas’s pleas were too late. In a surprisingly fluid motion, the oaf grabbed the arm I had tried to strike him with and bent it in a way it was not meant to bend, pinning it behind my back. He quickly grabbed my other arm and brought it back to join it.

A thin, triumphant smirk spread across the face of the redheaded man, and he moved in. In a fair fight, I might have stood a pretty fair chance, but I was properly restrained, and the way the big guy had my arms twisted, it felt like one of them could snap under the pressure at any moment. He landed a punch, fist connecting with my cheek. In this instance, his thinness worked as an advantage, his bony knuckles a weapon.

The man almost laughed in satisfaction and immediately continued to punch at me. Some aimed at my face, others right to my gut. Thomas was crying out behind them the whole time, begging them to stop and to let me be, but his cries fell on deaf ears. The trickle of something warm and sticky descended from my brow.

I had closed my eyes and was bracing myself for the next punch, but it did not come. I opened my eyes and the man had stopped, but he was far from still.

His hands, no longer balled into fists, were now clutching at his own throat, grasping at it, and gurgling noises came out. His cheeks were turning purple and his eyes were wide with fear. He was choking. His lips, which had been clenched together tight, sputtered open and water came dribbling out over his chin—an unbelievable amount of water. But no matter how he emptied his mouth, more continued to pour from his lips.

He was not simply choking…he was drowning.

I looked to Thomas and, sure enough, his eyes were giving off a subtle glow. Nothing so bright as to call attention to himself, more like the moonlight shaded under a passing cloud.

The ogre finally released me to try and help his friend, not realizing how utterly futile it would be. My muscles ached, my face was even wetter with blood, and I was certain some of my bones had been shattered, but I gathered what little strength I did have and rushed to Thomas’s side. I shook his arm, hoping that a distraction might break the magical bonds. “Thomas, you have to stop,” I whispered.

“I can’t.” Desperation clung to his words. “I’ve never done something like this before…I don’t know how.”

I had only to watch as the redheaded man fell, first to his knees, then face first against the pavement. Wool Cap looked to his dead companion, breathless, then looked back to Thomas and me before lurching away in horror. As he ran, he cried out, “Witchcraft! There’s witchery afoot! Someone help!”

Just as I had feared, a group of passersby out for the evening gathered at the end of the bridge. They watched as the oaf stumbled forward and, after hearing his accusations, turned their attention toward us and the damning evidence in the form of a corpse. I had no time for horror or to process that a dead man was now lying at our feet. I needed to act.

“Thomas, go!” I urged. “You need to get out of here. Run!”

But he didn’t flinch. He was not even shaking. It was probably the most still I had ever seen him, as if he were encased in ice. I could not even be entirely certain if he was hearing me anymore. That was, until he looked up at me.

“No, you have to go. Go now.”

“What?”

Thomas’s eyes were wide with terror. “You have to get out of here, please! This was my fault, but they’ll blame you, too. And you’re a foreigner; who knows what they will do…”

I shook my head. “I am not leaving you. Not a chance!”

The tears were already spilling down Thomas’s cheeks. “Sav! Please! Just go!”

“Not without you.”

My next impulse was to grab him from the underarms and just drag him away from the scene, but that is when two police constables arrived to do the dragging.

“He is the one who did it!” a woman with dark hair shouted. “He killed him!”

“He did it using nothing but his mind!” shouted another.

There was no way to be certain whether these men believed what the crowd was claiming, but they restrained Thomas all the same, pulling his arms behind his back and guiding him away. Thomas attempted to make their task more difficult, kicking and thrashing.

I reached out for him and tried to insert myself between him and one of the constables. But neither of the men bothered to try and restrain me, let alone arrest me. It was as if they were looking right through me.

As if they couldn’t see me at all.

I looked down, and I couldn’t see my own form. It was Thomas. He was using his magic to make me invisible. He knew I would never willingly hide. He knew I would not abandon him. And so he made the choice and hid me from view. I watched as they dragged him away, looking more frightened than I had ever seen him before. It was not until he was completely out of view that I became visible once more. Luckily by that point, the crowd had already dissipated.

Now Thomas sits in a cell across town, and I have never felt so powerless. I do not even know who I can turn to for help. Neville? His parents? There are so few people in Thomas’s life who he trusts, and I have only just recently been counted among the trusted once again.

All I can say for certain is this: this world will not use its prejudices and fears to take my magic boy away from me. I will not allow it.