Her Ladyship's Curse

Disenchanted & Co. Book 1, Part 1

by

Lynn Viehl

Chapter One

“I know his first wife put a curse on me,” Lady Walsh said. The lace edging her silk gloves fluttered as she folded her hands and placed them in a ladylike spot on her lap. “It’s the only explanation.”

A yawn tugged at my jaw; I swallowed it along with a mouthful of tea. “If you want an exormage, Lady Walsh, there’s a small horde of them on the first floor.”

Her soft brown eyes shimmered. “Over the last month I’ve had fifteen of them to the house. The curse rendered them powerless. They couldn’t even determine the nature of it.”

“That’s probably because there is no such thing as a curse,” I said as kindly as I could. I heard a familiar scratching sound at the door and collected some coppers from my drawer. “Excuse me for a moment, milady. I have a delivery.”

I closed the inner door to my office before I went to the entry and yanked it open. “Back for another go, then, Gert?”

“Satan’s whore. I will not rest until I have sent you back to the hell that spawned you.” The old woman produced a long gnarled twig and shook it at my face. “Wither and burn, wither and burn.”

I folded my arms and waited several seconds, but neither I nor anything else burst into flames. “Apparently not today, love.”

“I am made powerless.” Gert lowered her stick and glared at me. “The Evil One protects you.”

“Aye, and you’d think he’d give me a doorman.” She looked thinner and hungrier than usual. “Go have some tea. You’ll feel better.” I offered her the coppers, which she snatched from my palm.

“Abbadon’s pit of eternal fire awaits you,” Gert promised. “You cannot escape it.”

“I won’t try, I promise.” I watched her hobble off and then eyed the incantation she’d scribbled on the door’s glass. No doubt it was meant to send me directly to some highly unpleasant level of hell, I thought as I took out my handkerchief and wiped it off. Gert always came with a backup plan for my doom.

I returned to my office, where Lady Walsh sat staring at the door. “Sorry about that.”

She regarded me with appalled fascination. “You truly don’t believe in magic.”

“I truly don’t.” I smiled. “I also have an appointment to get to downtown. Do you want me to call for your coach, or do you need a private carri?”

“Wait. Please. I can show you proof.” The corkscrew curls framing her face bobbled as she began stripping off her gloves. “You can’t imagine how difficult it’s been, trying to hide this from my husband. When I woke this morning and saw them, I nearly screamed.”

I tried logic. “I presume your husband’s first wife died before he married you?” When she nodded, I asked, “How is it that would she even know about you, much less cast a curse on you from the grave?”

“I can’t say how these spells work, Miss Kittredge, but obviously her spirit has refused to leave the house.” She fiddled with a fold of her skirt. “I think seeing how happy I make Nolan has caused her to become jealous and vengeful.”

I was going to be late for my fictitious appointment, it seemed. “I’m sure an unexpected rash can seem like something malicious and supernatural in origin, especially for a woman as beautiful as you, but—”

She held out her soft, pale hands, and I forgot to breathe. Someone had used a knife to carve a word below the knuckles on each: GREEDY and SLUT.

My own hands trembled before I clenched them into fists. “Bloody hell.” She thought magic had done this, this brutal, malicious thing. “When did this happen?”

“I cannot tell you. After my husband left me last night, I slept alone with the doors and windows bolted from the inside.” She stared at the marks. “The curse did this to me while I slept. I never woke, not once.”

I gently took the hand marked SLUT and examined the wound. It appeared at first glance to be written in dark-red ink, but when I brushed a fingertip over the letters I felt the cut marks in her skin. “How did you explain the stains on your linens, milady?”

“There were none. Nothing on my gown, either. That’s why it has to be magic.” She watched my face. “That, and I suffer no discomfort. I can’t even feel them.”

Ladies were taught never to show pain, but not to feel it? “Were the other incidents like this?”

Her head moved in a tight nod. “The same two words every time, on the insides of my arms, the back of my neck, and . . .”

“And?”

She glanced over her shoulder and lowered her voice to a whisper. “On my knees.”

Whoever had done this hadn’t used a spell—more like a very thin, sharp boning knife. I knew of some salves that numbed the skin; that would explain why she didn’t feel the cuts. Or if someone had slipped some drugs into her wine at dinner, and gained access to her bedchamber through a hidden door or crawlspace . . . “Does your husband have any children from his first marriage?”

“Three. His son and two daughters. We are all quite good friends.” She hesitated before she added, “No, that’s not exactly true. They want their father to be happy. They tolerate me because I do that, I make him happy.” Suddenly she clutched at my hands. “I know your reputation, Miss Kittredge. There is no one in the city that can dispel magic as you do. I’m afraid to go to sleep. I keep thinking one morning I’ll look in the mirror and she’ll have cut them into my face—”

She collapsed against me and burst into tears.

I supported her by the elbows and made some comforting noises. This was why I seldom took on female clients; their silly notions and endless waterworks made it difficult to ferret out the truth. But someone had been secretly assaulting Lady Walsh, and no woman should have to endure that—in or out of her own bed.

I helped her back over to the client’s chair and silently passed her my handkerchief before I took her teacup over to the cart to refresh it and give her a little time to mop up and compose herself. My tea was nothing special—whatever was on sale that week at the grocer’s—but I added a dash of soother to the brew before I brought it back to her.

“You haven’t told your husband about these attacks.” I didn’t have to make it a question.

“I can’t trouble dear Nolan with this.” She put her gloves back on before she sipped from her cup. “He’s so loving and attentive, it would destroy him.” She gave me an owl-eyed look of mute, helpless appeal.

She was an old rich man’s young trophy wife, likely the most fetching daughter of a posh who had fallen on hard times. Marrying Nolan Walsh would have resulted in some restoration of her family’s fortunes and likewise assured Lady Walsh of a lifetime of comfortable financial security. She’d personally slice herself up before she endangered that.

I knew I was probably going to regret this. I didn’t like working for the rich or titled, and I had other, very good reasons to avoid the Hill. But someone had gone to vicious lengths to torment her, and it was obvious from the repeated attacks that they had no intention of stopping.

“How will you bring me into your household?”

She brightened immediately. “I thought I would have you as a cousin—a very distant one, of course—who has only just discovered our family connection.” Her smile turned self-conscious. “I’m afraid that genealogy is one of my little self-indulgences.”

“Well, it isn’t one of mine, so you’d better be the one to make the discovery.” Now, when to call. I checked my brooch watch and thought about the rest of my day. “Dinner is too intimate for a new acquaintance; it’ll have to be tea. I’ll also need an excuse to visit your bedchamber.”

She nodded quickly. “I keep some family portints on my vanity. I can remark on your resemblance to my great-aunt Hortense and invite you up to see them.”

“Our great-aunt Hortense.” I sighed. “Lady Walsh, you should know that in the past I’ve been hired by other families on the Hill. Some of your servants might recognize me. If anyone asks, it’s best that we not lie about how I earn my living.”

“I’m sure that Nolan will think it’s charming that you, ah, work for yourself.” She glanced at the gold letters spelling out Disenchanted & Co. on the frosted glass of my office door. “He’s very progressive that way about women, you know. He even believes we should have the vote, bless him.”

But he would never employ any women at his bank, I guessed, or trust them to manage their own funds. “Good on your husband.” I held out my hand. “I’ll see you at four.”

Lady Walsh clasped my hand tightly. “Thank you so much, Miss Kittredge. Oh, dear, what is your given name? With our connection I should call you by that.”

“I’m known as Kit.” Only one person left in the world still called me Charmian, but one day he’d walk in front of my carri and I’d put an end to that. “And you?”

“I’m Diana, and forever in your debt, Kit.” She gave my hand a final fervent squeeze and went to the door. A man dressed in cream-and-scarlet livery standing outside opened it for her and closed it before he followed her out of sight.

Odd that I hadn’t seen him when I’d confronted Gert. Most footmen waited with the coach; only the wealthiest of women used them as body servants.

“Or your dear, loving Nolan doesn’t quite trust you to leave the house alone,” I murmured under my breath as I picked up my keylace and knotted it around my wrist. “I wonder why.”

After I locked up the office, I took the stairs down to the underground level, better known to me and the other tenants of the Davies Building as the Dungeon.

The sole occupant of the understair had once been a royal machinist, one of the finest who had ever served H.M., or so the Honorable Reginald P. Docket would have everyone believe. We never asked why he had given up his choice position to immigrate; no one left England for the Provincial Union of Victoriana unless they had made a horrible marriage or committed an unpardonable offense against the Crown. Since Docket remained a bachelor, and his constructs sometimes didn’t perform according to spec, I imagined it to be the latter.

“Who’s that?” A sweaty face smeared with grease popped up from behind a cabinet filled with cogs and gears. “Kit? Oh, fabulous. You’re just in time for the latest bash.”

“Am I?” I glanced around me to see if anything appeared ready to clout me, fall on me, or explode. Most everything did. “I can come back later, if you like.”

Docket waved a wrench. “Nonsense. This is just the sort of thing you females love.”

I studied the cabinet he’d been fiddling with, which seemed to be sprouting mechanical arms with hooks on the end. “It’s a tenner printing press?”

“No. Take off your jacket and I’ll show you.”

“It’s almost new,” I warned him as I shrugged out of it. “I’m very fond of it.”

“Precisely why you need my HangItAll.” He adjusted one of the dials on the side of the cabinet and stepped away as its internal works began to grind and whistle. “Hold it out. Go on, it won’t bite you.”

With a great many misgivings, I held out my jacket. One of the mechanical arms stretched out, folding over on itself to form an elongated triangle with its hook at the top. It inserted one corner of the triangle into a sleeve as it pulled my jacket out of my hand and then tilted up as it inserted the opposite corner. The arm retracted my jacket into the cabinet, catching a rod inside with the hook and neatly hanging it.

“You see?” Docket beamed. “You’ll never have to wait for a maid to answer your bell again.”

“That’s good, because I don’t have any maids or bells,” I reminded him as I peered into the cabinet. “You’ve got this working off your boiler, then?”

“I started out with hydraulics, but the joints leaked oil onto the garms. Bloody mess it was.” He caressed the side of the cabinet with his hand. “What do you think? I’ll wager someday one of these will be in every man’s front hall, and every female’s boudoir.”

“Possibly the wash house.” I reached in and removed my jacket from the interior, which caused him to yelp. Then I held it up so he could see the condensate drip from the sodden hem. “If you change the name to WashItAll.”

“Bloody hell, that wasn’t supposed to happen.” As he watched me wring out the sopping-wet material, he scratched at his chin whiskers. “WashItAll’s not bad. Would it sell, do you think?”

“I suppose, if you came up with a way to dry them as well.” I glanced down at the puddle forming around the base of the cabinet. “And install a catch basin.”

“Capital idea.” Never one to brood, Docket closed off the boiler feed valve and wiped his hands on a dirty rag. “So what can I do for you today, love?”

“I need some dippers and an echo.” I briefly described Lady Walsh’s situation, leaving out the names and personal details, and added, “The echo will have to be very small. Something I can hide in a satchel or under my skirts.”

“I’ve just the thing.” He disappeared into his mechanized warren, and after some loud banging and scraping emerged with an envelope and a small mallet. He led me over to the nearest worktable, shoved aside some blueprints, and set them out.

“Best tuck the dippers somewhere they can’t be spotted,” he said, carefully counting out from the envelope five thin, folded strips of paper. “Dip or dab them with a drop of wine, trace of powder, or whatever you think is tainted. If all’s not as it should be, they’ll show color.”

I removed and unfolded one strip and sniffed it. The chemical odor wasn’t so strong that it would be detected coming from my person. “Blue for drugs, black for poison?”

“Aye.”

I took out my da’s pocket watch and tucked them in the back of the case. I could get at them easily by pretending to check the time. I glanced at the little mallet beside the envelope “I can’t go about hammering on the walls, Doc.”

“Don’t have to.” He gestured for me to follow him over to one of the Dungeon’s support walls. He placed the flat end of the mallet head against the wall, and flipped up the cap on the other end, revealing a magnifying lens. “Press in the bottom of the handle, like so.”

He demonstrated, and through the lens I saw a wide, solid green bar appear. The bar glowed faintly, as if it were hot.

“That’s a strut on the other side of the wall. Move it along careful-like”—he slid the mallet slowly across the wall until the green bar disappeared and the lens filled with rough green pebbles—“and there, you see? That’s the fill between the struts. The foundation walls down here don’t have any hidey-holes, but if there’s one in your manor house, it will show black on the lens. Then you’ve only to find the seams and pop it open.”

I took the mallet from him and studied it. “What makes it glow like that?”

He grinned, showing all the gaps in his teeth. “If I told you that, I’d have to marry you.”

Not because he loved me, I imagined, but to keep me from bearing witness. Once a woman gave her hand in marriage, she became her husband’s legal property. Property could not testify against its owner—something I imagined would prove useful if the Crown ever questioned the origins, and the exact rights claim, to any particularly clever mech.

Now it was time to dicker over price, which Docket and I usually took out in barter. “What do you want for them?”

“Two weeks’ laundering and five hot suppers hand-delivered,” he said promptly.

“One week laundering and two hot suppers by bucket,” I countered. As he started to bluster, I added, “And a grand pudding.”

He gave me a suspicious look. “What sort? Not plum. Too hot for that.”

“Summer pudding,” I said, and moved in for the kill. “Fresh-picked raspberry.”

“Raspberry.” Docket’s expression turned dreamy for a moment before he eyed me. “You’ll get all of the stains out of me coveralls?”

“An act of New Parliament couldn’t do that, mate.”

“Aye, well, I’d just dirty them up again anyway.” He wiped a filthy hand over the front of his bib. “Make it three dinners by bucket, and I’ll shake on it.”

“Done.” I kissed his bald, shiny pate. “In lieu of the shake.”

Embarrassed pleasure made his face rosy. “If only I were thirty years younger.”

Chapter Two

Lady Walsh’s request did make a trip downtown a necessity, but the day was so fine I decided to take the trolley. A few old ladies in the back seats frowned my way as I stood with the men at the front of the car, reminding me that I was still in my skirts. If I’d dressed in my native costume of bucks they wouldn’t have given me a second glance.

The men, mostly young clerks and old gophers who couldn’t afford to keep their own carri, collectively ignored me. A woman who didn’t assume her proper place in public effectively rendered herself invisible to the tonners and anyone who emulated them, which were most of the respectable citizens of Rumsen. Rina called it wishful blindness.

As we passed through one of the older quarters, a funeral procession halted the trolley, and as the black-shrouded carts and carris passed, I saw a shimmering form drifting after them. The ghost of the deceased, I guessed. I often caught glimpses of such specters following the newly dead or hovering about a fresh grave. When I tried to go near them, they faded from sight.

I knew from experience that they weren’t creatures of magic. While mages insisted the proper spell or ritual could bring back the spirits of the dead, I’d found enough noise-making contraptions hidden in séance chambers to explain such convenient “visitations.” I had no explanation for what I sometimes saw, but I suspected they might be a trace of the spirit left behind by those who passed on. Like the scent of a lady’s perfume that lingered in a room for a time after her departure, or the outlines of a face in an old, sun-faded portint.

Mum would have insisted they were fantasies of the imagination, nothing more. I often wondered how she’d explain away the chill they left behind in the air once they vanished.

At Pike Street I got off and walked to an alley between a boardinghouse and a dressmaker’s shop.

The alley was famous for one thing: it was the lowest point in the city. It also had flooded every year during the storm season until one Mrs. Carina Eagle had purchased the boardinghouse and hired a road crew to dig trenches on either side for drainage pipes. As for the boardinghouse, where no one ever boarded for longer than a night, it still bore the sign Mrs. Holcomb’s Rooms to Let, but everyone knew it as the Eagle’s Nest.

I stopped in front of a bruiser in a pilled tweed coat who had one shoulder propped against the corner. He was reading over a short sheet without much interest and rubbing a flat, milky-white stone between his broad thumb and the stump of his first finger.

I waited politely until he finished reading and looked up at me. “Morning, Wrecker.”

“Miss Kit.” He touched the brim of his cap. “She’s not up yet. Late night, she had, what with all of ’em sailors what come into port yesterday.”

Wrecker had been sent over to Toriana on work-release from Sydney a few years back after serving ten years in the quarries for kneecapping the wrong chap. He’d finished out his debt to the Crown and now lived as a freedman. Had Rina not hired him, he might have kept at the work he knew best. Luckily protecting her and her gels required Wreck to commit far fewer felonies.

“No worries, I’ll bring her a cup.”

Knowing my long-standing relationship with his mistress, he nodded and let me pass.

At the other end of the alley was the back of the boardinghouse, a red door, and a bright brass bell. After I tugged on the pull, a narrow eye-slot appeared in the door.

“Miss Kittredge to see Mrs. Eagle.”

The door opened, and a fellow almost as huge as Wrecker inspected me. He was new, which meant his predecessor was either dead or in prison. “Selling or buying?” The way he ogled my body from the neck down made it clear he hoped I was selling.

“Neither,” I said firmly. “I’m a friend.”

He pouted a little. “Her’s still abed.”

“So I’ve been told.” I went past him and made my way to the kitchen, where Mrs. Eagle’s cook stood cracking eggs into a large mixpot with one hand and flipping rashers with the other.

“Morning, Almira.” I asked, nipping a piece of bacon from a platter and dodging a swat from her spatula. “Have you sent up her tea?”

“Why would I? She left word that she’s not to be disturbed before noon.” Almira nodded toward the kettle. “If I were you, I’d drop in a pinch of willowbark.”

I winced. “Rough trade last night?”

“Mariners in for their first shore leave since the Skirmish.” She pulled a whisk from her apron pocket and began beating the eggs. “Randy boys, the lot of them.”

I made up a tray and took it to the back stairs, where I carried it up one flight to the mistress’s chambers. Walking into Mrs. Eagle’s private sanctuary was like crossing the threshold of a dark church: a cool rush of shadows and incense-scented air. I made my way to the cart carefully, and after depositing the tray, I lit the wall lamp and turned to the bed.

“For the love of Jesu,” a muffled voice said from beneath a mound of golden silk puffs. “Piss off.”

I poured and carried a cup of tea over to the mound. “You know this is why your mother wanted you to be a nun.”

“Too hard on the knees.” A small head of tousled blond hair appeared, and a slender hand took the cup from me. “What do you want, and sweet Mary, don’t say anything that involves my bum in motion, or I’ll thump you.”

“As ever-tempted as I am by your charms”—I sat down on the edge of the mound—“I came for a gown.”

She waved a hand toward her armoire of indecently beautiful negligees as she guzzled the tea. “Take whatever you want and be gone with you.”

“Not that sort of gown.”

She pushed a handful of hair out of her eyes to give me an irate squint. “You said you were through working the Hill.”

“Special exception, just this one time,” I promised. “Someone’s taken the cut direct to a new and nasty level.”

She yawned. “How nasty?”

“Slicing hateful words into her skin while she sleeps.” I touched a whisker burn on her cheek. “Does that sound like anyone you’ve thrown out lately?”

“Chastity had a biter last month. Horrid man. I had Wrecker relieve him of his front teeth before showing him out.” She sat up and held out her cup. “More.”

I poured her tea and waited as my friend gradually roused. Without her jewels and cosmetics, Carina Eagle looked too young to be let out on her own. She had been, once upon a time, long before she had become the queen of backstreet brothels.

We’d found each other, Rina and I, drawn together as fellow outcasts in a society that wanted nothing to do with either of us. I’d had it a bit easier, coming to Rumsen as a penniless, nameless waif who’d had as much chance at being respectable as a hemp picker had of residing on the Hill.

Rina’s family had been merchant class, indecently successful, and had employed their hard-earned riches in hopes of marrying her off to better. The hard-fisted gambler they’d snagged had strung them along while gaming away her bride price. When the bleeding sod had wagered Rina’s maiden night in a card game, and lost, she’d been forced to pay the debt. The morning after, the vicious bastard had refused to marry her, claiming publicly that she was bespoiled goods, which conveniently canceled his financial and social obligations to her family. Rina had been ruined, of course, and turned out onto the streets.

I’d met Rina shortly after that, when she’d still been green enough to let herself be cornered. Stopping the brute I found beating her half to death in a back alley had required only a brick to the back of the head; the real task had been convincing her to come home with me so I could fix her up. She’d stayed with me for a few days, but as soon as she was mostly healed she left and went back on the stroll.

Since then I’d tried to persuade her to give up the business, but the money had always been too good, and the trade too steady. Because Rina was young, beautiful, and posh enough to attract a better sort, she’d quickly built a list of generous regulars. They’d funded the purchase of her house of ill repute, which in turn provided shelter and protection for the lost gels my friend regularly plucked from the streets. For those too young to know what they were about, Rina even found decent employment. Her success had made her notorious, but Rina took great pleasure in being the most scandalous female in Rumsen—and still banked more money in one month than I did in a year.

My friend finally emerged from her bed and tottered to the lamps to light a few more. The old, threadbare flannel gown she wore made me stifle a chuckle—it bore no resemblance to the lacy, gauzy negligees she wore when entertaining her clients.

“All right.” Rina fell into an armchair and propped her brow against her hand. “Tell me who it is.”

“Nolan Walsh’s wife.”

“Lady Diana.” She exhaled heavily. “You’ve picked yourself a right one there. She’d be the eldest spawn of one of the Landau brothers.”

I thought through all the scandals I knew that involved Landaus. “The one who gambled, or the one who drank?”

“The investor. Lost everything in mine speculation.” She winced. “William or Wilson or something like that. In any case, he tugged the old school tie, sold her off. Pretty little thing, but no spine at all. You know she cried at the wedding?”

Rina faithfully attended every society wedding open to the public, always arriving heavily veiled and dressed in widow’s weeds. She claimed it was to drum up trade, as virginal brides always sent their newly wed husbands looking for satisfaction elsewhere, but I knew better. Rina had a passion for watching ceremonies and rituals, the grander the better. In a strange way, they seemed to comfort her.

“Would Walsh have a hand in this?” Men who secretly abused their wives disgusted me, but there was always a possibility that the banker had acquired a taste for hurting women or perhaps had his sights set on a third wife.

“Doubtful. He shows her off too much. He’d never rip up a brand-new waistcoat and then wear it after.” Rina smothered a yawn. “My money’s on the son.”

“Jealous?”

“Diseased. Sent home from Oxford after a bad case of the drips.” She said it with a strumpet’s satisfied relish. “Married five years now, but no children.”

I sat back. Since he only otherwise had two daughters . . . “Oh. So that’s why he married her.”

“And why he took her so young,” Rina agreed. “Walsh has a good twenty, thirty more years on this earth. Plenty of time to do the deed and then some. But why are you taking this job, Kit? You know how it will end.”

“She thinks she’s been cursed,” I said softly.

Rina hmphed. “If anyone’s under an evil spell, it’s you.” She stood and stretched. “When do you call on her?”

“Today, for tea. I’m a newfound, poor cousin.” I thought for a minute. “I need something in sprigged muslin, genteel-cut but no sashing. Lace. A very little lace.”

Already thinking, Rina nodded. “Yellowed or shabby?”

“Yellowed. I’m a working lass.”

I followed her into the adjoining room, which was filled with freestanding racks of gowns. Rina had once made a vow never to wear the same gown more than twice, and after making a mutually satisfactory arrangement with her neighbor the spinster dressmaker, she had managed to keep it.

“I did a garden party play a few years ago,” she said as she sorted through one rack. “Old gent, wanted all of us dressed like debs. Had each of us sit on his lap so he could fondle us while we fed him biscuits and called him Daddums.”

I hid my revulsion. “I can’t wear white.”

“No one can, love.” She winked as she extracted one gown, held it up to me, and then exchanged it for another. “If you don’t soon start carrying a shade when you go out, you’ll be as dark as a shaman.” She switched the gown for a third, and nodded. “This will do for tea.”

I glanced down. “It’s pink.”

“And?”

“I despise pink.”

“It’s baby’s blush, and it makes you look like a proper lass. Turn round.” When I did, she held the yoke of the bodice to my shoulders. “If I snip out the pads, it should fit.” She tugged at the chain around my neck. “Can’t wear this.”

“I’ll tuck it under.” I only took off my pendant when I bathed, and even then I kept it within reach. I’d promised my mum I always would.

“Slippers.” She bent to retrieve a pair from a box beneath the gowns and handed them to me.

“They’re too big.” And even pinker than the gown.

“Stuff the toes with paper. Satchel.” She found and placed a fringed drawstring reticule on top of the slippers. “Crinoline.”

“No,” I said flatly.

“Kit.”

“They itch and they make me sweat,” I told her. “I’d rather go naked.”

She glared at me. “Then it will have to be three petticoats.” When I opened my mouth she tapped my cheek sharply. “This is not open for discussion, you silly twit. You’re going to the Hill. You know the butler will be counting them before he lets you through the door. Showing up underdressed is as smart as standing in the marketplace and shouting you’ve become an agent for the Crown.”

“I’d hang myself first.” She was right. “I hate being female.”

“Well, until you sprout a beard and a cock, there you are.” She patted my shoulder. “Come on, while you’re here I might as well feed you.”

I left the hateful pink gown and accoutrements in Rina’s bedchamber as she dressed, and then followed her down to the kitchen, where Almira had two steaming plates of eggs, bacon, and fry bread waiting for us.

“Someone’s worked a charm on poor Liv,” the cook told Rina. “She says she can’t feel her bum.”

Rina sat down and dug into her food. “That’s because she sits on it too much.”

“I smacked her bare with a switch meself to test it. Drew blood, but she didn’t even flinch.” Almira glanced at me. “Maybe someone could make herself useful while she’s dawdling here?”

“My eggs will get cold,” I complained.

She whisked my plate out from under my fork. “I’ll keep them on the stove.”

I turned to Rina, who shrugged. “All right, where’s poor Liv?”

“Purple door, third floor.” The cook beamed at me. “You’re a good lass, Kit.”

“I’m a deprived lass. I’m a starving lass.” I tromped back up the stairs to the third floor, found Liv’s purple door, and knocked on it. “Liv? It’s Kit, Mrs. Eagle’s friend from uptown. Let me in.”

I heard breathing, and then two strangled words: “I can’t.”

I propped a hand against the door frame. “Why not?”

More breathing, and choking. “Can’t . . . move.”

I tried the knob, which jammed at first and then opened. Inside I found Liv, wide-eyed and naked on the floorboards. I knelt beside her. “What’s all this, then?”

“Magic,” she gasped, as if she were having trouble taking in air. “Killing me.”

I looked her over, reached down, and slapped her face. “Come on. Snap out of it, there’s a good gel.”

She shook her head wildly, and then her eyes bulged as she gulped in a huge breath.

“Oh, sweet Jesu.” She panted as if she’d been running for miles. “I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t . . .” She stared at the hand she had lifted to her face and then at me. “How did you do that?”

“I walloped you.” I helped her up from the floor and wrapped her in a robe. “Sit before you fall back down.” When she did, I looked around her room. Aside from the usual female fripperies, I noticed nothing out of the ordinary. “What have you been using?”

“Nothing. I swear. Mistress doesn’t allow it.” Liv huddled in her robe. “Thank God you came, miss. I thought for sure I was going to die.”

I knelt down beside her bed, lifted the skirt, and looked under it. A small brown box lay among the drifts of dust, and when I pulled it out, Liv saw it and uttered a shriek.

“It’s just a box.” I tugged open the string and poured the contents into my hand, which turned out to be six polished green stones. “A box of rocks.”

“No,” Liv whispered. “Someone put them there. Someone bespelled them to kill me. Take them away.” Her voice rose to a screech. “Take them.”

“They’re rocks, Liv, not magic.” As she shouted more nonsense at me, I went to the window and tossed them out. “There. They’re gone. Stop screaming.”

Liv staggered to her feet and collapsed against me to give me a trembling hug. “Thank you,” she sobbed. “You saved me life.”

What was it about me that attracted so many tearful females? “I didn’t do anything.” I set her at arm’s length. “You should go see the physick today, though. You might have picked a bad spider bite or something.”

She wrenched away and hurried over to her dresser. “I have to leave the city. Right away, before they try again.”

“Stop by the physick’s first,” I suggested, before I let myself out and returned downstairs.

Rina had finished her breakfast and drank some juice as she watched me eat mine. “Well?”

I swallowed a mouthful of bread. “Hysteria, or maybe a spider bite. I found a box of green rocks under her bed. She’s fine.” I glanced at Rina. “She’s also packing her bags. Sorry.”

“Probably staged it. The lazy tart never could turn more than two johnnies a night.” Rina didn’t seem dismayed. “So much for her numb bum. Thanks, Kit.”

“My pleasure.” I noticed Almira staring at me. “She’ll be all right. I only gave her a little slap.”

“Green stones are said to be spellbinders,” the cook said. “That’s rotten magic, Miss Kit.”

I exchanged an amused look with Rina. “Is there any other kind?”

Chapter Three

I left the Eagle’s Nest with Wrecker in one of Rina’s carris. She insisted on giving me a ride to my flat as repayment for disenchanting poor Liv, but the truth was she despised the city trolleys—“damn cattle carts” according to her—as well as my fondness for riding them.

“Wrecker can ferry you up the Hill at four,” she advised me. “Have him wait for you, too. Walsh’s so high-necked he won’t bridle a half-dead nag for a poor cousin, not even if you offered to ride it to the glueworks for him.”

As I waited in the alley for Wrecker to come round, I spotted a gleam of dark green on the cobblestones and picked up one of the rocks I’d tossed out Liv’s window. Idly I tossed it in my hand and then dropped it in my pocket as Wrecker wheeled the carri around the corner.

Carris came into being out of necessity after the horse plagues of ’66 emptied most of the coach houses in the city. I still remembered the first ones bouncing along the streets, causing women to cower and scream, and men to chase after them. From a distance they had looked a bit like burning, runaway carts, at least until the smoke cleared enough for one to see the grinning fool tonner sitting behind the great wheel.

In the twenty years since the first carri rolled off the assembly line, much had been done to improve the horseless coaches. The first big, wooden-spoke wheels had been replaced by wider, iron-rimmed rounders coated with a thick pad of gray-brown rubber. The mechs in the Chester factories had also whittled down the carri’s boxy sideboards and clad them in thin, black-painted plates of copper. When the paint wore, it flaked in rows, which exposed red-gold streaks that young turks seemed to like. They would sometimes scrape off long strips to speed the process so they could boast of driving a “streaky.”

Only the oldest carris still had one flat bench seat in the back and two box perches in the front; these days everyone changed them out for the custom horsehide seats. None of the newer carris used coal burners anymore; the latest were fitted with keroseel steam tanks that didn’t belch black smoke or have to be refilled as often.

Wrecker pushed on the brake and reached out to give me a hand up. “Fancy a ride through the park, Miss Kit?”

He liked driving through Center Park, both to show off his mistress’s carri and to worry his way through the noontime parade of tonners on horseback. So did I, but there was no time for a joyride. “I’ve a job to get to, sorry. Another time, Wrecker.”

He nodded and glanced at my lap to see I was belted in before he let off the handbrake.

Before the gold rush days had brought every scrabbler and digger from the eastern provinces to the west coast, Rumsen had belonged to the Fleers, who had crossed the plains rather than give in to Church and state. When I was a kid, some bone hunters had dug up the foundation of the only prayerhouse the Fleers had managed to build before the army caught up with them; from the number of scorched skeletons they’d uncovered, it appeared to have burned to the ground with most of the Fleers inside.

The governor had issued the usual statement about what a tragedy it was to learn that the fugitives had accidentally torched themselves in their illegal place of worship, mainly to remind us all that for Torians it still was Church or nothing, and if any of us were to break the faith laws, the same sort of accident could happen again.

I’d once visited the site of the old prayerhouse, over which a merchants’ exchange now stood. I didn’t see any ghosts floating around the building, but when I’d looked up at the second floor, every window I saw slowly turned white with frost.

All trace of the Fleers had been wiped away by the Occupancy, which had established Rumsen as a troop station and trading post, although it really was more of a dumping ground for the misfits and malcontents in the service. The Crown began sending over the deserters, upstarts, and failures from the ranks; if they survived the trek through native lands, they remained in Rumsen on permanent assignment.

In those days, the only females to be had as bedservants were native, and common practice was to capture and defile them before they could be recovered by their kin. Some of the old, crude cabins the surly troops had built for themselves and their squawks (named for the way they’d screech when stolen from their tribes) still stood on the fringe of the city. Rina’s people could trace their line back to a randy captain and a squawk who had borne him six children before finally cutting his throat one night while he slept.

I lived in one of the oldest sections of the town, in a small goldstone nestled among the slaterows and clopboard mercantiles. My flathouse had once been a granary, and on hot days the walls, which had once housed tons of seed wheat, still gave off a scent like that of bread baking.

Wrecker conveyed me straight to my door and even shut off the engine to jump out, come round, and hand me down like a fine lady. “Be back at half past, then?”

“That’ll do.” I pressed a couple of coins into his ham-size hand. “There’s a decent pie shop two blocks south. Tell the counterlass that I sent you, and she’ll fix you up with a special.”

I let myself in through the front door, locking it behind me. Although there were seven flats in my building, I was presently the only tenant. Over the years I’d quietly bought up the leases for the other flats, and then offered for the building. At first the former owner, a hatchet-faced pork trader named Billings, had flatly refused to sell to me. “Females can’t manage property,” he’d informed me. “You’d do better to bank your funds and find yourself a nice young man, miss.”

My money was as good as any man’s, which made me think about taking him to property court, but then bad luck solved the problem for me. Five of the pork trader’s buildings had been unexpectedly inspected and condemned as firetraps and promptly demolished. He’d come back to me, desperate for coin, and with a little dickering I bought the building for half my original offer.

I knew it was foolish to keep the other flats empty, but I liked living alone. When I had a little money, I did some renovating here and there. Eventually I hoped to convert the whole place from a flathouse into a single-family home.

For convenience’s sake I lived in the first-floor flat, which was also the largest, the other floors each being split between two units. This also gave me direct access to the kitchen, pantry, and bathing room.

I hung up the borrowed dress before I went in to stoke the stove and put on the kettle. I rarely cooked; it was easier to pick up something quick at the pie shop or one of the corner wichcarts. I retrieved a leftover tart from the piesafe, made my tea, and carried both into the bathing room.

I could hear my mother in the back of my head, gently scolding me: Ladies don’t eat in the bath, Charmian. They bathe.

I set down my mug and plate and went to my tub. It was an old claw-footer, made from thick clearstone gone white on the inside from years of use. I cranked the pump for a minute before I opened the tap and tested the flow with my fingers; there was no hot water left from last night. I needed to replace the old coal boiler outside with an in-house furnace, but then walls would have to be torn out to convert the pipes, work for which no decent piper would barter. I was saving up for it, though, and in the meantime made do with what I could coax out of the old blackpot.

Wrecker arrived at my door promptly at three thirty and peered at my face as he helped me up into the carri. “You all right, Miss Kit?”

“No hot water for my bath.” I pinched my cheeks to bring some color to them and recalled the ugly words sliced into the back of Diana Walsh’s hands. “Wrecker, do you believe in curses?”

He pushed out his lower lip. “Don’t disbelieve. All manner of things in this world, Miss Kit. Man’s gotta keep an open mind.”

I shivered a little and blamed it on the ice-cold bath I’d been obliged to take. “To the Hill, please, Wreck.”

He nodded and started off toward the main thoroughfare.

The Hill, also known to the lesser citizens of Rumsen as Poshtown or the Vineyard, constituted the newest part of the city. The land it occupied had once been sacred to a local native tribe, long since exterminated by the first settlers, who had then plowed and cultivated the slopes into enormous vineyards. The dense, fertile black soil had produced some of the sweetest dark wines in the province, but not for very long. When the Crown had decided to prohibit drink, the army had been obliged to round up the winemakers and distillers and smash their vats and cookeries. To protect the city, the vineyard had been subjected to a controlled burn, and the ashes plowed back into the ground.

Only clover and sweet grass had flourished on the Hill until that time when it—and most of Rumsen—was bought up by a beloved bastard son of an English duke. He had the slopes cleared again so that he could build a towering mansion from which he could overlook his new domain.

The bastard son had died without issue, but rather than add the property to his entitled estate, the old duke had sold it off piecemeal to other wealthy families in the queensland, who in turn built homes there for their undesirable relations. Over time the blues had intermarried with the merchant class to create the first ton. The result was the Hill: some four hundred mansions covering every square inch of the old vineyard, and housing Toriana’s only claim to aristocracy.

No doubt guilt over stranding their castoff kin on the other side of the world from the queensland had loosened many purse strings; some of the finest manors ever built on Torian soil marched up the Hill. Gildstone and bronze cast work glittered in the bright midday sun, while the genteel pastel colors of the paintwork gave off a subtle glow, thanks to the ground sparkglass that had been added to the different tints.

Many of the men who built the Hill soon after begun coughing up blood. All of them died lingering, painful deaths. The city’s more superstitious dolts had claimed old native magic had death-cursed the workmen, but more scientifically, it had been inhaling the sparkglass that took them out. Once breathed in, the tiny, deadly grains began eating into their noses, throats, and chests and caused them to waste away slowly from internal bleeding. The Hill was beautiful, but the price it extracted had been too costly. There wasn’t a builder in Rumsen who hadn’t sent a dozen men or better to early graves from glasslung.

Walsh’s Folly, a modest-size palace occupying a respectable two acres, had been styled with the later fashion of turrets and crowswalks, with dozens of balconies from which the inhabitants could gaze upon the sea, the city, the pastureland to the south, and the forests to the north.

It was also pink and sported wardlings over every threshold, so I hated it at first sight.

Wrecker handed me down, promised to return in two hours, and took off before the butler could get a good look at him through the peeper. I gathered my borrowed skirt and made my way up the right steps of the two-sided stair—built so that ladies and gents could ascend separately to prevent any unintentional vulgar glimpse by male eye of female ankle—and took the correct place before the door so that I could be viewed from within. One did not knock on doors or ring bells on the Hill.

After a moderately insulting five minutes, the door slowly opened inward, and an iron-haired scarecrow in immaculate blacks glared down at me without a word.

“Miss Kittredge to see Lady Walsh.” I offered him a name card and waited with a blank smile as he read every letter on it four times over. He then looked around me as if trying to find something. “I have no maid with me,” I said helpfully.

“Come in,” he said in a dour, disapproving tone, and barely waited until I was over the threshold before closing the door. “This way.”

I followed the towering old winge through the lovely foyer and past several open doors, through which I saw beautiful rooms filled with enough antiques to stock several shops. Along the walls were portraits in oil of every Walsh who had ever drawn breath, I presumed, noting the succession of weak chins and receding hairlines. Walsh came from a family of bankers, judging by the bleakness of their dress and the cut of their waistcoats. Men who handled money for a living were the most conservative of dressers and never enslaved themselves to the whims of fashion; they wanted to project an aura of unwavering knowledge and sober experience, not flightiness and impulsivity.

The butler halted in front of two double doors, knocking once before opening them and standing on the threshold. “A Miss Kittredge,” he said in the same tone he’d use to announce that a stray dog, one that might possibly be rabid, had been found on the premises.

“Dear Cousin Kit,” Lady Walsh said, rising and crossing the room to take my hands in hers. “You’re as lovely as I imagined.”

“You’re too kind, Lady Diana.” I bobbed a curtsey to mollify the butler. I thought of all the glasslung that painting this monstrosity must have inflicted and added with a touch of irony, “Your home is quite breathtaking.”

“It is a lovely sanctuary from the worries of the world.” She squeezed my hands before releasing them. “Now come and let me introduce you to the family.”

The family present in the receiving room consisted of two men and one lady. The eldest, a weak-chinned, nearly bald man of fifty in a heavy dark-blue suit, was the master of the house, Nolan Walsh. A thin, mousy-looking woman dressed in an exquisitely fitted lavender half-mourning gown was introduced as Miranda Walsh, Nolan’s younger daughter. A leaner version of Nolan stood by the mantel fiddling with a timepiece; he was the only son and doubtful heir, Nolan Jr., called Montrose.

“My wife tells me you and she are connected through the Landaus,” Nolan said after introductions had been made. “It must be a happy thing for you to meet your distant cousin.”

The way he emphasized distant made me brighten my smile. “A great and humbling happiness, milord.”

Lady Walsh rang for tea, which she served with the elegance of long practice. I refused her offer of cakes and pretended to take a sip now and then while I let my tea grow stone-cold. We spoke of the fine weather, the agreeable effect it was having on the city’s gardens, and whether it promised a milder winter than last season.

As we began to run out of polite topics, Montrose shambled near and bent over oddly, until I realized he was peering at my face.

“I can’t see anything of Diana in you,” he said in a voice that sounded female and querulous. “Are you the get of the gambler or the drinker?”

“Monty, what a thing to ask.” Lady Walsh uttered an embarrassed titter. “Cousin Kit is the daughter of the third son of my great-aunt Hortense Landau.” To me she said, “You do bear a striking resemblance to her, my dear.”

That was my cue. “Thank you for saying so, cousin. I never had the pleasure of meeting my father’s mother.”

“Well, why not?” Montrose rasped. “The old bat lived until she was ninety-seven, didn’t she, Di?”

“She and my father were estranged for quite some time.” I noted the faint yellow tint to the whites of his muddy brown eyes, and the network of fine red lines webbing the skin around his nostrils. Even if I’d missed them, I couldn’t escape his breath, which reeked of gin. The drips might have rendered Junior barren, but it was the blue ruin that was going to kill him.

Montrose showed me his overbite. “What did your old man do, marry a squawk?”

Diana became a beautiful statue, Miranda sucked in a shocked breath and tried to cover it with her bony hand, and Nolan Sr. cleared his throat.

“Why, no, sir,” I said as pleasantly as I could. “That would have been against the law.”

“You’re as dark as one.” His gaze wandered over my black hair before settling on my eyes. “Who were your mother’s people?”

That proved a bit too much, even for the old man, who snapped, “That will suffice, Montrose.”

“It’s all right, milord.” I smiled at his jackass of a son. “My mother’s people were Welshires and Norders. Working class, I believe.”

As I expected, admitting that one-half of my family had been common laborers explained my coloring, invalidated any suspicion that I might be trying to better my situation, and satisfied Montrose’s desire to take me down to the bottom peg.

I needed to get away from these people before I decked someone. “My father always regretted the rift his marriage caused between him and the family. He had no portraits of them, but he often told me how much I reminded him of his mother.” I sighed. “I only wish I could have made her acquaintance before she passed away.”

“In my rooms I have a portint of Great-aunt Hortense when she was about your age,” Diana said, rising from the settee. “Would you care to see it, Kit?”

I managed a surprised smile. “Why, yes, I would very much, thank you, cousin.”

Diana glanced at her stepson before addressing her husband. “If you will excuse us, my dear.”

He nodded, clearly relieved. He must have assumed Diana was taking me off to give him the time and privacy to lecture his son over his wayward lip. I could just imagine how Father Walsh would scold: Gentlemen do not speak of such scum in polite company, my lad.

As soon as we were out of earshot, the lady touched my arm. “I’m so sorry, Kit. Monty usually doesn’t drink so much before dinner. Now, shall we—”

“Think nothing of it, cousin.” Aware that there were still servants around who could overhear us, I touched a finger to my lips to silence her, and then said clearly, “I am so anxious to see the portint of your great-aunt, my grandmother. Do you really believe I bear a resemblance to her?”

As Diana assured me at length of how much I did, she led me upstairs and through a maze of halls to her personal chambers, which included two sitting rooms, a dressing room, a bath, and an enormous bedchamber. A young, plump female sat working carefully to mend the torn hem of a gown hanging from a dress form. As soon as she saw us, she darted her needle and stood.

“Milady.” A well-trained lass, the chambermaid didn’t spare me a single glance. “Do you need something?”

“No, Betsy. This is my cousin, Miss Kittredge.” She waited until the maid dropped a curtsey my way before she added, “Actually, you know, there is something I want. Would you please run down to the apothecary and fetch me a pain powder?”

“At once, milady.” The maid departed.

“I never have the headache, except now and then in the morning,” Diana confided as she led me into her bedchamber. “But it’s the only task I could think of that will take her some time to accomplish.”

“That will help.” I closed the doors before I opened my satchel and took out the echo. “Do you know how long Montrose was away on his tour after school?”

Her brows arched. “I think Nolan told me once that he spent three years traveling. Why?”

“Just curious.” I went to the wall nearest her bed.

Diana went to the window to look down at the city. “My stepdaughters are both kind in their own fashion, but Montrose . . .” She shook her head. “I don’t understand what compels him to be so provocative. Or vulgar.”

I did, and after a moment of silent debate decided to tell her. “Montrose never made a tour, milady. He likely spent those three years in hospital, taking the cure.”

“The cure?” She turned to me. “Whatever for?”

“The drips.”

She swayed and then abruptly sat down on her bed. “I didn’t know Montrose was already married, so I thought my father meant to offer me to him. I was so astonished when Nolan admitted his regard for me.” Her hand touched her ashen cheek. “My God.” She gazed up. “Montrose’s wife—he must have given it to her.”

“Doubtful, milady. After the first year the rot moves into the brain, where it harms no one but the unfortunate one infected.” I popped the cap on the echo and checked the lens. “It is likely the reason behind these attacks. Young Walsh can never inherit, of course.”

“Now I understand why Nolan is always so attentive to . . . his husbandly duties.” A giggle escaped her. “I’m to provide him with a new heir.”

“I’m so sorry.” And I was.

She blotted her eyes with a lace handkerchief. “How could you know this? Have you been one of Montrose’s . . . particular companions?”

“I have friends in the city who acquire such information. One of them shared it with me.” I went around the bed and began working on the next wall.

She ran her hand over the embroidered coverlet beneath her. “He’ll keep coming to me every night, won’t he? Until I increase.”

“There is another way,” I told her. “Take a younger lover. One who has the same coloring as Lord Walsh. Someone you can trust to keep his mouth shut.”

“I could never betray Nolan.” But after that instant of shock, she grew silent and thoughtful.

While Lady Walsh sorted through her mental list of suitable, fertile young lovers, I finished my sweep of the room. The only recesses in the walls were spaces between the support posts, too narrow to serve as hidey-holes. I checked the two windows, the locks on which had not been tampered with, and then the door bolts, which were likewise secure. Whoever was coming into the lady’s room at night was not using a hidey-hole or a secret passage. There wasn’t even enough room in her armoire for someone to hide behind the gowns.

Solving poor Liv’s problem had been a great deal easier, I thought, and then whirled around to look at the lady’s bed. It was made of old, carefully tended terebinth, posted and canopied, and so massive it probably would have required a small army to shift it.

The frame of it sat some two and a half feet off the floor.

I knelt down and bent over sideways to look under the frame. The hardwood floor beneath it was lightly covered in dust, except for a long, wide rectangle in the center. I crawled under, stopping short of the rectangle, and extended the echo over it. I had to crane my head a bit to see into the lens, but it showed a two-by-three-foot section under the floor that was completely black.

Plenty of room for someone with a knife to hide and wait.

Chapter Four

I couldn’t bring a candle under the bed without setting fire to the mattress, so I was obliged to blindly feel for the seams. Something thin and rough brushed my fingertips, and I grasped a bit of cord. When I tugged it, a section of the floor slats lifted up.

Inside the hidey-hole was a short ladder that led down into the darkness. On the top rung lay something folded and white. I reached for it, removed the handkerchief, and brought it to my face, turning away quickly as soon as I identified the scent.

It still smelled of the ether it had been soaked with.

I never have the headache, except now and then in the morning.

I replaced the handkerchief, scooted back, lowered the panel back into place, and inched back out from under the bed.

“Heavens, Kit.” Diana helped me to my feet and brushed her hands over my sleeves. “You’re covered with dust.”

“Aye.” I helped her. “There’s a passageway in the floor concealed beneath your bed. Someone’s been coming through it, and they’ve been using ether to keep you asleep while they cut you.”

“I don’t believe it.”

I gestured toward the edge of the frame. “See for yourself. Be careful when you tug on the cord; don’t snap it.”

Diana crawled under the bed, gave a muffled cry, and pushed herself back out. “We have to call the police,” she said as she stumbled to her feet. “At once.”

“If Montrose is responsible for this, that would be very unwise.” I put a restraining hand on her shoulder. “Lord Walsh has to discover what is being done to you. When you come to bed tonight, first go under there and dislodge the panel, just enough for it to be easily noticed. As soon as your husband comes to you, drop your wedding ring and kick it under the bed. Then ask him to retrieve it.”

“What?” She gave me a wild look. “Why would I arrange such a farce? Someone is trying to kill me.”

“Someone is trying to badly frighten you.” When she began to protest, I cut her off with, “If they wanted you dead, milady, they’d have slit your throat the first night.”

Her face a mask of alabaster now, she pressed a hand to her neck. “Why would they do this? What purpose would it serve?”

“I can’t say, milady. But once your husband discovers the passage under your bed, I expect he’ll get to the bottom of it.” That might not be the result, however, and I couldn’t abandon her to a husband who might be part of this scheme. “If Lord Walsh retrieves the ring and says nothing about the panel, then he is the one responsible. I can help you get away from him.” When Diana gave me a surprised look, I explained, “We’ll make him believe you’ve left to visit your family.” I heard one of the outer doors opening and quickly stowed the echo before brushing the last of the dust from Lady Walsh’s gown. “You must act as if nothing has happened, or the game will be over.”

“Is that what this is to you? A game?” Before I could answer, she drew herself up and composed her expression. “Forgive me, Miss Kittredge. You have been most helpful, but your services are no longer required.”

Which was the lady’s way of telling me to piss off. “Think nothing of it, Lady Diana.”

She retrieved a small silk purse from her bedside table and dropped it in my hands. “Your continued discretion is also appreciated.”

From the weight I knew I was being paid three times the agreed-on fee. “I’ll keep my mouth shut, milady. You needn’t worry.”

She assumed with perfection the exquisitely bored look of a tonner. “Why ever would I do that?”

The chambermaid stood waiting in the front sitting room, a glass of water and a twist of paper on a small silver tray.

“Betsy, Miss Kittredge is leaving,” the lady told her. “Would you please show her the way out?”

Betsy looked relieved. “Yes, milady.”

After running a gauntlet of frowning maids and glowering footmen, I was shown out through the side entrance reserved for tradesmen and visiting servants.

“Thank you,” I said to the door Betsy closed firmly in my face before walking down the short stairs to the street. Wrecker was nowhere to be seen, and I couldn’t wait for him on the street without attracting attention from a nobber—one of the private security guards who patrolled the streets of the Hill to safeguard the residents from unwelcome intruders. Nobbers liked to crack heads first and ask questions later. I started making my way down the narrow walk.

Before I could reach the thoroughfare and hail a cab, a large, gleaming coach drawn by four magnificent grays cut me off. I would have gone around it but for the silver fist-and-pike crest on the door.

Of course it would be him.

Shadows shrouded the inside of the coach and the man who said, “Get in.”

The driver and the footman didn’t move from their positions; I wasn’t worth the trouble. So I unlatched the door and boosted myself up inside.

The interior was, like the coach and the horses and the servant’s livery, a dismal gray. I perched on the rear-facing bench, taking the time to arrange my skirts and satchel before I looked out the window. Watching the scenery couldn’t erase the delicious spicy scent teasing my nose or calm the nerves humming beneath every inch of my skin, but he didn’t have to know that.

“Trolling on the Hill now, are we?” I asked. “What’s the matter, didn’t your last spell for the governor provide the promised amount of dazzle?”

No answer came, not that I expected one from Dredmore.

No, Lucien Dredmore, the former Lord Travallian, mentalist, deathmage, and current acknowledged Grand Master of the Dark Arts in the whole of Toriana, simply popped a matchit with his thumbnail and lit a thin black cigar clamped between his strong white teeth. The flame briefly illuminated his craggy features but failed to find a reflection in his black eyes. Then he shook out the matchit and blew out a thin stream of smoke.

I might have loved the smell of him, but I hated his cigars. I coughed and banged my fist against the panel under the driver’s ass. “Getting out,” I called.

The coach didn’t even slow.

Lucien puffed a few more times before he examined the glowing tip of his smoke. “What were you doing at Walsh’s, Charmian?”

“Dusting the furniture. Haven’t you heard? All the maids on the Hill have gone on strike.” Inside I braced myself before I looked directly at his cruelly handsome face. “Why, is Walsh someone you haven’t yet fleeced?”

“Nolan Walsh is a member of a very powerful financial consortium,” he said. “He does the fleecing.”

“Oh, so he’s your friend.” I sat back. “I think it’s fabulous that you still have one.”

“Nolan wouldn’t hire the likes of you,” he said, as if I weren’t there. “It would have been the daughter. Or the new wife.”

“I don’t discuss my business with thieves and liars,” I told him sweetly. “But I’d happily tell them all about it before I’d confide in scum like you.”

Accustomed as he was to my insults, Dredmore didn’t even bat an eyelash. “There’s a dark, dire force moving through the city, Charmian. You’d be smart to stay clear of it.”

“A dark, dire force.” I laughed. “That’s good, Lucien, that’s very good. I will say one thing for you, your showmanship never disappoints.” I sensed I was running out of time and gave the panel another thump. “Stop this rubbish cart now, or I’ll scream murder.”

He regarded me through the cloud of smoke between us. “You’d rather tromp all the way back to that hovel of yours than accept my assistance? Why get in, then?”

“The last time I didn’t,” I reminded him. “You had one of your hooligans grab me and toss me in.” Lucien had gagged me that time and put his hands on me as well, something I still wanted to stab him in the heart for.

He leaned forward. “Come to supper tonight.”

“No.” Short, unadorned, straight to the point: that was the only way to refuse Dredmore. That and the visible brandishment of one or more sharp weapons. I knew I shouldn’t have left my daggers at home.

“I felt something today,” he told me. “A disturbance in the netherside. Old magic.”

The netherside, realm of all things mystical. Supposedly it was parked up against reality, just out of sight to ordinary folk, though mages claimed they could sense it.

“Likely a spot of indigestion.”

“Hardly.” He stared at my lips. “It tasted of you.”

Now I was going to be sick, hopefully all over his spotless trousers and gleaming boots. “There is no such thing as the netherside or magic.”

“Then why do you rabbit about disenchanting things?” he countered.

“I investigate real crimes, I expose the frauds dressing them up as magic, and I stop good, hardworking people from wasting what little they have on charlatans who do nothing.” I waited a beat. “Like you.”

“I will find out what you were doing at Walsh’s.” He sat back. “Then you and I will have a very long discussion about the consequences for young females who are too headstrong and foolish to stay in their proper place.”

I curled my upper lip. “Where’s that for me, then? In your bed?”

“Such a tedious lack of imagination.” He pitched his cigar out the window before he pulled down the shades. “I have you where I want you now.”

I laughed. “You can’t do anything in here but annoy me.”

“Can’t I?” Dredmore dragged me off the seat and onto his thighs, where he clamped me against his chest. “No, don’t struggle, Charmian. You made the challenge.” He wrapped the chain of my pendant around his fist until it became a noose around my neck. “I am only rising to the occasion.”

I felt a bulge of blunt hardness against my thigh and went still, ducking my head to hide my fear. “You’re pathetic.”

“What happened to annoying?” His lips glanced over my cheekbone. “Lift your chin.”

I stared at the vee of his waistcoat. “Go to the devil.”

He released the chain, took hold of my hair, and gave it a sharp tug, and I jerked up my chin. I made myself stone as he put his mouth over mine, and I kept my teeth clamped together to prevent his tongue any access.

Like all the others, this would not count as my first kiss, I thought as he worked his lips against mine. Another mauling, most definitely, but I wasn’t kissing him. I’d never kiss him. I would never, ever give in to such brute tactics—

And then I was kissing him, my mouth open to his, my tongue curling round the silky glide of his. Dimly I felt him let go of my hair and gather me closer, his fingers at my bodice and then my breast, cupping and squeezing. He ceased that only to reach down, and then I felt my skirts sliding up over my calves and then my knees—

“No.” I wrenched my face to one side, first to drag in breath and then to hold it. My body wanted to do terrible things, and my mind wanted worse, and I could not relent to either. Not here, and not with him.

“What did that feel like, Charmian?” He caught a tendril of hair hanging in my eyes and smoothed it back. “Annoyance, or something deeper? And would you like to feel it all night?”

I would have smashed my brow into his, but all it wanted to do was rest against his shoulder as my shaking hand pushed my skirts back down. “You have to stop doing this to me.”

“Why?”

I straightened and looked into his black, soulless eyes as I let how I felt show on my face.

“So we remain at impasse. Very well.” Carefully he lifted me and placed me back on the opposite seat. Before I could shift back into the corner, he reached out and clamped a black-gloved hand over my wrist. “You will come to me, Charmian. Perhaps not now, but soon. The portents are never wrong.”

He did have the deepest, most commanding voice of any man I’d known. Sometimes I woke up in the middle of the night, covered in sweat, hearing the last echo of it humming in my ears as I remembered other times he’d touched and kissed me. If anyone could ever bespell me, it would be Lucien Dredmore.

Over my dead body.

He dodged my fist and thrust me back, calling out, “Here, Connell.”

The coach came to a swift stop.

I glanced out and saw that I was back in town. “Thank you for the ride, Dredmore. Very decent of you.”

“Charmian.” He watched me climb out.

From there I walked a few blocks to the local fishncrisp to pick up two hot meals for me and Docket. The encounter with Dredmore had killed what appetite I had, so I ordered a pot of bisque and some crackers for myself and a big platter of fried coddles and shoelace-thin crispies for the mech. Since the owner still owed me a massive debt for dispelling all of his fish shops, I’d agreed to take meals in barter.

“Right you are, miss,” the counter boy said as he loaded the meal containers into two round packing cylinders marked with his shop’s brand. “Where to drop?”

I had to go home to freshen up, but I intended to spend a few hours at the office, so I gave him my building and drop numbers. He tagged them on the side of the cylinders in grease pencil, and I lingered long enough to watch him load the meal buckets into the tube.

The shops that sent hot food by bucket around the city were scrupulously honest—their business depended on it—but sometimes too many buckets in the tubes created a backup at the sorting stations, and if so I’d just stop for the meals later on my way to the office myself (and Docket would have his hand delivery.) This time, however, the cylinders shot off directly.

When I left I passed a number of magic shops and tellers, most just opening for night business. While I generally ignored them for the nonsense hope peddlers that they were, Dredmore’s warning and Lady Diana’s strange wounds caused me to glance in a few windows.

Mages, tellers, and other practitioners of the dark arts were a clannish bunch and rarely socialized outside their ranks—Dredmore being one of the few, annoying exceptions, though he had once been titled, which evidently made him less repulsive to the tonners. They invariably lived where they worked, in small cramped lofts above their shops, which offered any and every sort of magic one could desire, from seeings to seekings to special charms.

The latest addition to their industry were warders: specialty mages who charmed wardlings forged of silver that were supposed to cast protective charms over people and homes and even whole buildings to protect them from the netherside and—what else?—ward off harmful or evil spells. One could hardly find a window or threshold in the city that hadn’t been adorned with a wardling.

What was interesting to me was just how many wardlings I saw in the windows and over the doors of the magic shops. Pretty as the inscribed silver disks were, they were as useless as oversize coins. Still, warders had been growing very influential of late, which baffled me to no end. I’d never thought that the other charlatans in their trade would ever believe that manner of foolishness.

I approached an old native shaman, who crouched in front of a neighborhood stable. He’d drawn a circle in the dirt around a white rat that had been tied to a large stone. I looked away as the old man used his blade to nick the rodent’s neck; I knew he’d use the blood to paint some strange design over the threshold of the stable. One of the local’s mounts must have died suddenly; the superstitious natives wouldn’t touch another horse in the same stable until the rat-blood ritual was performed. I had no love for rats, but seeing any creature bled for something so meaningless revolted me.

I didn’t realize I’d stopped in front of a richly decorated window until the middle-aged female proprietor unlocked the shop door, stepped out, and spoke to me. “See your future, miss?”

“I’m not a believer,” I said absently, and nodded toward her window, where she had displayed a row of inscribed silver disks hanging from neck chains. “Are you lot selling wardlings as baubles now?”

Her expression turned shuttered. “Pr’aps you’d best move on, miss. ’Twill be dark soon.” She turned and went back into the shop.

Tellers were the least offensive of mages, so I followed her in. “Hang on,” I called after her. “I changed my mind. I do want a seeing.”

“Sorry, can’t. I’m about to close.” She scampered behind a long counter covered with hundreds of lit candles, vials of colored stones, and large blueglass spirit snuffballs. “There’s another teller four doors down. She’ll see for you. She sees for anyone.”

I’d never patronized a teller before, but I vaguely remembered one of Rina’s gels comparing them to strumpets in that they demanded payment before service was rendered.

She wanted the money first, then. “How much is it?” I asked as I reached into my satchel for some coin.

“As I said, I’m done in for the day, miss.”

“You only just opened your door,” I reminded her. “Why won’t you see for me?” Something occurred to me. “Do you know a witch named Gert?”

She flicked her eyes over me, as if she were afraid to look at me too long. “No. And I never seen the likes of you.” She made a funny gesture and whispered, “Hope never to see again.”

“Spells are nonsense,” I informed her, in the event she was about to cast one. “Might as well save your breath.”

She gave me a frightened look and the next thing she said came out in a hill country accent. “Ev doan nowhat to ye, elshy. Lave oof m’now.”

Something buzzed in my ears. “What did you call me?”

She didn’t utter another word but spun and ran back into a storeroom, slamming the door and locking it behind her.

I dropped my coin tuck back in my reticule and resisted the urge to give it a swing and smash a few candleglasses. That was when I noticed the dozens of smoke wisps rising around me, and how dark it had become inside the shop.

Something had blown out the teller’s candles. All of them.

At home I ran a bath, but while I was undressing something snapped and slithered down between my breasts. I didn’t realize it was my pendant until I pulled it out of my bodice and stared at the broken links.

“Damn me.” The chain was older than me, and thanks to my tussle with Dredmore in the carriage it had finally snapped. I left the pendant on my vanity and went to the little cashsafe I kept behind a painting of New Yorkshire. I had another chain I’d taken in lieu of payment from a silversmith with a fireplace he thought haunted but that I’d found occupied by a nesting owl.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

I whirled around to see a strange old man standing in my bedchamber. “Who are you?” I yanked up my bodice to cover my chest and glanced at the door and the windows, all of which were still closed. “How did you get in here?”

He held up hands that looked too long and narrow for his short, thin frame. “I’m not going to hurt you, lass. In fact, if you’ll give a moment to explain, I may be of some considerable assistance to you.”

“Stuff that.” I grabbed a prodder from the hearth and brandished it. Wrecker had once shown me the best spots to cripple a man and I remembered all of them. “Get out of here or I’ll cosh in your skull.”

He shrugged. “Go ahead.”

“I’m not jesting with you, old man.” Was he a burglar or a rapist? “I don’t know what you want, but I’ve nothing worth nicking.”

“You’ve everything I gave you, Charm, as well as a few things I didn’t.” He began wandering around the room, touching things that were not his. “Don’t the maids ever dust in here?”

“I don’t have maids. What the devil are you doing? Don’t touch that.” I went after him as he peered at my pendant. When I tried to grab him, my hand passed straight through him, as if he wasn’t even there. My fingers came away stiff with cold, as if I’d held my hand to a block of ice.

“Bloody hell.” He was a ghost, and he was talking to me. “Who are you?”

“I’m free, love. After twenty years of waiting and watching.” He drew back from my vanity. “Though I imagine your da is spinning like a top in his grave. He never did like me, you know. And your mother . . .” He gave a shudder that made his form shimmer.

He was a ghost and a loon. “Why are you haunting me?” I demanded. “I don’t know you. I didn’t kill you.”

“That, my gel, is a very long story.” He eyed the window. “I’d leave you in peace, but it’s still daylight. My sort can only go about freely after dark.”

“Well, you are not staying here all day,” I told him.

“I’m not inclined to. You’ve a green stone in your left pocket,” he told me. “Give it to me.”

Here was a chance to find out more about the real nature of ghosts versus the nonsense the magic trade always spouted about them. I took out the pebble and tossed it to him. Instead of passing through him as my hand had, it landed in his open palm. He closed his fingers over it and frowned.

“Nasty bit of spell put on this.” He made a fist, relaxed it, and bits of green gravel fell to the floor. “Whoever gave this to you wants you dead, Charm.”

“It’s not mine.” The magical nickname made me glower. “And I’m called Kit.”

His white hair ruffled as he shook his head. “Your name is Charmian Constance. Your mother called you that after your grandmother.”

“You have the wrong Charmian,” I told him through my teeth.

“Your father’s name was Christopher Kittredge, wasn’t it? Your mother would have taken his name. She could never use mine.” His expression turned thoughtful. “I’m not certain she even knew it.”

My jaw dropped. “You were married to my mother?”

“No, I was her father. I’m your grandfather, Charm.” He sketched a bow. “Harry White, at your service.”

Talking to this mirage was giving me a headache. “Go haunt someone else, Harry White.”

“The daylight problem, as I mentioned, prevents my departure.” He started toward me. “Then there’s the fact that you’re in grave danger. Dark forces are gathering.”

It was almost exactly what Dredmore had said. “What dark forces?”

He gestured at the vanity. “You’ll need to wear that at all times, my dear.”

Is that what he was after? My pendant? I went over and picked it up. “I do already,” I said, turning around to face him. “Now what—”

I discovered I was talking to myself, as it seemed that Harry White had done the same as every ghost I’d ever encountered: vanished without a word.

Chapter Five

Being the only female tenant in my office building had some advantages, like the use of a lavatory I had to share only with the occasional female client (rare) and my own chutes for rubbish, post, and meal drops (none of the other tenants wanted the contents of their tubes mixed in with a woman’s). The only significant drawback to being the sole woman on the premises was my lack of staff; I had to deal with anyone and everyone who came to call—even some of the other tenants who wandered past my door.

Tonight it was Horace Eduwin Gremley the Fourth, a clerk from the second-floor title office. Horace the Second, a semirespectable land broker, had arranged the job for his grandson when Horace the Third had deserted his wife and son for the lure of gold. I knew the lad’s father had been swept off and drowned while unwisely panning during an early thaw, so I tried to be tolerant.

“Miss Kittredge”—the lad’s grandfather had beaten some manners into the fourth bearer of his esteemed name, and he folded himself over in a generous bow—“I’d hoped to run into you before I left for home.”

“Mr. Gremley.” I gave him a tiny bob and held on to my key rather than unlock the door. “How may I be of assistance?”

His eyes skipped up and down the length of my gown. “Oh, it’s nothing so important. Simply a small matter I wished to discuss with you.”

We’d have to discuss it out in the hall, because the last thing I would ever do on this earth would be to closet myself alone in a room with Fourth. “Do go on.”

His beady eyes darted to the knob. “It is something of a delicate nature.”

Blast it, he was going to ask me out again. I glanced around him. “I don’t think anyone on the other floors will hear.”

“My mother bids me attend the opening of the opera.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “I would be greatly honored if you would consent to be my escort.”

“How kind of you to think of me.” I pretended to consider it. “When is this opening?”

“Thursday next.”

I produced my usual disappointed face. “I’m so sorry, but I have a previous engagement that night.” As I had had the twenty-six other times when he had asked for my companionship.

“Did I say Thursday?” he said, his eyes gleaming with triumph. “Oh, dear. I meant Friday.”

The little snot was actually trying to out-lie me. “Alas, Mr. Gremley, my engagement is out of the city, and of some duration. I daresay I will be gone until Sunday next.”

“I see.” Under the yoke of his ill-fitting jacket, his bony shoulders sagged. “Mother was adamant about my obtaining a proper escort this year. If I do not, she threatens to match me with one of the Plumsens.”

Despite my annoyance I felt a pang of sympathy for him. “The Plumsens are a very respectable family.” And their da had passed to each of his daughters a perfect replica of his uptilted nozzer, giving them all the look of well-fed infant swine.

“I should be glad to have any escort, I know,” Fourth said on a heartfelt sigh. “But the Plumsen daughters are nothing to you, Miss Kittredge.”

“You’re too kind, Mr. Gremley.” Perhaps I could solve my problem with Fourth in a different manner. “I wonder, sir, have you ever been introduced to Mr. Skolnik from the first floor?”

“Skolnik the importer?” When I nodded, he looked confused. “We are nodding acquaintances, yes.”

That was all he needed. “Did you know then that Mr. Skolnik has an unmarried daughter who has recently come over to live with him? Maritza, I believe her name is.”

“She’s not English or Torian.”

“No, and I believe that she doesn’t speak much English, either, but I’ve had the pleasure of meeting her and she’s quite lovely.” I described her in genteel terms, and then added, “I imagine if you persuaded Mr. Skolnik to introduce you to Maritza, she would be delighted to accept an invitation to the opera.”

Fourth seemed taken aback by my suggestion. “But if she speaks so little English, how would Mama or I converse with her?”

I smiled. “With such a companion, Mr. Gremley, you need not converse at all.”

I could almost hear the seldom-used gears in Fourth’s head start to turn. “Mama would not be able to grill . . . I mean, inquire as to her family connections.”

“Which are, of course, quite respectable.” In her own country, anyway. “I have been engaged by Mr. Skolnik several times, and he is a pleasant, amiable gentleman. You might mention that I am greatly in favor of your introduction.”

Fourth’s grin tried to reach from one jug-handle ear to the other. “You have done me a great service, Miss Kittredge.” He bowed again. “I am forever in your debt.”

I bobbed. “A pleasure as always, Mr. Gremley.” I still waited until he dashed to the stair before entering my office.

I checked the tubes, removed my still-hot bisque from the bucket before sending the container back through, and picked through some advertisements as I nibbled on a cracker. No invitations for tea, supper, or parties, which saved me an hour of penning polite refusals. Then I found a thin gray envelope sealed with silver wax that bore the impression of a spike-wielding fist.

I should have tossed it into the fire as I had all the others, but Dredmore’s remarks still had me unsettled. I sat down behind my desk and used my letter dagger to slice off the seal.

The envelope contained a single sheet of thin silver vellum folded in thirds. The paper exuded a faint scent of smoke and burnt herbs; the black ink he’d used to pen the thick, slashing letters gleamed with a ghostly sheen. With it he’d written:

Charmian,

You are meddling in matters beyond your scope. I will see to Walsh, and you will refrain from calling on his wife again. Whatever sums she promised you are not worth your life.

Dredmore

P.S. Now you may burn this and eat your supper before your bisque grows too cold.

He always knew what I was doing or eating, and I had no idea how he managed that. He wanted me to believe it was magic, of course.

“Cheeky sod.” I crumpled the stationery in my fist and threw the ball of it into the hearth, where it blazed up in a fountain of silvery sparks before shrinking to a snail of ash. “I’ll call on Lady Walsh three times a day if I please.”

Thoughts of Dredmore did not entirely preoccupy my supper hour. Rather it was the name the teller had called me in her twangy, wrong-voweled accent: elshy.

I jumped as someone knocked on the office door. “Madam Kittredge,” a mellow, male voice called. “This is NSY. Open up if you please.”

I didn’t please, but the Yard could break down any door if they so chose, so I went out to let him in. Through the panel I saw one man, fair-haired and average-sized, dressed in a plainclothesman’s long trench and low-brim. Behind him hovered the darker shape of a beater in dark blue, holding his trunch as if ready to smash in the glass.

I opened the door. “Yes?” I wasn’t going to offer my assistance, not to the cops.

The inspector doffed his hat, revealing the tough, wind-weathered features and sun-faded blue eyes of a former navyman. “Forgive the intrusion, madam—”

“It’s miss,” I corrected him, frowning a little. I didn’t know any mariners, but his features still looked awfully familiar. “And you are?”

He inclined his head. “Inspector Thomas Doyle, Rumsen Main Station.”

Now there was a name I knew; one that made me smile. “Any relation to the Middleway Doyles?”

“My grandfather Arthur.” He frowned. “Hang on. Kittredge, Kittredge . . .” His expression cleared. “You’re Rachel’s little Charmian.”

“I am, just a bit bigger.” I made the last connection, although the inspector looked much different than he had at the age of five, when he’d lost to me at croke. “And you’d be Arthur’s Tommy?”

He nodded and peered over my shoulder, making me realize that I was making the grandson of one of my mother’s oldest friends stand out in the hall. I stepped back. “Do come in.”

Doyle had a quiet word with his beater, who nodded and positioned himself beside the door. Then he came in and followed me through the front sitting room to my office, where he refused to sit or have a cup of tea.

“I appreciate it, but I’ve come to speak to Mr. Kittredge,” he told me. “If he’s stepped out, I can wait for him.”

“You’ll need a teller, then.” I wanted to dunk my throbbing head in my tea mug but settled for sipping from it as I went behind the desk and sat down. “My father died with my mother some years ago.”

He grimaced. “My condolences. I meant the Mr. Kittredge who owns this business.”

“That would be me.” I didn’t chuckle at his reaction, but it was close. “Don’t look so shocked, Inspector. Women may never have the vote, but these days we are permitted to work. And you used to call me Kit.”

“So I did.” He looked around again, this time as if expecting the walls to collapse on him. “How, exactly, does a woman obtain an investigator’s license?”

“The usual way.” I wasn’t going to incriminate myself or the officials I’d bribed, or admit that for the first four years I’d been in business I’d been obliged to conduct my work without a proper license. “I’m about to have my dinner. Fancy some bisque?”

A few minutes later we were sipping mugs in front of my fire. Doyle’s tough face softened as he spoke of his parents and regaled me with some of the amusing adventures they’d had at their farm. As he did, I smiled and nodded while sorting through my memories until I recalled the last time I’d seen Tommy: a birthday tea we’d both attended when I was seven years old. Mum had dropped me off with Tom, promising to return for us both in a few hours.

When he reached a lull in his own conversation, I asked, “Do you remember the time we went to Deidre’s garden tea?”

Doyle nodded. “You didn’t like the mage.”

“He smelled of gin and had dandruff in his eyebrows.” I took his empty mug and mine over to my little washbasin. “Do you remember what happened with the old sot?”

“Deidre asked him to conjure her a blue rabbit.” He came over to watch me wash the crockery. “But he couldn’t.”

“Were you supposed to bring a rabbit?” my seven-year-old self asked the smelly old man as he kept drawing bigger circles in the air with his stick.

Big tears welled up in Deidre’s eyes, and she shrieked for her mother, who rushed over. “What’s the matter, darling?” As soon as the birthday gel told her, the mother turned to the old man. “Go on, then. Give her a rabbit.”

He straightened. “I’ve tried, madam, many times. It will not manifest.”

She propped her fists on her hips. “For the ten shillings I’m paying you, it had better manifest, and right this instant.”

“There must rowan or witchbane planted nearby.” The old man glanced around at the neat flower beds. “I fear I am powerless here.”

“You dodgy charlatan. If I wanted to be gypped, I’d have hired a Rom.” She pointed to the gate. “Piss off.”

“But ye’ve not paid me—” The old man stopped and yelped as the birthday gel bit his hand. “Bloody little savage!”

He swung his stick at her head, but I grabbed it before he could hit her.

“You’re a bad man,” I said, and broke the stick in two. “Go away.”

His eyes showed whites all the way around as he pointed a trembling finger at me. “It’s her,” he croaked. “She’s done it, she has.”

“Kit?”

I looked up at Doyle’s concerned face and realized for the first time just how much I liked it. “Sorry.” The last thing I needed was to go sweet on a cop. “Before Deidre’s mum threw out the old tosser, he called me something. Something nasty. Do you remember what it was?”

“I must have missed that part of the tea.” He smiled a little. “Why do you care what a drunken old bully said?”

“Because someone called me the same thing today.”

The inspector wasn’t looking me in the eye anymore.

“‘Elshy,’” I said. “And I still don’t know what it means. Do you?”

He shook his head.

Like all cops, Tommy Doyle knew how to lie. Most defenders of the truth usually did. I decided not to press the issue—for now. “So why have you come to call on Disenchanted & Company, Inspector?”

“I’m assigned to the Hill,” he said. “We received a report of a disturbance at Walsh’s Folly yesterday.”

“How terrible.” I meant his assignment, not the disturbance.

“A young woman imposed herself on one of the wealthier families.” He leaned against my wall. “Apparently she claimed some sort of connection and had to be ordered off the premises.”

“What cheek.” The butler had reported me, I guessed. Nolan had no cause, and Diana wouldn’t risk it. “I do hope you find her.”

“The lass in question called herself Kittredge.” His mouth stretched and curled. “Do you have a sister I don’t know about?”

“As far as I know, I’m the only female Kittredge in the city.” I peered down at the random notes I had scrawled on my blotter. “How odd. I called on Lady Diana Walsh yesterday, at her invitation. I had tea with her and her delightful family before I departed, and that is all. Perhaps there’s been some terrible misunderstanding.”

“Lady Walsh will verify your visit?” After my nod he demanded, “Did you go there to extort money from the lady?”

“Not at all.” What had that creaky old winge reported, that I was a blackmailer? “I make my money honestly, Inspector. Ask anyone.” I thought of Gert. “Except old witches. They’re not too fond of me.”

“You called on a family of means with whom you have no connection. You are unmarried, and you went alone. You know how that looks.” His blue eyes searched my face. “Who hired you, and why?”

“I am not employed by the Walshes or anyone on the Hill,” I said truthfully. “As for the ton’s rules of behavior, they do not include women who work for their living.” Now it was my turn to attack. “I didn’t think the Yard gave credence to servants’ gossip. So how does it work, Inspector? Do you run about chasing down every tittle-tattle you hear, or only the really juicy ones?”

Two flags of color rosied the jut of his cheekbones, giving him an unexpectedly boyish look. “Why don’t you tell me the real reason you called on the lady?”

“If you don’t believe what I’ve told you, ask her,” I suggested, feeling a little pang in my heart. He’d been a lovely boy, and he was a fetching man, but he was only a few steps above a beater. “I’m sure they’d pass her a note from you, as long as it’s got a Yard seal and has been sprayed for nits. Not like you’re a nobber, right?”

Doyle shook his head. “You shame your mother with that mouth, Kit.”

“And you’ve covered the Doyle name with glory?” I leaned forward. “What would my dear old uncle Arthur, rest his spirit, think of his grandson, Tommy the copper?”

I’d hope that would provoke him enough to send him on his way. Instead, he grinned. “Grandda would have loved seeing me earn my shield, you brat, and you know it.”

His grandfather had come from royal blood, the highest of high posh, the truest of the blue, but the old gent had been inordinately fond of Toriana’s vast working classes, especially those who protected the innocent.

“Aye . . . you’re right. He’d have been proud of you, Tommy.” So was I, and in that moment I wished we were two other people. As we were, we’d never have a chance.

He gave me a speculative look. “Why did you leave Middleway for Rumsen? You’ve no people here, Kit.”

“No one there, either.” I wasn’t going to tell him how horrible it had been, living in the house where my parents had died, sick with grief, unable to think. How the vultures had barely waited until Mum and Da were in the pyre before coming for me. “As you see, I’m doing all right.”

“Very well.” He retrieved his longcoat. “After your mother was sent from the queensland to Toriana, my grandfather made her his ward. She enjoyed his unwavering affection, his protection . . . and confided in him her most guarded secrets.”

Old Arthur must have let something slip; he would never have told anyone, not even his own blood. “You needn’t hint, Doyle. I know my mother was a nameless bastard.”

“Is that all you know?” Before I could reply, he said, “You’ve worked on the Hill in the past, so you know what you’re tempting. Walsh will do whatever he must to protect his wife’s reputation. But first, he’ll go excavating.”

I shrugged. “Let him.”

“Walsh belongs to the Tillers,” he continued, referring to the grandest of not-so-secret secret societies for men in Rumsen. “He won’t just dig, Kit. If he can’t find what he wants, he’ll plant it.” He took out a card, wrote something on the back, and handed it to me. “Directions to Mum and Da’s place. I know they’d love you to call.”

“How kind of you to say.” I took it, and after a small hesitation gave him one of my own. “Should you ever find yourself in need of my professional services, my rates are quite reasonable.”

“I think ten years policing have disenchanted me nicely.” But he pocketed the card. “You’ll stay off the Hill, then?”

“I have no plans to return,” I said honestly.

He touched his brim. “Then good day, Miss Kittredge.”

“Inspector.” I bobbed with the same courtesy.

Chapter Six

The gurgling sound of my BrewsMaid roused me from the last minutes of my uncomfortable night sleeping on the office settee. I might have rolled over and tried for another restless hour or two, if not for the tasks that awaited me.

Tom Doyle could have done a lot more than simply ask questions on behalf of Nolan Walsh. Last night he could have hauled me in for questioning, or even tossed me in a cell to be held under suspicion. I appreciated his restraint; I also heeded his warning about Lady Diana’s husband.

Too many odd things had been happening too fast. I’d met the ghost of a grandfather I’d never known existed. Doyle had been sent to question me and then had hinted he knew more about my mother than I did. Even Dredmore had made a point to warn me off Walsh while nattering on about his dark and dire forces, whatever that meant.

I’d never investigated myself or my family, but it seemed a prudent time to remedy that. I’d start by going down to the City Archives, where I could search the Hall of Records.

Before I left the office, I retreated into my private lavatory, where I kept several changes of clothes. In going into the realm of men I had two options: donning my gray switch, some face paint, and my blacks to project the appearance of a widow lady, which would be costly, or stripping myself down to the skin and donning my bucks. Since Walsh might be having me watched, and I never cared to hand out bribes unless they were absolutely necessary, I decided to go native.

Erasing every aspect of my gender didn’t take much time. I sprayed my face, arms, hands, ankles, and feet with bronzen, which darkened my tanned skin to a copper brown. Making my brow fringe stand on end and stay that way required the careful application of axle grease mixed with a bit of flour. I could do nothing about the color of my eyes, but enough native women had been captured and released along with their too-dark children during the settlement that tribal people with light eyes were not uncommon now.

Finally I stuffed my crotch with a stocking-covered sausage, a trick Rina had picked up from her clients and had passed along to me. “If you’re ever wondering if the bulge your beau sports is real,” she had advised, “introduce him to a hungry dog.”

My garments were fashioned out of scraped hides sewn together with leather lacings and decorated modestly with native beadwork. Out of respect for the real natives, I didn’t wear any feathers in my hair or on my person; those were reserved for braves who had bloodied themselves in war. They were also sported by the only natives I truly despised, the shamans, who claimed to have the sight.

Native magic was every bit as phony as the kind performed by Rumsen’s resident magefolk, but far more dangerous. The city practitioners faked their spells out of greed, in order to swindle their victims; the shamans used their false conjuring to control their entire tribe, to whom magic was like a religion.

The only drawback to going native was the lack of transport; I couldn’t take the trolley or hail a cab, and natives were not permitted to own carris or coaches. Instead I hired a pleasant mare from a public stable and rode on horseback to City Hall. There I had to ride past a native stablehand, but he must not have looked too closely at me, for he made only the terse, sidewise jerk of the head that served as a wordless greeting among the tribes.

Natives lived outside Rumsen on the lands permanently deeded to them by the Crown after the last treaty had been struck, and they did not permit their women to leave its boundaries. However, after failing to become the farmers the Crown had desired them to be, the tribesmen had gradually drifted back to Rumsen to seek work in the city. They were generally employed to look after horses or livestock, as they preferred animals to people, or worked in tanneries or potteries. I’d seen a few light-skinned braves serving as drivers and footmen to young bachelor masters, as they were ferocious fighters and made the best bodyguards. Given the distressing history between the races, few families trusted them around their females, and so natives were never brought on as household staff, even among the working class.

The one prime convenience the treaty had brought for the natives was equal rights as voting citizens. New Parliament had argued for years against it, but a change in attitude toward the preservation of indigenous peoples throughout the Empire had resulted in the males of the tribes being made full citizens. Posing as a native male I had the right to access any of the government’s archives whenever I pleased—something not even the wealthiest of white women could do without paying a prodigious number of bribes.

As it was a weekday, I expected the City Archives Building to be jammed—and it was. But most of the citizens came to purchase permits and licenses or pay their taxes, which created long lines outside Provincial Planning and H.M.’s Revenue & Customs. By comparison the small, cramped office of the Hall of Records was nearly empty, with only a sour-faced legal clerk and two vicars waiting in line. The collars ignored me, a poor heathen who in their view was already doomed to burn in hell everlasting. After one desultory glance I also ceased to exist for the legal clerk, who could not expect to solicit business from a citizen whose interests could only be represented in court by a tribal conciliator.

After fifteen minutes of standing and waiting—something a woman would never have been expected to do—I faced the records secretary. He was one of the thousand ubiquitous young clerks in the city, overly groomed and hopelessly attired, but he greeted me courteously enough and asked via universal hand gestures if I required an interpreter.

“I speak and read the English,” I said in my deepest guttural native accent.

“Thank the Son,” the secretary said baldly. “Takes forever to hand-speak things with you lot, especially with the documents. What do you want?”

“I seek record of grandfather, soldierman, work class,” I told him. “Father wish give name papers for young sister to husband’s tribe.”

Some of the natives believed having blood ties to important white families, particularly if they were friendly, elevated the status of a female and could result in her husband’s family offering a higher bride price. Since the government collected a hefty percentage of bride prices from the tribe, they encouraged the practice.

“Do you know how to operate the sorter, then?” When I nodded, the secretary gestured toward one of the empty booths to the left of the counter.

I placed a pound note through the window slot. “How long I can use?” Generally there was a limit of one hour, but the clerks tended to give natives more time for translation purposes.

“Unless we’ve a rush come in, you can use it as long as you like,” he said as he placed the note in his cash drawer. “If you need assistance, tap the bell.”

I entered the glass-sided booth, which smelled of dust, paper, and men’s sweat, and sat down on the hard-backed chair in front of the wide records sorter panel.

Three large levers were marked with the B, M, and D representing the three major record rondellas (Birth, Marriage, and Death). To the right of each were twenty-six smaller levers marked with every letter of the alphabet, along with two extra with I and D that sorted out incomplete or damaged records. Another row of seven levers further separated the records by province of origin, and at the bottom of the panel was a long row of even smaller annum levers with faded labels indicating years in five-decade increments.

I pulled the B lever and watched through the glass window of the booth as the sorter’s arm descended from the ceiling, then I flipped down the W, another for Tull province, and the annum lever for the fifty-year span before my mother’s birth date.

With its internal cogs adjusted by the levers, the arm stretched out, plucking the first sheaf of glassined documents from the archive shelves. It dropped them into a flat-sided chute, which carried them one by one to my window, where I used the stop knob to hold and glance at each one before allowing it to be whisked by the chute back to its shelf.

Surnames beginning with W in Tull province were common, so there were a great many records to skim through before I reached the Wh’s, and all the birth records of Tullan citizens of the time period named White. There were seventy-two, and not one of them named Harold, Harrison, or Harcourt.

Which was impossible, because my grandfather could not have immigrated to Toriana without registering some sort of document of origin.

I searched the records for the annum of my mother’s birth and found none registered for her either. I then went to the annum of my own birth, which I had never seen, and found the record of my delivery at Middy Women’s Hospital, which noted my parents’ names. Mum had been listed not as White but as Doyle. Using the new surname, I found among the birth records a writ of adoption, which named Rachel White as a foundling taken in by the Doyle family at age sixteen.

Tommy’s grandfather must have gone to a great deal of trouble and expense to formally adopt my mother, but why? Had my grandfather been some sort of criminal, living underground or under a false identity?

I went back to the annum of my mother’s birth and this time pulled all the incomplete records. I found one single handwritten note filed by the midwife who had attended the birth of a female child, delivered to a Harry White, Esq., and wife. My grandmother was not named but was listed as having passed in childbirth. I found no corresponding death certificate for her.

The paper trail ended there. My grandfather had come into existence on the night of my mother’s birth, had evidently lived for sixteen years after without ever registering his identity, and had vanished after Arthur Doyle had adopted her.

I made note of the number stamped on the glassine seal before sending the last of the documents back to the archives, then stepped out of the booth. The other patrons had left, and I saw the secretary was finishing up his lunch at his desk. He came over to the window as soon as he saw me.

“Find what you needed?” he asked.

“No,” I admitted, only just remembering to alter my voice. “If man has no papers here, where else they could be?”

“All citizens of Toriana are required by law to register birth, marriage, and death certificates.” He sighed. “Unless the man was a criminal, or protected by the Crown. Then his papers would be held by the Ministry of Prisons for the length of his sentence, or kept under seal.”

I doubted even someone as high in society as Arthur Doyle could have adopted Rachel if her father had been a convict. “Where these seal papers?”

“All protected documents are kept in the secured archives belowground,” he told me. “But you can’t access them without a writ from the governor’s office, and they won’t issue those to a native. Sorry, old man.”

I knew what I needed then, so I gruffly thanked him and left.

One of the strangest jobs I’d ever undertaken had been for one of the city’s moles, who had contracted me by tube to investigate a sudden infestation of rats in a posh hotel, for which he was being blamed. He in turn claimed to me that the hotel had been placed under a dark enchantment by a rival establishment hoping to drive them out of business.

I’d never realized how vast and intricate the labyrinth of tubes, drainageways, and mech rooms beneath the city was until I searched them for the source of the rodents. I’d discovered the hotel’s new rubbish tubes had actually been the culprit, for the builders had used substandard materials that had allowed the rats infesting the city’s landfill to gnaw through a joint and come up into the hotel’s kitchens. The old tunneler had been too poor to pay me, but thinking I might someday need to use his warren, I’d accepted a favor to be claimed as settlement.

Gaining access to the underground from the surface was not easy; the storm drains were protected by mesh to keep out debris, and the busy downtown traffic ruled out using one of the hatch drops spaced along the middle of the streets. Fortunately my investigation had also taught me where the less traditional access points in the city were, and I went to the nearest bathhouse where I was known.

My native disguise didn’t fool the proprietor, a genial woman named Delia, for longer than an eyeblink.

“Eh, Miss Kit, is that you under all that bronze? So it is.” She chuckled as she handed me a cowled cloak. “Mind you keep your head down in there. Don’t want the ladies thinking I’ve sold them out to the savages.”

She led me back through the communal baths to the private rooms used by ladies who enjoyed a rub before or after their wash. The young men who attended them worked stripped to the waist and had been trained to use their hands to deliver various degrees of pleasure. Rina always claimed the bathboys were doing a great deal more than that behind the locked doors, but I thought not. If a woman wished to be penetrated and run the risk of catching a babe, she went to her husband, or a lover who resembled her husband. If she wished to be stroked and petted and made to feel beautiful in her skin, she came here for a rub.

Delia let me into her tube room and the stairs leading down to the small sorting station beneath it. “Tell Clancy while you’re down there that I don’t want no holdup on the linens in those tubes today. Missus Trevors and her ducklings are coming in at three.”

“All nine of them?” I pulled on my gloves and gogs. “Better let the boys have an early supper, Del.”

I climbed down through the darkness on the rusty, rickety staircase and stepped off into a damp, murky room filled with tubes from the bathhouse and several other businesses. Four of Delia’s brothers worked in the station, and they rarely had a moment’s rest from dawn until dusk, when all the tubes finally closed. Clancy, her eldest sibling, paused long enough to laugh soon as he saw me.

“What’s all this, then?” He rerouted a load of damp, soiled towels from the bathhouse to the launderer’s tube. “You giving up the civilized life, Miss Kit?”

I sighed. “Why do I never fool you people?”

He chuckled. “You may dress the part of a savage well enough, but you smell of roses and lavender. That lot, they smell of horses or trees, or naught ’tall.”

“Next time I’ll have to remember to dab some pine resin behind my ears.” I passed along his sister’s message, and then asked, “Have you seen Hedger today?”

“Aye, he came up with his bucket at noon.” Clancy waved his hand toward the tubes that curved out of sight beside a hatch. “Said to me he were off to scram under the exchange today. Here.” He tossed me a watershed. “Keep your heathen skin from washing off.”

“Thanks, Clance.” I pulled on the rubber cloak and followed the tubes.

Descending into Rumsen’s bowels required I bring my own light, so I borrowed a flystick from Clancy and gently shook it until the bugs inside the glass rod gave off a blue-green glow. That lit my path down into the sublevels and tunnels where old Hedger dwelled and worked.

Chapter Seven

As usual, the stink from the sewer tubes hit me first and took my breath away. Every time I came belowground I wondered how the old man could tolerate living in it. He claimed one became accustomed to it and even grew to like it, although I doubted I’d ever accomplish the feat.

Toriana’s first citizens had used pit privies and rubbish dumps for their waste, but when the blues sent over their architects to begin building a more permanent settlement, the builders had been instructed to attend first to the works needed belowground. For every building erected, three sublevels had been dug out and reinforced around what had been sewer lines and root bunkers.

As tubeworks and iceboxes had come along into common use, the sewer lines had been converted over, and the bunkers emptied. Now and then I spotted a cluster of carrot or potato plants that had grown from what had been left to rot in the old storage bins, their stunted, whitish-green leaves looking ghostly and unnatural.

The darkness and the smell didn’t unnerve me, nor had the rats I’d helped the old tunneler clear out. (Crate traps baited with raw bacon and nut butter had done the trick, along with some judicious reinforcement of the dump tubes.) The inherent dampness of the tunnels made trodding through them a wet business, but my bucks and Clancy’s watershed kept me dry enough. I even liked the echoing clatter, plings, and bongs of the mechworks overhead, and the constant rush of air sucked along by the tubes.

Something else crawled along my skin, however. Something I didn’t feel aboveground, a kind of awareness I’d never understood. A sense of presence just out of view, of watching eyes and waiting fists.

“Ere ye, hold on.” Hedger popped out of a hatch some three feet to the side of me, his gnarled hands pulling up his fogged gogs to expose bulging, tunnel-dilated eyes. “Miss Kit? Is that ye in all that getup?”

“It is.” I smiled. “Afternoon, Mr. Hedgeworth.”

“I’ll be blind.” The old man hoisted himself out of the drop and stood, shaking some of the water from the old-fashioned waders he wore over his clothes. “Never tell them hotel people sent ye back. I’ve not seen hide nor hair down here since we emptied the last of them crates uptoppers.”

“No, I’m here to collect on the favor owed for that, if you’ve some time now.”

“Right with ye.” He hoisted his catchall and a dripping kipbag. “Just let me empty these in the blower.”

I followed him to one of his stations, the one where he dried out whatever he found while inspecting the tubes. Every tube in the city suffered occasional blockages, and snakelike unjammers were sent through those that conveyed goods that could not be lost. Every station had the ability to valve off their tubes and blow out blockages through release doors, however, and did so with goods unworthy of the time and expense of unjamming. Once blown out of the tubes, whatever had been discarded fell into the gutters that ran under the tubes, where they were carried off to be redeposited in the main rubbish tube. Anything thus dumped in the gutter was referred to as scram.

Hedger’s main occupation was to keep the underground tubes in good repair, but he did a nice side business in reselling whatever he retrieved from the scram before it reached the rubbish tube. Today he emptied two voluminous skirts, a gent’s velvet bacco jacket, and several pairs of homespun stockings into an elbow tube that had a mesh plate on either end to prevent the contents from being sucked into the feed tube. The air still passed through the mesh, which blew the contents into a constant, billowing tumble that eventually dried them.

“Keeping the jacket?” I guessed. Hedger disdained most of the creature comforts most citizens took for granted, but he did have a soft spot for embroidered velvet.

“Aye. Cold season’s just round the corner.” He secured the blower and turned to me. “So what can I do ye for, Miss Kit? Ye’re wanting a thing or a service?”

“Service,” I said. “I need to get into the vault under the City Archives.”

He grimaced. “That’ll be a trick and a half. They keep it under close watch round the clock.”

“If anyone can smuggle me in and out of there,” I assured him, “it’ll be you, Mr. Hedgeworth.”

He nodded toward my bucks. “Ye’ll need to change out of that getup and put on me spare waders.” He went to a rack of dried garments and selected a small workman’s shirt, trousers, and skullcap. “These first. I’ll collect the waders. Use the basin to wash that muck from yer face; they’ll never believe I’ve taken on a native ’prentice.”

He left me there to change and returned just as I was scrubbing the bronzen off my face. After helping me step in and fasten the waders, he smeared his dirty hands over my cheeks, chin, and brow, and handed me a heavy tool pouch. He then shouldered two air tanks onto his bent back.

“Let me take one of those,” I said.

“Master all the ways carries the tank. Ye just keep yer head down and let me do the yammering,” he advised as I followed him out of the station. “’Em boys up there aren’t as thick as I’d like.”

We crossed through several tunnels until we reached a staircase and climbed up into the back of an enormous room packed with shelves of boxes. Before he approached the two guards sitting at the front, Hedger used a wrench to loosen a joint on a water pipe, just enough to create a steady drip.

“Here’s the leak, Jimmy,” he said in a loud tone, and then called out, “Tunnel service.”

One of the guards strolled back. “Hang on, old man, you can’t go barging in here.”

“Sure and I’ll leave now.” Hedger nodded toward the leaking pipe. “But ye boys best put on yer waders and fetch some pails.”

The guard surveyed the pipe. “How bad is it?”

“Might not burst right away,” Hedger said. “Could go tomorrow, the day after. But it’s a main line, lad. When she goes, she’ll go a-gusher.”

“Well, then what are you pissing about for?” The big man gestured toward the pipe. “Get on with it.”

“Can’t use me torches with ye lot in here,” Hedger said patiently. “Gas’ll leave ye senseless.” He hefted the tanks he carried. “Only brought enough air and nozzes for me and the lad.”

“Flame my ass. Oy, Jerry,” the guard called to his partner. “Tunneler’s got to torch a sprung pipe. Fancy an early tea?”

The other guard grumbled but left with his partner, leaving us alone in the vault room. Hedger immediately began setting up his torches.

“You needn’t do that,” I said. “Just tighten the joint again.”

“I’ve got to burn a bit of it; they’ll be sniffing the air and checking the pipe when they get back.” He thrust a tank at me. “Keep the noz on while ye’re looking, or the gas will knock ye on yer little bum.”

Even with the cumbersome air tank on, being allowed to roam freely through the city’s protected archives was a bit like being a hungry child turned loose in an unattended sweets shop.

I gave in to the temptation briefly and glanced inside one long box at random; the first sheaf of glassines inside held the birth records of three royal bastards, the testimony of a minister who had uncovered a massive swindling scheme to defraud and embarrass the Crown, and an old, slashed waistcoat marked as belonging to the governor’s deceased valet, whose blood staining it had dried to an ugly dark maroon.

Something twinkled at me from the bottom corner of the box, and when I took it out, I saw it was a tiny silver disk, marked with the queen’s rose and edged with runes.

I dropped the wardling, shoved the box back in place, and took a deep breath through the noz. Whatever I found here would be dangerous to know, the sort of information I always avoided. But even if I were suffering from some form of hopefully temporary madness, I had to know who my grandfather was. Otherwise I’d spend the rest of my days wondering until I truly went mad.

I took a few moments and checked the sides of the long boxes, noting how they were sorted by date and surname and following the sequence back to the annum of my mother’s birth. There I searched through the glassines one by one until at last I found a thin envelope marked Doyle-Weiss. Until she married, Mum had used the name Doyle. But who was this Weiss?

“Lad. Lad.”

A rough hand shook my shoulder, startling me back to the present. I turned my head to Hedger, who had taken off his noz to speak. I did the same and smelled a trace of the sickening-sweet scent of gas. “What?”

“They’re coming back,” he whispered. “Shake yer ass, gel.” He stalked back to the pipe.

I regarded the pile of glassines I’d taken from the box, which I now had no time to read. Destroying them would serve no purpose; six copies of them were stored in the protected archives of the other provinces, and the Crown would have the originals safely secured in the Royal vaults. But I had to know what they contained.

With a trembling hand I removed from the box all the glassines pertaining to my grandfather and mother and stuffed them inside my shirt before I trudged back to rejoin the old tunneler.

“Good enough, then.” Hedger tapped the pipe with the side of his fist. “Did you see any seepage under the shelves, lad?”

I heard the guards unlocking the gates to the vault room behind me and managed a strangled “No, marster.”

“Good on ye.” Hedger tramped through the aisle of shelving, had a word with the guards about opening the outside air slats to ventilate the last of the gas from the room, and then brought one back to see the unnecessary work he’d done.

“You’re sure this’ll hold?” the guard asked.

“Aye, it’s as strong a patch as any I’ve done, and none of them ever have cracked.”

The guard yawned. “Get on with you, then.”

As I stepped toward the hatch, the glassine in my shirt crackled, and something grabbed my collar and turned me around.

“What you got on you, boy?” the guard demanded.

“Naught but lunch, Cap’n,” Hedger said, taking out a glassine bundle from his pocket and holding it up. “Wet down here. The old glassies we scram make fine wraps, keep our sandwiches dry.”

If the guard demanded I show him my nonexistent sandwich, Hedger and I were going to the gaol. The whimper that broke from my lips was quite genuine.

“’Sall right, boy,” the guard said, releasing my collar and giving my shoulder a rough shove. “I’d eat dirt before I’d touch scram.” He turned to Hedger. “You be sure to secure that hatch, old rat.”

Hedger nodded eagerly and hustled me out of the vault. Once he’d closed the hatch and spun the hub to lock it, he leaned against it and pressed a blacking-streaked fist against his heart as he murmured a prayer.

If I’d been Church, I’d have done the same. “Sorry.”

“So am I.” He dragged me down the tunnel until we were well away from the vault. “What were ye thinking, Kit? Ye’re no thief. Were ye trying to get us shot?”

I was too shaken to lie. “The papers are about my family. There’s a man who’s looking into my past, and I can’t let him find them.”

He held out his hand. “Give ’em over.”

“Hedger—”

“There’s naught about ye that could rattle me bars,” he snapped. “But I’ll see what ye just near stretched me neck over.”

I pulled out the glassines and handed them to him and watched as he sorted through them. In the midst of the pile he went still.

“Ye’re Harry’s Charm.” He looked at me, his face gone leech white under the layer of dirt. “Why did ye never say so, gel?”

“Because I don’t quite know who I am, Hedger.” I tried to smile. “Did you know my grandfather?”

“Served with him, I did.” His voice grew distant as he stared at nothing in particular. “Until he went up to the North Country. Then he disappeared for years, until . . .”

He didn’t say anything else, and my skin prickled with unease. “Mr. Hedgeworth?”

His face darkened abruptly. “This settles things between us.” He seized my arm. “Ye’re to go now, and ye’re not to come back down here, do ye understand? Never again.”

“Why not?”

“The debt is settled,” was all he would say.

He allowed me just enough time to change back into my bucks before he marched me back to the bathhouse, where he gave me a hard push toward the stairs.

I couldn’t leave without knowing. “Who was my grandfather, Mr. Hedgeworth?” I asked. “What did he do?”

His face twisted. “Get on with ye now.” He turned away.

“Please,” I called after him. “I have to know.”

Hedger glanced back at me. “Harry saved me life. And I’ve cursed him every day since. Now get out.”

I rode home, shoved the papers I’d stolen in my cashsafe, washed the rest of the bronzen from my body, and spent another hour soaking in the tub. I kept seeing the hatred in Hedger’s eyes. Whatever Harry had done, it had made the old scrammer loathe him.

I climbed out of the tepid water to dry off and dress. It had never been my habit to avoid the truth. Weiss sounded too much like White; the name had to belong to Harry or his family. It was time to find out.

A few minutes later, I finished reading the last of the glassines I’d stolen. Harry’s name, as I assumed, had been Weiss, not White. He’d been born a Hungarian.

He’d also been an agent for the Crown.

Dread iced the blood in my veins, but anger soon thawed it out and set it to boil. Harry, the nice old gent, had been a traitor. An informer. One of Her Majesty’s rats. For a moment the elegant words on the royal documents proving I was the granddaughter of a filthy sodding turncoat blurred. I blinked, and they instantly rewrote themselves.

Working as a royal spy had obviously been quite lucrative for my grandfather, who had probably used his earnings to change his identity, marry, and acquire Torian citizenship. That my mother had been the daughter and I the granddaughter of a Hungarian—an enemy of the Crown—hardly registered anymore. I was bound by blood to a member of H.M.’s secret service.

After the failure of the Great Uprising, Toriana may have remained part of the Empire, and grown accustomed to the occupation and institution of Crown law, but we’d never fostered any love for it. Now and then some young hothead commoners would stage a small revolt, embarrass their parents, and spend a few years in the gaol, but they always got out quieter and wiser—or they were kept behind bars where they could make no mischief.

I knew precisely what this connection meant for me. If it became common knowledge that my grandfather had been a spy, I’d be completely and irrevocably ruined. No one would give me the time of day, much less trade with me. Unless redcoats were stationed to protect it, my home would be ransacked and burnt to the ground.

We Torians were still Empire, oh, yes, but we had never forgotten the fate of the first colonists. When the revolution had been crushed, all the survivors who refused to take an oath of loyalty to the Crown had been marched out of Valley Forge into the snows and made to dig their own graves before they’d been shot and shoved into them. Upon hearing of their comrades’ fate, every man left in camp who had taken the oath of service had then killed himself, either by pistol or blade. Forty-seven men had famously marched in formation into the icy waters of the Potomac—refusing to stop even when the redcoats had begun firing on them—and had promptly drowned.

Since then every agent of the Crown who had made himself known as such on Torian soil had vanished shortly thereafter. The remains of a few would occasionally be found floating in whatever river or lake they’d been drowned in. The Crown had never been able to prove their agents had been murdered, but after several more years of the same they’d instructed the traitors to hide their work and operate under the guise of ordinary citizens.

As my grandfather had apparently done.

I’d always known my mother to be a bastard and guessed her to have been the get of some undesirable, or her people would have come forward after my parents’ death to protect me. Not a single relation had. Finally I knew why.

As a schoolgel I’d made my oath to the Crown and renewed it every five years as was required by law, just as every Torian child did. I’d never especially liked or disliked being H.M.’s subject; I’d never really thought about it. It was what it was, an unchanging part of life in my country. Wondering what Toriana would have been like if we’d won the Great Uprising was nothing but a waste of time. We’d lost. After Washington’s surrender at Broken Forge, the Empire would have been within its rights to jail or kill us all. No doubt our ancestors had been grateful to be allowed to continue on as occupied colonies and permitted the means to explore, settle, and develop our country into the provinces of today.

But I was born Torian, not English, and that also meant something. The Union Jack never graced my eaves; in the back of my dresser I still had a small, handmade patch with the stars and stripes the Rebels had carried. I’d sewn it myself as a gel, with a child’s resentment of atrocities she’d never experienced firsthand, when everything had seemed so black and white. While I never indulged in redcoat baiting, putting out forty-seven flowers on Remembrance Day, or any of the other subtle ways Torians thumbed their noses at the Crown, I’d never been a bootlicker. I didn’t think we’d ever see Independence, at least not in my lifetime, but I still dreamed of it. Most Torians did. All that had changed now that I knew the truth about my grandfather.

Harry the Hungarian. Harry the traitor.

If Nolan Walsh had enough influence to gain access to these records, and he knew my mother’s history and where to look, he could ruin my life forever.

But then, anyone else who read them could as well.

I spent an endless night tossing and turning before I finally gave up on sleep and rose to dress. My dire mood dragged at me, reminding me of those first terrible days when I’d come to Rumsen, when I’d slept for an hour here and there on park benches and walked the streets in a hopeless fog. If I hadn’t stopped an old gent from walking into the path of an oncoming cart, I might have been found one cold morning, starved and frozen in the gutter.

That one good deed had changed everything: the old man had insisted his thoughts had been paralyzed by evil magic, magic he believed I’d dispelled with my touch. I’d not argued with him or the fifty pounds he’d gratefully pressed in my hands. I’d asked for directions to a respectable boardinghouse.

That first fifty pounds had gone to feeding and sheltering me while I looked for work. After several more encounters similar to the one with the old man in the street, word spread about my alleged ability to dispel magic.

At first it had felt like thievery, taking money for doing nothing, but the people who had come to me were more desperate than I. I dealt with my guilt by looking for the real source of their woes, and I discovered I had a natural talent for detecting. Combining the two allowed me to provide service without feeling as if I’d become just another magic swindler, like Dredmore.

As I dragged myself from my flat the next morning, I couldn’t help thinking I’d have been happier to learn that Harry had been a practicing mage, or even a fete teller.

I stopped at a corner teacart I frequented and bought a cup of Irish red and a sticky bun. As the tealass tipped her never-empty pot to fill the mug I’d brought with me, she nattered on in a friendly fashion about the comings and goings she’d seen.

“Three poshers near bought me out yesterday,” she said as she added a dollop of milk-thinned cream to my mug. “Tried to pay me with brown. Lucky for me, one of his mates had proper coin.”

“Probably straight off the ship,” I said.

“I’ve seen brown notes before, course, but . . .” The gel leaned over and lowered her voice. “Strange-marked they were, miss. Red-inked all over, and a slice in the middle over the H.M.’s poor face.”

I frowned. “Did they speak English?”

“Only the one with the coin said anything,” she said, “and then to say ‘Grassy.’”

Grazie, the Talian word for “thank you.” “If they come back and try to give you any trouble,” I said, “best blow for the beater.”

“Had it ready in me other hand the whole time,” she assured me, raising her left hand to show me the tin whistle dangling from her wristlace. “You want a ’fresher, Miss? You’re looking beat today.”

“Restless night.” I offered her a wan smile before I surrendered my spot to a new customer and moved on.

I made myself eat the bun, which helped loosen the knot in my belly a notch and made me feel a little better. I’d worked hard and made a new life for myself here in Rumsen, and the prospect of losing it terrified me. The unfairness stung, too. If the truth about Harry ever came out, I’d be judged over something that had happened before I’d been born.

The anger boiled up inside me again. The blood in my veins might be tainted by my mother’s unfortunate birth and my grandfather’s foreign blood and domestic betrayals, but I didn’t deserve to have my situation stolen from me for a second time. No matter what sort of traitorous bastard my grandfather had been, he’d done nothing for me, nor had I profited from his spywork. Everything I owned in this world I’d worked for and earned by myself.

I tossed the last crust of my bun in a rubbish bin outside the Davies Building and emptied the lukewarm dregs of my tea in the gutter. Harry White or Weiss or whoever he’d been be damned; I wasn’t going to cower in fear or give up and run. He was a ghost; perhaps no more than an echo of a life that was over now. Whatever evil Harry had done in the past had nothing to do with me. Rumsen was my home, and I was Torian. I’d earned the right to live and do business here.

“Excuse me, miss.”

I jumped a little and turned to see a heavily cloaked figure standing behind me. A hat and heavy veil disguised her face, but I recognized the reddened, callused hands.

“The nearest apothecary is one block over,” I told Lady Walsh’s chambermaid. “But his pain powders are mostly chalk dust.”

Betsy looked around before she stepped closer. “Milady asks that you attend her, miss.”

“Indeed. You can tell your lady she can—” I stopped myself, knowing any insult I offered would be passed along verbatim. “Find another distant cousin.”

“You don’t understand, miss.” Betsy followed me into the building. “My mistress is in terrible danger.”

I paused at the foot of the stairs. “Then go to Rumsen Main Station and ask for Inspector Tom Doyle. He works the Hill.” I glanced back at her. “I don’t anymore.”

Betsy didn’t give up easily. She trailed after me up the stairs and down the hall, assuring me that her mistress had been most insistent that I come to her aid and that no one else would do. It gave me a healthy amount of pleasure to close my office door in her face, but I didn’t bolt it, so as soon as I moved away from it, she came in after me.

“Are you deaf?” I inquired as I took off my wrap and hung it on the coat stand. “Or simply daft?”

Rather than beg me to reconsider, Betsy went on the attack. “This is your doing, miss. All of it. If milady hadn’t brought you up to the house, none of this would have happened.”

“Oh, of course not.” I folded my arms. “So what’s happened?”

Betsy sniffed. “I’m sure I can’t say. You’ll have to hear it from milady.”

“Have her write me a letter. I’ll read it when I get time.” Maybe sometime around Christmas, when I was feeling a bit more generous.

The maid followed me into my office and planted herself in front of my desk, where she tried to stare me down. I collected my morning post from the tube and began sorting through it.

Betsy broke first. “If you don’t come to see her and do something, miss, she’ll be ruined.”

“I told you, I don’t work the Hill anymore,” I said flatly. “Now run along, or I’ll call for the beater.”

She didn’t budge. “You’ll want payment in advance, I suppose.” She took out a pitifully small purse out of her reticule and dropped it in front of me.

I picked up the purse, which had been fashioned from a piece of felted wool, now shiny at the seams from long use. From the weight of it, it contained a paltry few pounds in small coin. I glanced up at her. “This is your money.”

“I’ve been putting a bit aside for a place of me own someday.” She lifted her chin. “It should be enough, but if it isn’t, I can get a little more from me beau.”

I held on to the purse and sat back in my chair. “Now why would you hand over your life savings to me?”

Betsy looked ready to burst. “I’m not daft,” she snapped. “Milady is a decent, fair mistress. She never shouts or hits, or gives the maid staff more work than we can do. She sees to it that we have enough to eat, proper clothes, time to go to Church and to visit our families. We sleep safe in our beds. We would do anything for her.” She gave me a defiant look. “Even pay the likes of you.”

I got up and came round the desk to shove the purse into her hands. “I’m not taking your money, Betsy.” Before she could protest, I added, “I’ll see your lady one more time, for free, but not on the Hill.”

“She don’t want you to come round the house,” the chambermaid told me with some satisfaction. “She’ll see you at her dressmaker’s, the Silken Dream, today at one o’clock sharp.”

“I’ll be there.” I let her get as far as the threshold before I added, “You may think the world of your mistress, Betsy, but being treated fairly is your due. Your right.”

“Is it now?” She gave me a contemptuous look. “And here I thought you said you worked the Hill.”

Chapter Eight

If Rina had seen me steeling myself to stroll into the Silken Dream that afternoon, she’d have laughed herself into a cramp. There were few things I despised or avoided as much as dressmakers, and now I had to enter the establishment of one Madam Desiree Duluc, the grandest of the gowners, the incomparable Arachne who dressed the wives, daughters, sisters, and mothers of the most important men in Rumsen.

I’d never been inside the shop during business hours, not that I could ever afford to shop there. Nothing I owned, not even the very fine burnout silk shawl Rina had given me for my last birthday, could equal in quality the simplest pair of gloves under Madam Duluc’s roof. Nor did I care to put on the airs or dress of a fashionable lady; even if I had the coin to buy such creations and wear them, I’d have betrayed myself the moment I spoke in my Middy accent or removed the gloves from my unpampered hands.

No one came to the front room to toss me out on the street; I was left to stand between two semicircles of gown forms draped with the latest fashions. From the number of pure-white frills and bows and draped sashes adorning Madam’s goods, the latest fashion for ladies appeared to be swishing about in as much frippery as possible, like marriage cakes with legs.

A thin, sharp-nosed woman in a dove-gray gown minced her way across the front room to join me. “Good afternoon, miss,” she said in a low, soft tone. “How may we serve you?”

Not the reception I’d been expecting. “I’m looking for Lady Walsh. She asked me to meet her here.”

“May I ask your name?”

“Kittredge.” I found a card in my reticule and handed it to her.

“Lady Walsh has not yet arrived for her fitting, Miss Kittredge.” The seamstress tucked my card under her cuff and gestured toward the back rooms. “Would you care to wait?”

I had nothing better to do, so I nodded and followed her back into a small, elegant private room already set up with a tea cart and a waiting maid.

“Sarah will serve you today, Miss Kittredge,” the seamstress said. “I will return when Lady Walsh has arrived.” She curtseyed deeply and withdrew.

Sarah and I exchanged a look. “Is she always that nice?” I asked on impulse.

The gel nodded. “All Madam’s ladies are.” She grinned. “The tea is first-brewed, miss, and the crumpets come straight out of the oven.”

I gave the gleaming cart, something I could never afford even if I tripled my rates, a wistful look. “Of course they do.”

I let Sarah serve me tea and would have slipped her a crumpet for herself if another lady had not stepped in. This one was dressed in an emerald satin ball gown and had her silver-streaked red hair bundled untidily atop her head. At least twenty glass-headed pins pierced the edge of her bodice, and from her sash dangled a marked length of measuring tape. The esteemed proprietor herself.

“So this is what one might make from the flour sacks,” Madam Duluc said in a frightfully snooty French accent as she stared at my skirts. “Bonjour, mademoiselle. I fear you have made a tragic mistake to come here. Are there even three pounds in your reticule?”

“Two and six,” I told her, rattling my coins. “Had three when I left the house this morning, but I bought a sticky bun for my breakfast.”

“Then you will please not to touch anything.” Madam Duluc glanced at her assistant. “I will deal with this one, Sarah. Go and assist Madam Nancy.”

After the maid bobbed and left, Madam Duluc came to stand over me. “So? Did you enjoy my tea?”

“It’s lovely.” I smiled. “In fact, I may start coming here instead of the bakery. The crumpets practically floated into my mouth.”

“They’re croissants, not crumpets, you greedy goose,” she said, this time in the broad, musical accent of the Rumsen working class as she abandoned her pretense and dropped down on the settee beside me. “Now, what brings you here? Lady Walsh’s maid, is it? What does the gel think, my gowns are bespelled to prevent her mistress from conceiving? Does she suspect I’ve cast the evil eye over the lady’s corset strings?” Her expression brightened. “Can you cast an evil eye on corset strings?”

“No, no, and of course not.” I poured her a cup and handed it to her. “I’ve personal business with the lady herself, Bridge.”

“What? Personal?” She frowned at me. “I thought you quit working the Hill, you silly cow. Never say this is about that bloody great mage wanting to bed you. Isn’t he the reason you quit?”

“It’s not about Dredmore, and I did quit. I have quit. I will quit. After this.” I wiped my fingers on a napkin before I touched a fold of her ball gown. “Grand fine stuff. Green’s your color.”

“Oh, shut up.” She slapped my hand away. “We’ve been so busy with the mayor’s ball next week, I ran out of forms. This is going to be worn by the mayor’s wife. Then I have to create something even costlier for his mistress to wear when she makes an appearance with the poor sod she’s cuckolding.” She knocked back half her tea before borrowing my napkin to wipe her lips. “My Nancy would have genteelly tossed you out the door if I hadn’t spotted you from the workroom.” She eyed my gown again. “God blind me. Don’t you have anything decent to wear?”

“Decent by my standards, yes.” I smiled. “How are Charles and the children?”

“Charlie’s getting fat, the kids are sprouting like beans, and you are terribly missed.” She nudged me with her elbow. “Why don’t you come round the castle more often, Kit? It’s been months.”

“Madam Duluc must keep up appearances,” I reminded her. “I’ll drop in before Christmas, I promise.”

Charles Duluc, peerless textile importer and youngest son of an immensely wealthy, extremely titled French family, had come over to Toriana to look after his father’s business interests and buy up more land to add to the family coffers. He was scheduled to return to France after a month, and four days before his ship was set to sail, he’d gone for a walk in the park. There he’d sat down on a bench next to two gels taking a break from work to sit in the sunshine and gossip while they ate their sack lunches.

The lass from the loomworks had offered Charles half of her sandwich, which he’d accepted with astonished pleasure, and they’d begun talking. Three hours later the Honorable Charles Duluc and Bridget Mary Sullivan had been married by special license.

It had been the stuff of every working gel’s fantasies. Charles had bought the loomworks where his new bride had worked twelve hours every day since her tenth birthday, and had transferred the title and property over to her family as her bride price. Old Sully, Bridget’s da, had taken over the managing and running of it while his daughter and new son-in-law had gone to the mountains for their honeymoon. By the time they’d returned, Old Sully had fired the rest of the mill managers, had cut the workers’ hours in half and doubled their pay. Within two months the loomworks had increased quality and production so much that Old Sully had begun looking at expanding.

There had been some tense moments when the widowed Madam Duluc and her daughters sailed over from France to meet Charles’s commoner Torian bride (even the French themselves admitted to being terrible snobs). Charles’s love for Bridget, however, had been absolute and unshakable. Since his father’s death had given him full control over the family fortunes, the ladies of the family had had to accept the marriage. (The fact that Charles and Bridget intended to remain in Toriana also weighed heavily in their favor.)

Charles hadn’t wanted his wife to work another moment in her life, but after giving him two sons and a daughter, Bridget had grown bored with the life of a titled lady and asked her husband if she might open a shop of her own. Weaving since childhood had given Bridget an extensive understanding of fine cloth, and growing up in the shadow of the Hill had taught her that gowning the wives of the rich was the most lucrative way to use that knowledge.

I knew all this because I’d been the other lass sitting on the bench that day, and I’d gone with them to the magistrate to stand witness to their marriage. Charles and Bridget were the reason I didn’t trifle with men: if I couldn’t have what they’d found in each other, I’d go without.

Bridget filled me in on how the children were getting on with their tutors and how Charles had taken an undignified dunking at the beach trying to rescue their youngest’s new bonnet when the wind had snatched it away. I listened and laughed, but my thoughts kept straying to Lady Diana.

“That’s what he got for not tying her ribbons before setting off from the house, I told him,” Bridget said, and then she abruptly changed the subject. “Now, what’s this business with you and the Walshes? Come on, out with it. You look like you did when you were renting that closet at the boardinghouse.”

“My good intentions got the better of me,” I admitted. “This time I might have to pay dearly for them.”

“Oh, Kit.” Bridget’s smile faded. “If you need Charlie to step in, you’ve only to say—”

“No, Bridge. This is something not even Charles could make vanish.” Next to Rina, Bridget was my oldest mate, and I wanted to confide in her, but something held me back. I didn’t have that many friends that I could risk losing one. Bridget would keep my secrets, but she’d never abandoned her working-class ideals. Knowing I was the granddaughter of an agent to the Crown would forever change her opinion of me. “I’ll conclude my business with the lady, and then hopefully it’ll be done with.”

Bridget glanced up at a soft knock on the door. “Do come in,” she said in her beautifully fake French accent.

Sarah stepped in and bobbed. “If you please, Madam, Lady Walsh has arrived.”

“Show her to the Rose Room, if you would, Sarah.” When the gel left, Bridget turned to me. “I can start her fitting while you talk with her. They always treat me like I’m invisible when they’re standing in their drawers.”

I shook my head. “She won’t talk if you’re there.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Do you know what you’re taking on with this one, Kit?”

“Absolutely.” After today I intended to steer clear of all the Walshes.

“Well, then I’ll let you get on with it.” Bridget stood and brushed some crumbs from the emerald satin. “Rose Room’s at the end of the hall on the left. Take as long as you like, but Kit”—she caught my arm as I went past her, and tugged me close for a careful hug so neither of us would be stuck by the pinned bodice—“whatever this personal business is between you and the lady, finish it now. You don’t want the Hill coming down on your heels or your head. That deathmage, either.”

I walked down to the Rose Room, where Betsy stood on guard outside the door. She ignored me entirely, so I did the same and stepped inside, where I found Lady Walsh pacing back and forth, her gait rapid and jerky.

“Milady,” I said, closing the door but not moving too far from it. “You asked to meet with me?”

She came to an abrupt halt, moved toward me, and stopped again to take a deep breath. I could almost hear her governess talking inside her head: A lady does not rush. A lady does not lunge. A lady does not throttle.

“Miss Kittredge, your advice to me has resulted in the unhappiest of situations.” She spoke as if she couldn’t unclench her teeth. “I followed your suggestion to entice my husband to discover the panel under my bed.”

“You dropped your ring, and he found it.”

She nodded tightly. “When Nolan discovered the panel, he became quite furious. In truth, I have never seen my husband so angry.”

She had called me here to tell me that it had worked? “I’m sure he’ll see to your protection, Lady Walsh.”

“Indeed he will not.” Her stiff expression began to waver. “He accused me of being disloyal to him.”

“Disloyal?” I echoed. “For getting cut up in your sleep by some intruder? Has he gone off, then?”

“Nolan believes I am responsible for the passage,” she snapped. “That I am using it to commit adultery. He even accused me of drugging him each night to prevent him from discovering my infidelity.” She straightened her spine and looked down her nose. “Because I took your advice, he is now threatening to divorce me.”

“But when you showed him the cuts on your hands, didn’t he . . .” As she shook her head, I groaned. “For the love of Jesu, milady, you have to show him your wounds.”

“I can’t.”

I wanted to shake her until her pearly teeth rattled. “They’re the only proof you’ve got of what’s being done to you.”

“There is no more proof.” She stripped off her gloves and thrust both hands at me.

Lady Diana didn’t have a mark on her. The ugly words had vanished, as if they’d never been cut into her skin. I took hold of her hands, checking them to see if she’d somehow disguised them with face paint, but all I felt was smooth skin. She didn’t even have scars. “This is not possible.”

“But it is, as you see.” She sniffed. “Now do you believe it’s a curse, Miss Kittredge?”

“No.” I held on to one hand as she tried to pull away. “Be still.” I took my magnifying glass out of my reticule and held it just above the skin. Examining one hand turned up nothing, but on the other I discovered a tiny fragment of dark red clinging to one of the fine hairs of her skin. When I gently nudged the fragment with my fingernail, she made a pained sound. When I plucked it off, the hair came with it.

“What are you doing?” Lady Diana demanded.

I carefully transferred the fragment to a bit of paper and folded it up. “Collecting evidence.” I pointed to one of the padded benches. “I have to go and consult with someone on this. If you want to know the truth, you’ll wait here for me.”

Bridget generously provided me with her carri, which I drove back to my office building. I left it parked at the curb and dashed down to the Dungeon, making my way through clouds of steam as I shouted for Docket.

“Hold on to your hatpins, gel.” The old man emerged from the steam, wearing but a towel wrapped around his skinny hips. “Come back later, Kit. I’m having a soak.”

I glanced at the contraption behind him, which resembled a giant teakettle. “A soak, or a boil?”

“That’s just the collection chamber.” He pointed to some hastily rigged pipes hanging over it. “Steam comes down from there, and the gap between me and the pipes cools it enough to make it tolerable. It’s a heathen practice. I’m calling it the Waterless Bathe.” He grimaced. “Haven’t worked out what to do about soap, though.”

I shook my head. “Get some clothes on, mate. I need you to look at something under the scope.”

Once he was decent, Doc brought me over to one of his workbenches fitted with a large vertical tube standing in an adjusted bracket. “Let’s have it.” When I gave him the folded paper containing the fragment I’d removed from Lady Diana’s hand, he opened it and gently placed it under the tube.

As he looked through the gogs he’d fitted to the magnifying tube, I explained where I’d found the fragment, and what had been done to Lady Diana. “She claimed the cuts didn’t hurt, and she never found any blood on her nightdresses or linens.”

Doc grunted. “I’ll wager all the wounds vanished within a day of her finding them as well.”

“How did you know?”

“She wasn’t cut, love.” He moved away from the scope, searched through some jars on a nearby shelf, and then handed me a jar of thick, dark-red liquid. “Wound paste. They made it out of animal blood mixed with a strong resin. My guess is someone used this to paint the words on her and scored the lines as they dried to make them appear like real cuts. You need a solvent to remove it or it acts like a new scab. If she tried to pull it off herself, she’d bleed.”

I’d never heard of such a thing. “Who uses this stuff?”

“Anyone with the know-how, I suppose,” he admitted. “It’s an old soldier’s trick. Cowards resort to it to prevent being sent into battle.”

“And you?”

“Sometimes I need an extra week or two to pull together the rent.” He ducked his head. “Me showing the landlord a wound that’s temporarily laid me up usually does the trick.”

And here all this time I’d been bartering with him. “Can I borrow this?” When he nodded, I took the jar and gave his shoulder a squeeze. “The next time you need help with the rent, mate, you come to me.”

By the time I got back to Bridget’s, Lady Diana had worked herself into a frazzle.

“Where have you been?” she snapped as soon as she saw me. “How could you leave like that? Nolan expected me home an hour ago. He’ll be furious.”

“Hang Nolan,” I said, and held up the jar of wound paste. “This is what was used on you.”

I repeated everything Doc had told me, and with every word Lady Diana’s face grew pinker. Once I’d detailed how the paste simulated wounds, I told her the rest of what I’d worked out.

“Your assailant assumed you would hide the wounds from your family and deliberately placed them on portions of your body that could be easily covered. By removing them the next night, he could make you think you were under the influence of a malignant spell. Or perhaps . . .” I wasn’t sure I wanted to complete my other thought.

“Tell me,” she urged.

I chose my words carefully. “Perhaps to tamper with your wits.”

“No one could be that evil.” She pulled on her gloves. “I am a devoted wife and stepmother. I treat our servants well. I have never inflicted harm on another person in my life. Why would anyone take such horrible vengeance against me? I’ve done nothing.”

I thought of the words that had been written on her skin. “You and your family profited by your marriage to Lord Walsh, which was arranged so that he might obtain another heir. To someone in your household, that makes you a greedy slut.”

Her head snapped up. “You will not speak those words to me,” she said through white lips.

Oh, now she was putting on airs. “Would you rather your husband say them in open court?”

“He will not, if you would come to dinner on Friday and tell my husband how you discovered the panel.”

I stepped back. “You’d do better to take the wound paste with you, milady. That will explain—”

“Nolan will think only that I used it on myself. You, on the other hand, can attest to my true motives, and how you were the one to discover the panel under the bed.” Tears sparkled in her eyes. “You are my only hope now.”

She really had no idea of how much trouble she was in. “I’m a commoner, milady. As such he’ll believe I was paid by you to lie to him.”

“Have you no one to vouch for your personal integrity?” Before I could answer, her expression brightened. “You are acquainted with Lucien Dredmore, are you not? He has much influence.”

I could imagine what Dredmore would demand in return for such a favor. My body and spirit on a silver platter, at the very least. “The gentleman and I are not the best of friends.”

“If Nolan is granted a divorce on grounds of adultery, do you know what will happen to me?” Her voice was rising to a shriek. “To my family?”

“How would I, milady? I’m just a gel who works for her living,” I reminded her. “One your butler reported to the police as a blackmailer.”

“Mother of mercy.” She closed her eyes and then pulled out her skirts.

Watching her drop to her knees turned my stomach. “Lady Walsh, please, don’t do that.”

“If this is what I am reduced to, so be it.” She bowed her head. “I humbly beg you to take pity on me, Miss Kittredge. I beseech you to come to speak to my husband and save me from the ruin of my life.”

As I looked down at her, I thought of the day I’d left Middleway. I’d never begged anything from the men who had stolen my life. I’d known what they would have done to me if I had.

I took Lady Diana by the arms and pulled her up from her knees. “Betsy.”

The chambermaid darted inside. “Yes, miss?”

“Take your lady home.” I looked into hopeless eyes and managed a smile. “I have much to do if I am to dine with her and Lord Walsh on Friday.”

Lady Walsh threw her arms around me and held me like a beloved sister. “You are the kindest creature in all of Rumsen.”

The kindest, or the daftest. “He’s likely having you watched, so I’ll go out the back. Have Betsy sleep in your chamber until Friday, and then we’ll sort all this out at dinner.”

Betsy cloaked her lady before whisking her away, while I went to the workroom to bid my friend farewell.

“Lady Walsh will be unable to have her fitting today,” I told Bridget, who was undressing behind a screen. “What does one wear to dinner on the Hill?”

“Nothing in your wardrobe.” She handed the emerald ballgown off to Nance and pulled on a simpler dress styled to resemble the gray uniforms her ladies wore, but made of pure silver silk. (Charles had vowed she would never wear anything else.) “Or what you’d find in the collection of a professional lady’s, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Can one rent a dress for two and six?” I wondered out loud.

“From the rag pile at the tin shop, perhaps.” Bridget muttered something rude as she came out from behind the screen. “Louise, has Lady Richmond settled her account with us?”

“No, Madam,” a gel hemming purple taffeta skirts said through a mouthful of pins. “She offered a bracelet in trade, but it proved to be paste.”

Bridget gave me a critical look. “Set aside the blue evening for mademoiselle. She will be back on Friday in time for us to dress her for her dinner with Lord and Lady Walsh.” Before I could protest, she tapped my cheek. “It’s a gift.”

“My birthday isn’t until January, Madam.”

“Christmas, then.” She gave me a steely look, leaned close, and whispered, “Or I can sew your stubborn ass into that emerald satin, if you like.”

I gave in gracefully. “Madam is most generous. Now, can someone direct me to the back door?”

Bridget personally escorted me to the trade entrance, but she didn’t lecture me along the way. She only stopped me at the door. “Charlie’s mother told me that she’d had a mage enchant all his suits to ward off women before he left France. She was afraid of him picking up something nasty from a strumpet.”

I sighed. “You can’t make suits female-proof.”

“Can’t you? He never looked at another woman, that whole trip, until he sat down next to us in the park. No, truly, I asked him. Said he never felt a spot of interest.” She took my hand. “I know how you feel about magic, Kit, but there is something about you. I don’t know what, but I feel it. Everyone does. If you hadn’t been with me that day . . .” She shook her head. “Don’t let the Walshes take advantage. You’re too good for them.” She kissed my cheek. “Now be off with you. I’ll see you here Friday noon, not a minute later.”

As I left the Silken Dream, I thought of Dredmore, and how I might convince him to accompany me to the Walshes. I’d definitely have to lie. Or perhaps hire some muscle to kidnap and drug him.

Suddenly, something flew past my face and burst against a nearby stack of crates. I smothered a shriek as I flattened myself against the brick wall and looked from one end of the alley to the other. “What the bloody hell?”

Two men appeared, both wearing hooded capes, shirts, and trousers of dark red. They marched toward me in unison, one hefting a sparkling glass globe filled with swirling darkness.

My heart wanted to depart my chest, and my knees shook, but I had no time for hysteria. The all-red garments identified the pair to me as a particularly illegal class of magic-wielding scum; they were unlicensed hired killers, known as snuffmages.

I ducked as one threw the second globe at me, covering my head with my arms as I was showered with glass and filth. What they were throwing had to be snuffballs, another magical farce. The globes, I’d heard, were filled with some sort of black dust bespelled to kill anything it touched.

Naturally I was still breathing, and once I shook off the debris, I found the courage to smile at them. “I think your balls are on the blink today, boys,” I said breathlessly. “Got anything else?”

Both men drew long, sharp-edged daggers with rune-carved blades.

“That might work.” I turned, hoisted up my skirts, and ran.

I almost made it to the end of the alley before a clawing hand latched onto my collar. He tried to haul my back against him so he could cut my throat, but I dropped out from under his encircling arm and rammed the top of my head into his groin. That doubled him over in time to protect me from most of the slash of the second one’s blade.

I rolled onto my hands, tucked my head under, and flipped over, which freed my legs from my skirts. One of my slippers went flying as I drove the heel of my foot into the second assassin’s elbow, knocking the blade from his grasp. Then the first one recovered enough to hurl himself on top of me and we both collapsed.

He was too heavy to dislodge, and I was facedown against the paving stones, probably the worst position to defend myself. His hand clamped across my mouth before I could let out a scream, and he used it to pull my head back and expose my throat.

I knew then I was done for, so I closed my eyes and waited for it. Instead of feeling the blade at my neck, I heard a nasty, bone-crunching thump, and the crushing weight slid off me to one side. I crawled out from under his limp arm and leg and staggered to my feet to watch a third man in a black hooded cloak striding out of the alley.

A strong arm came round me as Tom Doyle caught my fist. “It’s all right, Kit. I’ve got you.”

So he did.

Inspector Doyle left his beater with the body of the snuffmage whose skull had been bashed in while he took me to his carri and got me out of there.

“That was nice of you,” I said when I’d caught my breath.

“I’m a nice chap, most days.” He draped his jacket around me. “I’ll take you to the women’s hospital.”

“No, I’ve only bruises and scratches.” I pushed my arms into his sleeves and tried not to shake. “A ride home is all I need.”

“We’ll go to the station first, clean you up,” he said, and started the engine.

I was too rattled by what had happened to argue, so I kept my head down on the way to Rumsen Main and ignored the stares as Doyle took me in past the desk sergeant and several dozen citizens in trouble or complaining of it. The whispers that erupted in our wake made me glance down. My skirts were stained and torn, my bodice soaked with filth. I smelled as good as I looked.

“Almost there,” Doyle said, guiding me through rows of desks where property clerks and secretaries ogled me like I was a naked strumpet.

I noted the stark black lettering on the door glass of the office he ushered me into. “Chief Inspector Doyle, is it? Very impressive.” I watched him draw the curtains so that no one in the station could look in. “Working the Hill’s done great things for you.”

“Pity I can’t say the same about the dispelling business for you.” He led me over to an old leather-covered armchair and sat me down before retrieving a care kit from his desk and a ewer of water from the adjoining lavatory. “Let’s have a look, then.”

I shrugged out of the jacket and held out the rent, bloodstained sleeve on my right arm.

He scowled. “Why didn’t you tell me you were cut?”

“It’s just a scratch. One of them caught me with the tip of a blade as I went down.” I tore the remnants of the sleeve away from the wound and inspected it. “See? It’s not too deep.”

He dampened a cloth in the ewer and gently cleaned the cut. “What were you doing on that side of town, Kit?”

“I needed a dress for a dinner engagement.” I winced as he took a pair of tweezers from the kit and plucked a bit of gravel from the wound. “Why were you out following me?”

He met my gaze. “How do you know I was?”

“Men generally stay out of the high fashion district.” I saw him take out a small brown bottle marked with a marigold label. “No, Tommy, not calendula,” I begged. “It’ll sting like blazes.”

“It’s the only thing to keep it from infecting and help it heal,” he told me as he soaked another cloth with the tincture. “So stop whining.” He ignored my hiss and began cleaning the gash. “I wasn’t following you. I was following Lady Walsh.”

“Really—” I let out the breath I’d been holding. “What for?”

He set aside the cloth and took out a roll of bandaging cotton. “That’s none of your business.” He straightened my arm before he began winding the bandage over the cut. “Why would someone send two snuffmages after you?”

“They weren’t especially attached to their money?” I grimaced as he pulled the bandage tight. “Are you cleaning me up or torturing me?”

“I’m questioning your involvement in a violent public altercation.” When I didn’t respond, he added, “A man died in that alley, Kit. It’s my job to find out why.”

My shoulders sagged. “I don’t know who they were, other than snuffmages,” I said honestly. “They were waiting outside the dressmaker’s for me. They heaved a couple of their ridiculous snuffballs my way, and when that didn’t work, they came after me with their blades.” I would not mention the man in the black cloak. “That’s everything I know.”

“Rumsen snuffmages like to use bloodbane in those silly snuffballs,” he informed me. “It’s enchanted to kill anything it touches.”

“They were filled with black powder.” I picked up a fold of my skirt spattered with the stuff, smeared it on my fingers, and held it up in front of him. “Look, I’m not dying. Praise heaven.”

“You turned it into that.”

I chuckled. “Sure I did. Right after I pulled a hare out of my hat.”

“Magic has no effect on you,” Doyle continued smoothly. “My grandfather remarked on it several times before we left Middy.” He tied off the bandage and gave me a hard look. “Said your mother had the same gift.”

“How lucky for me.” Panic surged through me as I checked my battered brooch watch, which fell from a tear in my bodice into my hand. “Oh, look at the time. How dreadfully late it is. I must be off.”

“You’re not leaving,” he said, standing.

“I’ve answered your questions, Tommy. I’m in desperate need of a bath and new clothes, and I don’t think you have either tucked away in your kit.” I tried to stand, felt my knees wobble, and sat back down. “Damn me.”

“You’ll feel better after you have a rest.” He nodded toward the wide couch on one side of the office. “It’s more comfortable than it looks.”

I couldn’t imagine sleeping in a police station, even one supervised by my handsome savior. “So is my bed.”

“I’m sending our staff warder over to your flat to have a look.” He held up a hand to stop my protest. “The snuffmage who got away has his reputation to mend. He’s likely already set a trap.”

“But you said that magic doesn’t work on me,” I reminded him.

“On you directly, no,” he agreed. “But he can get to your boiler, your ceilings, or your walls. They like to make it look like a tragic accident.”

“Father and Son, Tommy, that’s all magic ever is—” I stopped myself. “You can’t enter my flat without my permission.”

“You’re still under suspicion of extortion, and you’re a woman.” He leaned down. “Which we both know means I can fair burn the place to the ground if I wish.”

He smelled of wool and soap, and I wanted to bury my face against his broad chest. “You wouldn’t do that to me.”

His stern expression thawed to something gentler. “Kit, you’ve no idea what I might do.”

The door to his office opened, and a sweet-faced elderly woman wearing a feminine version of a beater’s uniform and carrying a cup and saucer came in.

“Hot and sweet, my dear,” she said, as she put the cup in my hands. She frowned at the bandage on my arm. “Shouldn’t she be in hospital, Tommy?”

He made a disgusted sound.

“Wouldn’t let him take you, dear? Can’t say as I blame you.” She began tidying up around us. “Dreadful places, they are. Whenever I go to visit one of the lads, it sucks all the energy out of me.”

“The stench doesn’t help, either.” I spotted the embroidered symbols on the lapel of her dark-blue jacket. “You’re a mage?”

“Staff warder,” she corrected, beaming. “Mrs. Mary Harris, at your service.”

I turned to Doyle. “You send sweet old ladies into potential crime scenes?”

“She has more arrests than any three men in the station,” he told me. “And trust me, you wouldn’t want to go up against our Mary in some dark alley. Last time someone did, we needed three whitecarts.”

“Stop that, Tommy, you’ll frighten the lass,” the warder scolded. To me she said, “I’ve had some scuffles with snuffmages, and they’re not a pretty bunch. What can you tell me about them?”

“They didn’t kill me,” I said.

She chuckled. “I meant, what did you notice about them?”

“There were two, a bruiser and a dink,” I said. “Dressed head to toe in dark red. They threw snuffballs filled with dirt at me, and then went for their daggers. Neither said a single word.”

“They don’t put dirt in snuffballs.” Mrs. Harris thought for a moment. “Sounds like rogue partners—ex–guild members who hire out their services to very bad men,” she tacked on when she caught Tommy’s frown. “They work in pairs to insure the killing’s done. The one who escaped, was he the dink?” At my nod she sighed. “It’s the little ones you always have to mind; they develop their spellcraft a bit more to make up for their lack of stature and muscle. The local guild master’s a head shorter than me.” She glanced at Doyle. “Speaking of the little pest, he’s waiting for a word with you, Tom. Expect he wants to protect the guild by disavowing this lot.”

Tom took my keys from my reticule and handed them to the warder as he gave her my address. “She’ll need a full sweep, Mary. Do take Caldwell and Nelams with you.”

“Nicholson as well, I think. Lovely to meet you, dear.” Mary left before I could reply.

“You know where I live?” I demanded.

“I know where you live, and that you bought the entire building for a pittance,” he said. “I also know you live there alone, that you are very good friends with Madams Eagle and Duluc, and that you’ve banked a modest sum, some of which you use now and then for home improvements.”

I coughed. “You have been busy.”

“Your business has also made you a fair number of enemies among the magic community.” He cocked his head. “Would you like to know what they say about you?”

“I’m a demoness sent from hell to plague them,” I said dutifully. “An evil harpy who feeds on magic. Satan’s strumpet, Beelzebub’s bawd, Houdini’s whore . . .” I stopped and sighed. “The names change occasionally, but the whining never ends.”

“One of them might have sent those snuffmages after you,” Doyle said. “Or perhaps it was someone from the Hill.”

“Magical assassination. You’d think they’d save a few quid and simply have me run down in the street.” I sipped the tea, which was horribly sweet but settled my stomach. “There’s no need to go to all this fuss. I’ll be fine.”

“You’re an unprotected woman operating a dangerous business, tramping about the Hill and offending the tonners right and left, and now someone’s tried to snuff you.” He folded his arms. “It’s not anyone’s definition of fine, Kit.”

I tried to stare him down, but it was impossible. “I hate being female.”

“I rather like that you are.” He astounded me by bending down and pressing a quick kiss to my dirty brow. “Now be a good gel and have a nap.”

Chapter Nine

Inspector Tom Doyle hadn’t charged me with murder (a great relief) but had treated me like a wayward younger sister (a great pity)—and he didn’t trust me. I discovered that as soon as I tried the door and found it locked. Bars covered his window from the inside, and they were padlocked.

I wasn’t going anywhere until the canny sod released me, so I trudged over to his leather couch. The stiff-looking cushions felt like clouds under my weight, and I curled up on one end, propping my hurt arm against my side.

I’d made enemies of any number of charlatans, but they’d never attacked me. The few I’d confronted had muttered uncomplimentary things about my virtue and my supposed allegiance with the forces of darkness, but for the most part I’d scared them off. Gert was the only persistent one, but she couldn’t afford a half sack of bruised fruit, never mind snuffmages. I’d always thought my disbelief in their nonsense had frightened most of the magic peddlers; this because they depended so heavily on faith in their abilities to pull off their tricks. That and I’d exposed too many of them too easily.

Magic has no effect on you.

It had no effect on me because it had no effect, period. It was all daft words and colored rocks, harmless powders, useless runes, and worthless . . . something. Despite the fact that I never napped, I was suddenly so tired I couldn’t even open my mouth to yawn. My eyes closed on their own, my body went lax, and then I was out like a wick in high wind, drifting into a memory of the last man I wished to think of.

I’d met Dredmore at the home of a merchant named Wiggins, one of Rina’s regulars. She’d brought me to the nice old gent’s to look at a collection of bacco boxes, which Wiggins claimed had been bespelled. I’d just begun my examination when Dredmore had swept in.

I’d taken in the swirling greatcoat, mirror-polished boots, and impossibly intricate weave of his cravat before I resisted the urge to bob and looked directly into his dark eyes. I expected to see the languid contempt of a tonner, but he showed no emotion at all. I might have been gazing into silverblacked mirrors. The experience should have left me cold, but I made the mistake of looking at his mouth, which had been fashioned for all manner of intimate sin. My mouth went dry, and when I met his gaze a second time, I saw something fierce and hungry looking back.

Mr. Wiggins’s voice shook as he performed the quickest of introductions. “Such an honor to have you here, milord,” he added. “I’ll leave you to get acquainted with Miss Kittredge and Mrs. Eagle, then.” He scurried out of the room.

“Ladies.” Dredmore made it sound like an insult. “I am here on behalf of Mr. Wiggins’s business partner.” He looked down his nose at me. “Doubtless you have little real experience in dispelling enchantments, Miss Kittredge, but you and your friend may remain and observe.”

Normally I didn’t mind being patronized by a member of the ton. They were raised from birth to believe anyone without money or connections was beneath their notice. He likely assumed I’d feel flattered to be personally addressed by him, theatrical arrogant ponce that he was.

But something about the man put my teeth on edge, and I reacted accordingly.

“How generous of you.” I set down the box I was holding so I wouldn’t chuck it at his head. “As it happens, milord, I have a vast amount of experience in exposing charlatans who convince the ignorant to believe in enchantments. Perhaps you should leave.”

He stiffened. “Are you calling me a fraud?”

“Dear me.” I feigned dismay. “Did that shoe fit?”

“We should go, Kit,” I heard Rina say.

She sounded nervous, and since no man ever made her that, I eyed the intruder again. “Why? We were here first.”

“I am a deathmage, Miss Kittredge,” he informed me, his voice all midnight and silk. “Those who cross me do not live to regret it.”

All manner of mages swindled the cits of Rumsen—heartmages hawking love potions and marriage spells, birthmages who chanted over new mothers and infants, even painmages who pretended to cure headaches, sore backs, and the like—but none trifled in the business of death. I’d heard only a handful had ever been licensed to practice the blackest of the dark arts, and then only under very specific circumstances.

“Oh, so you’re billing yourself as a thoughtful, magical killer.” I ignored the strangled sound Rina made as I nodded agreeably. “Thriving market for death curses these days, what with the economy waffling about and so many pockets to let. Do you scare old tonners to the grave exclusively, or are you chasing after whitecarts as well?”

“Kit,” Rina almost shrieked.

“You have said quite enough, madam.” Dredmore took a step toward me and held up a stone. “You will be silent and do exactly as I say.”

Now Rina looked ready to murder. “You leave her alone.”

I eyed the blue pebble he held in his hand, clutched the front of my throat, and made a strangled sound. As the first glimmer of triumph appeared on his face, I dropped my hand and laughed. “Oh, dear, that didn’t work out very well, did it? Bad luck. Want to give it another go?”

“Jesu, Kit.” Rina dropped into a chair and covered her eyes.

“You’re still speaking.” Dredmore peered down at me as if I’d grown a second head. “What manner of protection do you carry?”

“A brain, you dolt.” I went back to the bacco boxes. “I don’t believe in magic, charms, curses, or any other supernatural power, which is why you can’t scare me into holding my tongue. So leave off.”

“He might cut it out, though,” Rina muttered, before grimacing at Dredmore. “Not a suggestion, milord.”

“Quiet now, both of you.” I turned over one of the boxes, produced my magnifying lens, and closely examined the felt. “Interesting. Mr. Wiggins said these boxes are solid silver and as old as he is, which should make them all at least a hundred years old. Yet this felt appears to be quite new.”

Dredmore came to stand beside me. “I sense no spell at work here.”

“Oh, brilliant.” Carefully I peeled back one corner of the felt, revealing the metal base. Although the top and inside of the box were dull silver with a very convincing patina, the base was a bright, rosy color. “As I expected. Made of copper.”

Rina joined us. “It’s a fake, then?”

“Yes, and not a very good one.” I went to the door and called for Mr. Wiggins. When he came in, I brought the box to him. “Is this one of the boxes that popped in and out of your collection?”

He nodded. “It belonged to Lord Cornwall, and I always display it next to Sir Walter Raleigh’s. It disappeared that night and reappeared in the afternoon on Friday.” His eyes bulged as I turned it over to show him the copper bottom. “Good heavens. That’s not my box.”

“No, it isn’t. It’s a replica of the one that was stolen from your collection.” I set it down. “A counterfeiter would need about two days to make a mold from the original, cast the copper, and silverplate it.” I rubbed my finger against one blackened whorl on the lid and showed the streaked tip to Wiggins. “Boot polish, not tarnish. They use it to dull the new plating, make it look old.”

Wiggins looked at the rest of his boxes. “But that means . . . more than half of my boxes . . .”

“Have been stolen and replaced with fakes.” I took out my kerchief and wiped the polish from my finger. “Who dusts your collection, Mr. Wiggins?”

“I believe that would be Bertha.”

He turned and shouted the name, and a few moments later a plump maid strolled in.

“Bertha, someone has been stealing my bacco boxes and replacing them with counterfeits.”

“Someone like you,” Rina guessed.

The maid paled. “Please, sir, I didn’t want to. It’s me husband. He gambles, you see, and he lost his position, and he said you have so much, and we so little . . .” Her voice trailed off as she removed a cloth-wrapped bundle from her apron and held it out. “I can put this one back. I won’t do it again, I swear.”

“You’d spend twenty years at hard labor, all for a worthless sod.” Rina shook her head as she opened her reticule.

Wiggins looked down at the large handful of coin Rina gave him. “What’s this for?”

“Pawnshops,” she said. “To avoid suspicion she’ll have sold them to several, so have her take you round to each one. Tell them the boxes are stolen goods, mention the Yard, and they should sell them back to you for whatever pittance they gave her.”

“Thank you, miss,” Bertha gushed. “I promise, I’ll never steal again, no matter what—”

“And once you’ve gotten your things back,” Rina said to Wiggins, “send this stupid, thieving cow to me. I’ll take her round to see some of the gels that have gone to prison for their men. Maybe that’ll make her more honest in the future.”

Dredmore came up behind me. “That was exceedingly clever of you, Miss Kittredge.”

“Not as impressive as your waving a wand about and muttering incantations, I’ll wager.” I felt the hand he’d dropped on my shoulder. “Is this another attempt at a spell? If it’s to make my skin crawl, I think this time it’s actually working.”

His hand tightened. “You want to come away with me now.”

“I want a bathe.” I walked away from him, ignored the way my shoulder tingled, and collected Rina.

We’d been enemies ever since that first meeting, and nothing would ever change that. But while Dredmore could be vastly annoying, he’d never been able to do anything to harm me or my business.

The memory faded to a shadow as a shape hovered over me, large and dark and at first indistinct. I made out a black cloak, and under the cloak, a man—the man from the alley, the one who had saved my life, I realized. His eyes glowed like two stars in an empty midnight, cool and distant, but his hands felt warm and soothing on my face.

“Did they touch you?” a deep, utterly furious voice demanded.

“Of course they touched me,” I whispered against his palm. “They squashed me. They cut me.”

“Did they violate you?” the voice insisted.

“No, of course not.” I frowned. “They only tried to kill me. With ‘magic’ balls, if you can believe it. The dolts.”

My body floated off the cushions onto something harder and less cozy. This fantasy was becoming damnably uncomfortable.

“You live because magic cannot harm you,” he murmured. “I can reach you only through your dreams.” His arm supported my shoulders and my knees. I felt his groin against my hip, and his thighs beneath my buttocks. He traced the edges of my bandage and pressed my cheek against his chest, which filled me with a sense of drowsy well-being.

“That’s nice.” I snuggled. “Stay with me . . .”

His soft voice chilled. “What have you taken, Charmian?”

“Nothing. I drank some tea. It was awfully sweet. Like the old lady who brought it.” I breathed in the scent of burnt herbs and the sea and found the rest of my voice. “Do put me down, Dredmore.”

“You’ve been drugged.”

That made more sense of what was happening to me. “By you.” I batted him with a useless hand.

“Not by me.” He caught my fingers and brought them to his lips. “I don’t have to employ drugs. If I’d wanted you, I’d have carried you out of that alley. Now, where are you?”

“I’m here with you, idiot.” I wanted to scratch his eyes out, but I couldn’t feel my fingernails. “Why can’t you leave me alone?”

“I have asked myself the same question each day for five years,” he assured me. “The problem is, I don’t wish to know the answer.”

“Oh.” Somehow that made me feel a little better, and I relaxed against him. “Thank you for saving my life.”

“You’re welcome.”

“But you’re a very bad man. You do know that.”

“Charmian.” Lips touched the end of my nose. “You have no idea.”

“You’re not to kiss me when I’m drugged and helpless.” I glared at him. “I don’t want your kisses. I don’t want you. I don’t even like you.”

“You don’t have to like it, my sweet,” he said, and this time kissed my mouth. “You have only to stop fighting me. Allow me to release you.”

I frowned. “I’m not under arrest. I’m drugged. I’m dreaming. Why haven’t you put me down?”

“This.” He wrapped a hand around my neck. “This is the dream, the drug. The prison you’ve lived in your entire life. It’s time you rid yourself of it.” His starlit eyes glittered down at me. “I will free you, my gel, very soon, and then you will be mine.”

His fingers bit into my neck, so tight that I couldn’t speak or breathe. I latched on to his wrist and pulled, but I had no strength. Then a blue light blinded me, and he swore and hurled me away.

I woke up as I hit hard wood face-first. I yelped and then pushed myself up onto my elbows. I was on the floor beside Doyle’s couch. My head wobbled as I looked around me, but the office was empty.

“Bloody hell.” My belly heaved, and I crawled over to a rubbish can just in time.

“Steady, Kit.” Rina knelt beside me and supported my head with kid-gloved hands. “Go on, I’ve got you.”

The heaves continued until I couldn’t bring anything else up, and then a little longer as my belly refused to be convinced it was empty.

Once the final spasm passed, Rina wiped my mouth with one corner of her black fichu. “There now, that’s better.” She helped me up and held me steady. “Where’s the bloody lav?”

“Through there,” I heard Doyle say.

I let Rina tend to me, rinsing out my mouth with the water she held to my lips and blowing into the handkerchief she placed over my nose.

“Let’s have a look now.” She tipped my head back and peered into my eyes, and swore softly. “Bugger me, you’ve been dosed.”

I saw Doyle in the doorway at the same time I became aware of my painfully heavy bladder. “Loo.”

Rina turned to the inspector. “Out.” She pushed the door closed after him and helped me with my skirts.

I hissed as my bare bottom touched the cold porcelain. “What are you doing here?”

“I went round your place this morning, saw the copper wardlings, and came here,” she said. “Who rolled you?”

“Two snuffmages waiting outside Bridget’s.” I finished and put my clothes to rights. “Why did you go to the flat? You know I’m never there after seven.”

“No, you were here, and all night, too.” She grabbed my chin and looked into my eyes again. “The swine in charge said when they couldn’t rouse you, they brought in a physick. Sweet Mary, look at your eyes.”

All I remembered was the dream of being strangled by Dredmore. “A little nap never hurt anyone.”

“A little?” Her brows rose. “Love, you’ve been out cold for the last eighteen hours.”

Rina ushered me back into the office, where Doyle was waiting for us. “I’m taking her.”

“Not yet.” He took out a notebook. “I need some answers from her.”

“I really like him,” I confided to Rina. “Too bad he’s the law.”

“Shut up, Kit.” To Doyle, Rina said, “Has she been charged with an offense? No? You lot too busy dosing her with ruddy joy, then?”

“Tommy?” I tried to wave a hand and nearly smacked myself in the eye. “He wouldn’t do that. He likes me too much.”

“Shut up, Kit.” Doyle snapped his notebook closed and regarded Rina. “I did nothing of the sort to her. What kind of man do you think I am?”

“Like all the others in the world. Stupid. Did you really think it would make her talk?” She tightened her arm around me. “The poor gel’s never had it, you dolt. Much as you dosed her, I’m surprised she woke up at all.”

“We don’t drug suspects,” Doyle said between clenched teeth. “She ran afoul of some snuffmages; maybe they added more than killing powder to bespell her.”

“Bespelled my ass.” Rina thrust me toward him. “Look at her eyes. You know what poppy dust does to the whites. Go on, look. Red as roses, they are.” She brought a fold of my skirt up to her nose and sniffed it. “Nothing but charcoal.”

Doyle looked and muttered words unbecoming an officer of the Yard. “Someone must have slipped it to her another way.”

“In here?” Rina made a rude sound. “How?”

“In my tea,” I offered dully. “Tasted funny.”

“The guild master.” The inspector swore softly.

“Sodding bastards tried to get at her again, right under your noses. Come on, love, we’re leaving.” Rina steered me toward the door.

He stepped in front of it. “You’ll need protection.”

“Wreck,” Rina called out.

The door opened inward, hitting Doyle in the back and shoving him aside. He spun around, fist curled, and then took a step back.

Wrecker stepped in and turned toward the inspector, his face bland. “Take care of this one, milady?”

“Not just yet, Wreck.” To Doyle, Rina said, “Here’s my protection.” She patted the broad wall of Wrecker’s chest. “Got anything bigger than this, cop?” When Doyle remained silent, she said, “Didn’t think so.”

My throat burned and I thought my head might tumble off my shoulders a few times on the way out of the station, but by the time Rina and Wrecker helped me into the carri and we were on our way, my thoughts cleared.

“Don’t take me home,” I told my friend. “I need to go in to work.”

“With you nattering on and your eyes like that?” Rina hooted. “They’ll toss your ass out in the street and cancel your office lease. No, love, we’re going to the Lily.”

“I don’t have time for a bath.”

“That’s tragic.” Rina sniffed. “So is the way you smell.”

I didn’t have the strength to bicker, so I leaned back against the neck rest and closed my eyes.

If the guild master had drugged my tea, it may have been to render me helpless against a second attack—and he would have needed at least one man on the inside. I knew Doyle couldn’t have been involved; he wouldn’t have saved my life to attack me in a police station. If for any reason Dredmore wanted me dead, he could have stood by in the alley and watched the snuffmage cut my throat. I was less sure of Mary Harris, but I couldn’t imagine why a nice old lady who believed she protected people with her idiot spells would get mixed up with hired killers.

Drugging me helpless was too similar to what had been done to Diana Walsh. It stank of the same combination of cunning and cowardice.

As the last of the joy’s effects faded, I began to feel wretched. I wanted to go home and barricade myself in my flat. But even there I wouldn’t be safe, not from someone who could doctor my tea in a police station, or assault me in my sleep.

Dredmore.

Physicks believed that dreams were the mind’s suppressed desires and fears. Across the pond, there were new types of phsyicks who even studied dreams in hopes of connecting them to body ailments. I’d never thought much about it—I hardly ever remembered my dreams—but Lucien Dredmore kissing and then trying to choke me to death in my mind could be nothing more than a garden-variety nightmare.

Besides, why would he try to kill me in my dreams when he’d saved me in the alley?

When we reached the Lily, I was able to climb down out of the carri without assistance. Rina still took my arm as if she was afraid I’d run away.

“Two for the works,” she told the gel at the desk inside, who gave me a single scandalized glance before accepting Rina’s payment.

“Will you be having a massage today, madam?” the desklass asked.

“No, and we don’t need maids; we’ll see to ourselves.” Rina took the key the gel handed her and glanced back at Wrecker. “Go back to the house and ask Almira to give you a complete change for Miss Kit. Tell her something light and warm.”

“Right away, milady.” Wrecker touched his cap and took off.

“You can’t throw away my skirts,” I told Rina as she walked me back to the private bathing room. “I need them.”

“As what? Cleaning rags? ’Sall they’re good for now.” She unlocked the door and gave me a little push. “Come on, the stink of you is about to make me puke.”

“I need the skirts”—I paused as Rina pulled my bodice out of my waister and over my head—“to test the powder on them from the snuffmages’ balls”—I turned so she could unknot the mangle of my fasteners—“and see if it contains poppy dust.”

“I’ve already checked it; it’s charcoal, nothing more.” She pulled out a fold on my skirt and bent over to examine the stain. “No one would toss this much red joy at you, Kit. It’d cost the earth. The coppers were the ones that dosed you.”

“They’ve no motive,” I reminded her as I tried to unlace the front of my chemise. My fingers felt thick and I fumbled until she pushed my hands aside. “Doyle thinks I’m in on some extortion scheme. You don’t try to kill someone you think is nicking coin from the tonners.”

“In case you’ve forgotten, my gel, Doyle works for the Hill,” she snapped. “If they told him to dress you like a performing ape, put you on a leash, and take you for a walk, he’d be trotting you round Central Square right now.”

“No.” I set my jaw. “Not Tommy. He’s not like that.”

“For bleeding Christ’s sake, Kit, he’s little more than a nobber in fancy dress. Get over him.” She helped me out of my drawers and pointed to the slats. “Use the hot,” she said as she began undressing, “or you’ll never work that dried muck out of your hair.”

I stood naked on the spaced slats and reached up for the red shower pull. The water that gushed over me was almost too hot to bear, but I stood under the wide stream and let it soak me thoroughly. Once my hair was plastered to my skull, I reached for a handful of scented soap mash and began working it into my snarled, filthy locks.

Rina came over with a handled sponge but set it aside to peek under the bandage on my arm. “Shit. That sod have the decency to clean this?”

I felt like yanking on the blue pull. “He’s not a sod, and yes, he did, quite nicely.”

“Nicely my ass.” She dipped the end of the sponge into the bowl on the soap stand, coating it well before going to work on my back. “No such thing as a nice copper.”

“You’ve met all of them at Rumsen Main, I suppose.” I picked up another handle and went to work on my front.

Once I was properly soaped up, I tugged on the purple pull and lifted my face into the warm stream. I might have stood there for a year, it felt so good, but once I’d washed all the soap away, I released the pull and wiped my hands up my face and over my head.

“Get in and soak,” Rina told me before she went to another slat stand to wash herself.

I climbed down the short steps into the pool, letting my cooled skin grow accustomed to the heat before I slipped down and let the water close over my head briefly. Once I’d soaked enough, I straightened and went to sit on one of the submerged benches, where Rina joined me.

“You’ll come stay with me until they nail the bastards after you,” she decided as she reclined back against the tile rest. “You can have poor Liv’s rooms.”

“Can’t,” I told her. “I have to go back to Walsh’s on Friday for dinner.”

“What? Dinner at Walsh’s?” She sat up and stared at me. “You fancy a trip to the loonhouse? I can save us all a lot of grief and have Wrecker take you there directly.”

“They wouldn’t have me.” I splashed her a little. “I promised the lady I’d save her marriage. She’s in a bad way, Rina, and some of it’s my doing.”

“Oh, and she’s seen to it that you’re covered in diamonds, has she?” she demanded. “Kit, someone just tried to kill you. Twice. If you’re lucky and lay low, maybe they won’t try a third time and succeed.”

“I’ll be careful.” I turned to her. “You can help me.”

She smacked the side of my head. “There. Did that help?”

“No.” I rubbed the sore spot. “You know enough dusters to find out if someone’s been buying red.”

“Someone like?”

Mentioning the dream would only get me smacked again. “I think it could have been Dredmore.”

“Lucien Dredmore’s mixed up in this?” She groaned as she fell back. “Of course he is. I suppose you accidentally ran afoul of him. How many times does this make it? Forty? Fifty?”

“He nabbed me on the Hill after I had tea at Walsh’s,” I admitted. “He warned me off them.”

“Lovely.” She made a contemptuous sound. “I’ll send him some posies to express my gratitude.”

“Dredmore knows something about Nolan Walsh and his financial business,” I said thoughtfully. “And he never dirties his hands with paltry scams. Has to be something much bigger to tempt him.”

“That black-eyed beast wants only one thing,” Rina snapped. “You. And he’ll tell you whatever he likes if it means having you.”

I sank down. “I won’t let him.”

“He’s never made a real effort, you daft twit.” Rina turned on me. “Come on, Kit. You know the man’s got more funds than three governors. His servants are nothing more than a gang of kneecappers and necktwisters. If he decides to pluck you off the street like a bun from a corner cart and take you to that tomb of his on the cliffs, who’s to stop him? Who’s to care?”

“Bridget. Docket.” I gave her a hopeful look. “You.”

“Oh, yes. A loomgel, a nutty mech, and a pissed strumpet.” She rolled her eyes. “Why am I worried? You’re safe as houses.”

“The honorable wife of Lord Duluc, the cleverest of disgraced mechs, and Queen of the Night,” I corrected her softly. “My dearest mates in all the world, who would never let Dredmore take me from them.”

“I love you like my own sister, you know.” Rina took hold of my hair and used it to wriggle my head. “I’d march down to the garden gates of hell for you, if that’s what it takes. But, Kit, it’s Dredmore after you now. Even the devil himself would have enough sense to step out of the way.”

“He won’t have me,” I insisted. “Nothing bad is going to happen. I promise.”

“I’ll know for certain.” Rina climbed out of the pool and went to ring the bell. When one of the bathhouse maids appeared, she said, “Send for my man.”

“Why are we leaving?” I asked when she returned. “We just got here.”

“Out with you.” She tossed a towel at me. “We’re going to see the Eye.”

I slogged up the steps. “Whose eye?”

“Besides yours, the only honest one in the city,” she said, her expression grim. “We’re going to see my teller.”

Chapter Ten

I argued with Rina from the bathhouse to the front steps of a quiet, sober-looking redstone in the heart of the bookmakers’ district.

“How long have you been letting this charlatan take your coin?” I said as she rang the bell. “And why didn’t you ever tell me you were buying portents?”

“I don’t pay the Eye in coin. We have an evening together now and then to settle our accounts.” She turned as a houseman answered the bell. “Madam Eagle and a friend to see the master.”

We were shown into a dark hall lit only by candles and made to wait there as the houseman went to the back of the house. I noted the marks marching along the wainscot railing. They weren’t runes, but something like them. “For pity’s sake, Rina. I thought you were smarter than this.”

“The Eye is very dear to me,” she said, wagging a finger under my nose. “If you care to remain in my good graces, then you’ll hold your tongue and let him do his work.”

“Work.” I felt like spitting. “Swindling you out of sex for nothing.”

“Do shut up, love.” Rina smiled as a small man in an oddly cut white robe emerged. The lack of light made it impossible to make out his features. “Master Harvison.”

“Madam Eagle.” He bowed low before turning to me. “Madam’s friend.” He did not bow to me but glanced at Rina. “She is not a believer.”

“Neither was I when I first came to you, Harvi.” Rina put a hand on my shoulder. “But my dear friend is in desperate need of your wisdom.” When I opened my mouth to disagree, she stomped on my foot. “I would consider it a personal favor if you would see for her.”

“Please,” Harvison said, gesturing down the hall. “Join me for tea.”

We followed him into a shabby but comfortable little den. I’d never seen such furnishings, all made of gleaming lacquered woods and delicate little cushions. A table that sat too low to the ground had a brazier set in its center and a tray with tiny cups. A bowl of dark herbs and some twisted brown roots waited to be used, probably to poison someone.

He lived among the best bookmakers in the city, but I didn’t see one book. There were plenty of scrolls, however, each tied with twines of various colors and stacked on end in big porcelain pots. Magic spells were usually written on much smaller rolls, but perhaps his handwriting required more paper for his nonsense.

“Please, be seated.” Harvison went around the room lighting oil lamps, until they shed enough light for me to clearly see his face. One dark eye gleamed, sharp and bright, but where the other should have been was only a smooth stretch of skin.

I leaned toward Rina. “He’s only got one eye,” I whispered.

“No, young miss. I have two,” Harvison answered for her. “The other lies beneath the flesh you see. So it has been since I first drew breath.”

I watched him fill two cups with his brew, but when he reached for a third I spoke up. “None for me, thank you. I’m a little off tea right now.”

“You’re insulting my friend,” Rina hissed.

“She is being only cautious,” Harvison said. “Something experience teaches us, but fear strips away.” He gave me his full attention. “You have been crossed by magic many times.”

“Not so I’ve noticed,” I told him. I made out the peculiar shape of his eye, but it wasn’t the droop I was accustomed to seeing. “Where are you from, teller?”

He bowed again. “Here. My father bought my mother from Hokkaidō before the Imperial Family instituted the blockade.”

Now the odd-looking runes in his hall made sense. “You’re half Nihon.”

“And half Torian,” Rina put in.

I’d deal with her later. “Every Nihon, pureblood or not, was deported after the blockade. The Crown has denied them residency ever since. So how did you manage to stay in Rumsen, Mr. Harvison?”

“My mother was property, not wife,” he said simply. “My father claimed me as the same, until he discovered he could sire no children with his wife.”

Keeping slaves had been banned before my birth. “Did he have you declared his heir?” When he nodded, I relaxed a little. “So you’re a freedman.”

“I have never been anything else.” He gestured to the cushion on the floor opposite his own. “Now I will see for you, madam’s friend.”

I thought of the teller who had tried to chase me out of her shop, and climbed down awkwardly to sit on the cushion. “What do you want? Hair? Fingernails? Spit? Blood?”

“Your hands, please.” He stretched out his own, palms up.

I’d never touched a slave, declared or not, and Nihon universally despised Torians. I might not get my hands back.

I will free you, my gel, very soon, Dredmore said behind my eyes, and then you will be mine.

I clapped my hands over Harvison’s. The moment I touched him, he went stiff and still. I watched his face, but I didn’t see him twitch or take a breath.

Slowly he withdrew his hands. “I am blinded.”

“I didn’t touch his good eye,” I assured Rina. “I swear.”

“What I mean to say is that I cannot see for you, young miss,” Harvison said faintly. “You are like the ward, and the warded.” He stared at my neck. “You wear a talisman.”

“A necklace, with a pendant,” I corrected. “Most women wear them.”

“May I see it?”

My first impulse was to say no, but then I thought of what Harry had said about my pendant. “All right.” I reached back for the clasp.

Harvison remained silent for a long time as he studied my pendant. Only when Rina cleared her throat did he seem to remember we were in the room. “Forgive me, dear ladies. This is something of a puzzle.” He regarded me. “This was given to you, was it not? When you were very young.”

I nodded. “It was a gift from my mother.”

“The stone is powerful. Or perhaps I should say, it contains power.” He placed the pendant gently on the table, and I noticed his hand shook as he drew it back. “You must wear it at all times, or you will be in grave danger.”

“Danger she’s got aplenty. Lucien Dredmore’s after her,” Rina said tightly. “Can’t you see how that right bastard will try to take her?”

“He cannot.” Harvison gave me a sad smile. “If the onmyouji is to possess her, she must give herself freely.”

“Right, then, that’ll never happen.” I stood. “Thank you for not pretending to see something. Rina, we should go.”

My friend ignored me. “She’s been cursed. Is that what you’re saying?”

Harvison made a helpless gesture. “She is beyond me, dear one. I believe she is beyond all who see.”

“Then see for me.” Rina dropped down and put her hands in his. “See if I lose her to that conniving devil.”

Harvison nodded toward me. “She must leave the room.”

“Oh, she will be glad to.” I stalked out, brushed past his houseman and through the front entry. I was more angry with myself than Rina for allowing her to involve me in this rubbish. She did it out of love; I knew better.

Wrecker eyed me from the carri. “Had enough of One Eye, then, Miss Kit?”

“That I have. Be a sport and turn your head.” As soon as he did, I waved down a horse-drawn cab. “I’m going home. Rina will be furious, but tell her I said to tough it.”

“Just be careful, miss,” Wrecker suggested. “Her won’t like knowing something bad’s happened to you.”

I nodded and let the driver help me into the cab. Once I was shut in, I wrapped my hand around my pendant, holding it so tight it cut into my palm. What Harvison had said about it containing power was nonsense, of course . . . but I kept remembering how his hand shook. Before I could think better of it, I reached back and thumbed the clasp, releasing it so I could pull the chain from my neck. I thrust the pendant into my reticule and dropped it on the bench beside me.

Harry White appeared on the rear-facing seat. “Took you long enough. What were you waiting for, lass? Her Majesty’s Diamond Jube?”

I curled my hands into fists. “My mother wore only two pieces of jewelry when she was alive,” I told him. “One was her wedding ring. What was the other?”

“A gold chain round her left ankle,” he replied at once. “On the chain hung a silver ring set with seven stones in the shape of a star. Three rubies, three sapphires, and a black diamond.”

No one knew about my mother’s anklet but my father and me. “You gave it to her.”

“Technically, no. When she came to the morgue to identify me, she took the ring from my body.” He showed me his left hand, and the pale circle left around the base of his fourth finger. “Your father had the ankle chain made.”

“So she could hide it under her skirts,” I guessed.

He nodded. “Anyone who saw it would have treated her very badly.”

“Because you were a spy.”

“No, my dear,” he said. “Because the star was my mark. Because I was Houdini.”

I stared at the specter. “You’re Houdini.”

“I was.”

“Harry Houdini the escape artist,” I said. “The man no manacle, lock, or prison could hold. The greatest mage who ever lived. The supreme master of all the arts, shadow and light.”

He inclined his head.

I thumped the carri’s side panel three times with my fist and called out, “Stopping here.”

The cab came to a halt, and the driver jumped down and opened the door. “Can’t stop here, miss. ’Tis yet near a mile.”

I reached for my reticule. “I’m tired of riding with a lying jackass.”

“What did you call me?” the driver demanded.

“Not you,” I said, gesturing at Harry. “Him.”

“Perhaps I should have mentioned before,” my grandfather put in, “that no one but you can see or hear me.”

“What?” I turned on him. “So now you’re only haunting me?”

“Something like that,” he agreed.

I regarded the driver. “You see the man sitting in the seat across from me, don’t you?”

He ducked his head in. “I don’t see no man, miss.”

“He’s right there. Right in front of your nose.”

The driver pushed his cap back to scratch his pate. “I don’t drive them what been bespelled, miss. Naught but trouble they are.”

“Apologize and tell him to drive on before he shouts for a beater,” Harry suggested.

“I’m so very sorry,” I said to the driver. “I had a bit of a bump earlier, and now I’m seeing things that aren’t there.” I rested my head against the cushions. “If you would be so kind as to drive on, I’d be eternally grateful.”

“As you will, miss.” He shut the door and scrambled up top.

“You’re a terrible liar,” Harry said. “You get that from your grandmother, you know.”

I closed my eyes. “According to the documents I found in the city’s protected archives, I have no grandmother.”

“On the contrary, you’re named after my Charmian.” He crossed over and sat beside me. “How did you get into the archives?”

“I turned into a specter and walked right past the guards; got that one from you.” I looked at him. This close he seemed as solid and real as a living, breathing man. “Why are you haunting me, Harry?”

“I’m your guardian.” He waited until I stopped laughing before he added, “Well, I would have been if your father hadn’t meddled in things he didn’t understand. Nevertheless, I am most definitely not your enemy.”

“What do you want from me?”

“It’s the other way round, dear gel. You have only to call on me, and I will rush to your side.” He pulled down the window shade. “Unless it’s daylight outside, or course.”

I didn’t understand his aversion to sunlight. “But if you can’t go outside during the day, then where do you go?”

He gave me an inscrutable smile. “Beyond this realm.”

“So you spend all your days in the netherside, is that it?” I should have known he’d lie to me. “Do you perform there as the Great Houdini for all the other spirits, or do you just lie about doing nothing?”

“I don’t care for where I go.” He sniffed. “I would stay here if I could.”

“That’s it, then.” I picked up my reticule. “I’ve had more than enough nonsense for one night, Harry.”

“My birth name was Ehrich Weiss,” he said quickly, “and I was not an agent for the Crown.”

I loosened the ribbons and reached inside. “Your papers say differently.” As soon as my fingers touched my pendant, Harry promptly vanished.

Perhaps this was what Harvison meant; perhaps my pendant contained the power to chase off bloody stupid men who annoyed me beyond all measure.

“I need a few more of you,” I told the pendant, before I refastened its chain around my neck.

Once the driver reached my flat, he brought the cab to a stop, but he didn’t climb down to help me out. He also drove off before I could pay him, and the last thing I heard before he turned the corner were the protective curses he was chanting.

At noon on Friday I took a cab to the Silken Dream, where Bridget came to whisk me back to her private workroom and dress me herself.

“You look awful.” Bridget, dressed in a lavender gown that should have clashed with her red hair and somehow didn’t, looked marvelous. “Burning the candle in the middle as well as at both ends, are you?”

“Be nice to me,” I said. “Last time I was here, someone tried to cut my throat in your alley.”

“So the beaters told me.” She encircled my waist with a measuring lace. “Two snuffmages, and you without a scratch. Why am I not surprised?”

“I’ll have you know they gave me a very nasty cut.” I held up my arm. “The chief inspector personally bandaged it.”

“Rina said he did quite a bit more.” She propped her hands on her hips. “Was the bandaging before or after he let someone try to poison you with joy?”

“He didn’t know they’d try again at the Yard, or he would have stopped them. He’s a friend.” I wound my good arm through hers. “Just like you.”

“I can’t toss you in the gaol,” she chided. “Much as I want to these days . . .”

Bridget not only dressed me in the heavenly blue gown intended for the empty-pursed Lady Richmond, she had Sarah brush out the rat’s nest on my head and arranged it into a crown of shining, interlaced coils. I only protested when Bridget brought a jeweler’s case into the dressing room.

“You can’t bedeck me in baubles,” I told her. “Walsh believes I’m poor.”

“You are poor,” Bridget said flatly. “But you’re going to dine with one of the finest families on the Hill, so it will be assumed that you have enough connections to borrow something decent. Which you do. Now shut up.” She took out a small waterfall of liquid silver strands and draped them around my neck. “These are spun quicksilver. Don’t fuss with them or they’ll tangle.”

“I won’t breathe.” The slippery weight of the cool silver made me shiver, then I winced as she snapped two heavy clips on my earlobes. “I don’t like earbaubs.”

“One does not call perfectly matched snow pearls ‘earbaubs,’” she corrected, coming around to inspect my face. “Yes, that will do. Now a wristlet.”

Instead of more pearls or quicksilver she wound a snake made of small sapphires around my wrist. Its eyes had been fashioned from tiny clear globes, each containing an even tinier red glowworm.

I held my arm away. “This is too much. I’ll only smash it.”

“It’s warded, and you’ll wear it for me.” She cupped my face between my hands. “Or I’ll tell Charlie everything, and he’ll have his men whisk you onto a yacht bound for Bali before you can sneeze.”

“You wouldn’t.” Of course she would, and Charles would do anything to make her happy, even if it meant shipping my ass round the world ten times. “I can deal with the Walshes one more time.”

“You’d better,” she warned, “because after tonight, Rina won’t let you go within a mile of the Hill.” She kissed my cheek. “Nor will I.”

Once Bridget had sprayed me with a little of the outrageously dear French perfume she wore, she sent me off to the Hill in her own coach. I’d ridden in the crystal-sided coach once before, when she and Charlie had sent me home from their castle in it, but this time it felt different. Since real wealth was forever out of my reach, I’d never considered what it felt like to be treated like royalty on a regular basis. It was a bit like strolling about in a dream where nothing could touch or harm you.

My dream evaporated when I passed Dredmore’s coach coming from Walsh’s Folly. A terrible panic seized me at the thought of seeing him again, until I forced myself to breathe and relax. It had been a dream, nothing more, and he couldn’t assault me in front of the family.

A footman in tails and gloves leapt off the back of the coach and helped me down. He glanced at the house and murmured something in French about waiting for me.

Delightful as the ride had been, it had to end, so I smiled at him. “I’ll be fine, thank you.”

This time the butler was waiting outside the door for me. He watched Bridget’s coach depart and then gave me a somewhat creak-kneed, respectfully low bow.

“Mistress Kittredge, you are very welcome.”

It had to hurt the old winge to say that, so I merely nodded and let him usher me along like the fine lady I wasn’t.

The family had assembled this time in a larger reception room adjacent to the formal dining hall. The butler announced me at the door before discreetly withdrawing.

Lady Diana pounced on me, clamping her hands on mine. “It is so good of you to come,” she said, her voice as tight as her eyes were reddened and puffy from weeping. She turned to the side and beamed at her husband. “Darling, you remember Miss Kittredge.”

Nolan Sr. ignored me and glared at his wife. “I thought I’d made myself clear about visitors, Diana.”

“I asked Miss Kittredge to dine with us before we had that conversation, my dear,” she said. “She has been most helpful to me.”

“As what?” Montrose said. “Your procurer of men?”

“Forgive my brother, Miss Kittredge.” An older woman sitting beside Miranda rose. She had a narrow face and frizzled hair but kind eyes. “Stepmama?”

“Yes, ah, Miss Kittredge, this is Lady Laurana Walsh, my elder stepdaughter.”

Laurana didn’t curtsey but held out her hand, which I shook reflexively. “I’m the spinster who does good works,” she explained. “When last you called I was working with the wretched foundlings at the school my mother founded in Scoursie. We try to teach them to read and write, even if it’s simply their names. Keeps them from being claimed by farm overseers as runaway pickers.”

Miranda uttered a squeak of dismay. “Laury, please.”

“Lady Laurana’s efforts on the behalf of the poor are highly admirable.” A sixth figure emerged from the shadows by the fireplace. “Good evening, Charmian.”

“Dredmore.” I turned to Lady Diana so I wouldn’t have to look at him for longer than a blink. “I hope you were able to rest undisturbed the last few nights,” I said in a lower voice.

“I was, to some extent.” She looked as if she wanted to say more, and then a footman stepped in from the dining hall and announced that dinner was served. “I hope you enjoy pheasant, Miss Kittredge.” She went from me to Nolan, and when the Walsh siblings followed them into the other room, I was left alone with Dredmore.

“You look like a winter sylph,” he said as he came to take my arm. As soon as he did, he bent down. “I told you to stay away from here.”

“And yet, here I am,” I replied, starting forward to follow the others.

He pulled me back round to face him, but he didn’t look at me. He watched the dining hall and talked over my head. “Make an excuse during the meal to leave, and go.”

I raised my brows. “Any suggestions?”

“A migraine. Your monthlies. A sudden eruption of boils on your ass,” he grated. “I don’t care, just get the hell out of here.”

“Go suck a tube,” I suggested gently before leading him in to dine.

Chapter Eleven

A dining table of glossy cherrywood parted the hall, ready to serve fifty comfortably, but fortunately the servants had set three facing three on either side of the master’s chair, or we would have had to shout our remarks to each other.

Lady Diana sat at her husband’s right, Laurana at his left, with Montrose and Miranda seated by their sister and me between Dredmore and Diana. The candlelit centerpiece, a small, frothy volcano of porcelain and gold flowers, cast a warm glow over the exquisitely set table.

As the footmen placed small urns with some sort of pinkish-gray shellfish on ice, I counted the utensils. Accustomed to three, I had to now manage twelve, and Lady Diana was politely waiting for me to start. I glanced at Dredmore, who was no help, and then Lord Walsh, who employed the smallest two-pronged fork to stab one of the shellfish. Leashing in a sigh of relief, I did the same and gingerly tasted what turned out to be half-cooked clams.

“Where do you reside, Miss Kittredge?” Laurana asked before she sampled her cocktail.

“I keep a flat on Estarlin,” I said. “Near the fruit market, if you know it.”

“I shop there several times a week,” she said, grimacing as she set down her fork and gestured for the footman to take away the little urn. “They always have the best apples and nuts in Rumsen.”

“My sister delights in playing the servant,” Montrose drawled. “I fully expect to come round some day and find her scrubbing out the loos.”

Miranda choked and buried her face in her napkin as she tried to control her blush as well as her coughing.

“Do you play kitchen maid, Cousin Kit?” Montrose continued. “I should dearly like to watch you turn a spit or two.”

“My cooking is dreadful, sir,” I admitted freely. “You’d do better by bucket.”

He laughed, too long and too loud, until his father snapped something low and harsh at him. Montrose didn’t show an ounce of remorse. “She’s got a quick tongue, Dad, why not let her employ it for our amusement?”

I felt something touch the top of my thigh and looked down as Dredmore spread his hand over it and dug his fingers in. I slipped a knife from the collection by my plate into my hand, taking care to let only him see it. Before I could stab him, however, he took his hand away.

To avoid eating the rest of the clams, I engaged Lady Diana in another meaningless discussion of the weather, turning now and then to include Dredmore in the conversation. The second course, a steaming shallow bowl of green turtle soup, proved slightly more edible, although I picked out the blanched fernheads floating on the top and pushed them out of sight on the plate under my bowl. Baby fernheads were said to be delicious, but if picked too late in the season they could be poisonous.

Dredmore reached for his wine and murmured to me, “They’re too young to make you ill.”

“I know,” I muttered back. “I have you for that.”

“You and Lord Dredmore are acquainted, I understand,” Nolan said.

As soon as I realized he was speaking to me, I set down my spoon. “Yes, milord. We’ve met several times in the course of our business.”

Miranda had gotten over her coughing attack, for I heard her ask, “Have you no family to look after your concerns, Miss Kittredge?”

“Di’s family hasn’t two coins to rub together,” Montrose said, handing his empty wineglass to the footman and holding his hand aloft until it was refilled. “What of your mother’s people, cousin? Isn’t there some broad-backed farmer among them who would take you to bed?”

Following the family’s example and ignoring the little skink grew harder by the moment. “My mother was an orphan,” I answered Miranda. “She passed away while I was still in school.”

The footmen presented the third course, a golden fillet of flounder trimmed and garnished to look as if it were ready to jump off the platter and wriggle its way back to the sea. No one else seemed especially impressed by the presentation but me. Nolan dissected his fillet with stiff displeasure; the Walsh sisters picked daintily at the delicate flesh with their forks, and Montrose simply drank. Lady Diana made a brave show of appetite but I never saw her actually eat more than a single sliver or quarter spoon of any dish served.

I’d seen too many forms of mold in the tunnels under the city to have any desire for the fourth course, an assortment of mushrooms poached in sherry. The fifth course actually made me angry, as the men were served braised slices of tomatoes swimming in pinked cream, while the Walsh ladies and I were instead served creamed beets cut out to resemble tomatoes. I despised beets, but objecting would have been rude, so I just pushed them around with the right fork.

“Miss Kittredge seems unhappy with her lady’s dish,” Montrose observed aloud. “Doubtless the working class allow their females to consume vast quantities of lord-apples.”

I tilted my head to look at him. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand what you mean.”

“It’s believed that tomatoes invigorate the male humors,” Laurana said, her expression as serene as her words were shocking. “They are never served to ladies in good society.”

“Lest they drive you to uncontrollable lust, Miss Kittredge,” Montrose tacked on sweetly.

That remark finally undid Miranda, whose fork clattered on the table. “Father, I’m not feeling at all well. May I be excused?” At his nod she slipped out of her chair and hurried out of the hall.

“My younger sister is a widow,” Montrose told me. “She dislikes being reminded that she is no longer free to indulge in nightly congress. Ouch, damn you, Laury.”

“You need to eat more and drink less, Monty.” Laurana, who had rapped his hand with the handle of her fork, took his nearly empty goblet and handed it to her footman. “No more wine for you tonight.”

Her brother scowled as he jerked to his feet. “To the devil with all of you.” He stomped out of the hall.

Nolan said nothing but watched the footman clear Montrose’s setting. I glanced down at my beets and saw my plate half-filled with tomatoes. I turned my head to see Dredmore calmly eating my beets.

“Clear for Miss Kittredge,” Lady Diana, who must have seen the switch, said quickly to her footman.

The cook, a stout little man in immaculate chef’s whites, brought in the fifth and main course, a fully dressed pheasant with feathers intact, perched on a lifelike branch made of bread. Glowing dark-red roses, sculpted from what appeared to be jellied cranberries, clustered around the bird, along with sprigs of dark chocolate twigs with candied violets. The bird’s long brown-and-black-striped tail feathers rose at a steep angle and shifted along with the cook’s movements, making it seem as if the pheasant were about to launch itself from the platter and take flight.

After receiving a nod from Nolan, the cook carried the bird to a side carving table and skillfully removed the feathered sham from the carcass before beginning to carve it to pieces.

The scent should have made my mouth water, for I dearly loved roasted fowl of any variety, but what was left of my appetite deserted me. Seeing the exotic bird dressed to appear as it had been in life made me feel like a murderer instead of a dinner guest. Fortunately I was served only a small slice, which I forced down and complimented as best I could.

I ate a few buttered peas from the seventh, mixed vegetable course and drained my water glass to ease my tight throat while Diana told a long and relatively dull anecdote about the new fashion of wearing flounce-brimmed hats. Then the eighth course arrived, an aromatic potato-herb tartlet flavored by slivers of black truffle and topped with a layer of toasted bleu Cheshire.

The pheasant had likely been the most expensive dish I would ever eat in my life, but the tartlet was surely humble pie.

I’d only tasted bleu Cheshire once, when my father had spent an inordinate amount of coin to purchase a small wedge of it for my mother, whose secret vice was exotic cheese.

“I don’t know whether to eat it,” Mum had teased, “or have it encased in glass and carted over to the art museum.”

In the end Mum had insisted we each have a bite of the precious stuff, and I’d fallen in love, probably because I’d known I’d never taste it again. Now and then when I had a few extra coins I’d buy a little half round of Danish blue, but it was nothing by comparison.

It would have been criminal to send it back to the kitchen untouched, I told myself as I began eating it. The first taste almost brought a moan from my throat, and sent tears to sting my eyes. I rested my hands against the table, mainly to keep from shoving the tartlet by the handfuls into my mouth.

Dredmore’s fingers brushed over mine, sending a jolt of pleasure up my arm and into my chest. As he reached for his goblet, he murmured, “Don’t weep.”

“Drop dead,” I whispered back, furious with him and myself for lowering my guard.

The final, cold courses were frozen puree of cress and maple-almond iced cream, both of which I ate in hopes of cooling off. Like the other ladies I abstained from drinking the coffee offered at the end of the meal and commented as favorably as I could on the cook’s menu.

Nolan didn’t excuse himself or Dredmore to his study for the gentlemen’s after-dinner ritual of bourbon and cigars but stood and spoke to his remaining child. “You must be very tired, my dear.”

“I’m fine, Father.” Laurana gave him and Diana a sharp look. “However, I do have some letters to write. Miss Kittredge, I hope someday to bump shoulders with you at the fruit market. Dredmore, Stepmama.” She nodded to the others before departing.

“We’ll go to my study now,” Nolan said, taking his wife’s arm in a decidedly unaffectionate grip.

Dredmore had a hand on me before I could dodge him, and he used it to guide me out of the hall behind the Walshes. “You should have left when you could, Charmian. This will not be pleasant.”

“I knew that the moment I saw you by the fire.” I drew my arm from his, but he only put his hand at the small of my back. “Stop touching me.”

“No.” When I would have walked ahead, he hooked his fingers in my waister and tugged me back beside him. “Listen to me, you stubborn wench. Whatever accusations Walsh makes, say nothing. I will do the talking.”

“The day I need you to speak for me,” I said, “I’ll cut out your tongue.”

As soon as we were gathered in the study, Nolan closed the doors and went to stand with his back to the painting of an Elizabethan Walsh whose weak chin had been disguised by his black goatee and wide white ruff. Both Lord Walshes regarded me with expressions of haughty disgust, but the one who was still breathing had a decidedly ugly gleam in his eyes.

“Miss Kittredge, while I’m sure your behavior goes unnoticed among the commoners, I find your involvement in our private family matters entirely intolerable,” Nolan announced. “Whatever promises of remuneration my wife has given you, I will not abide your interference for another moment.”

My lack of breeding had nothing on his rudeness. “I came to speak on your lady wife’s behalf, milord,” I said stiffly. “That is the only reason I came.”

“I have no interest in anything you might say to me,” Nolan snapped before he regarded Dredmore. “Lucien, I will have the truth of the matter. Tonight.”

Before my nemesis could employ his trickery to make matters worse, I said, “You will hear what I have to say, Lord Walsh. Your wife hired me to dispel a curse she believed had been put on her. I am the one who first discovered the panel under her bed, along with evidence that someone in this household has been assaulting her person. It is possible that both of you are being drugged each night as well.”

Nolan whirled on his wife. “How much did you pay her to lie for you this time? Fifty pounds? A hundred?”

“I have been paid nothing,” I told his back. “Your wife is the victim here, sir, not the transgressor.”

“The victim.” He strode over to me. “My wife is nothing but a lying, cheating whore who smuggles her lover into the house under my very nose.”

“Why would she bring this imaginary lover to the house, when it would be far more prudent to meet him in town on one of her shopping excursions?” I pointed out. “She could have a dozen lovers in town, and you’d never know it.”

Diana uttered a distressed sound.

“Wherever she conducts her affairs, my wife hasn’t the wits to conceal them,” Nolan assured me.

“I have seen the evidence with my own eyes, milord, and it is inarguable. Your wife is being tormented.” I went to Diana and put my arm around her. “Someone in this house has been stealing into her bedchamber, painting terrible words on her body, and then removing them a day later. When she came to me, she truly believed the words were being cut into her skin.”

Dredmore stepped between us. “That is enough, Charmian.”

“Who in this household would do such nonsense?” Walsh bellowed over Dredmore’s shoulder, his face mottling dark red. “No one, I say. No one but this whore, my wife.”

“It will be someone who has theatrical or military experience,” I said tightly. “Probably military, as it’s a soldier’s trick. The assailant wishes you to believe that your wife is greedy and promiscuous. Someone who wants to drive her out of her wits with terror and give you just cause to divorce her.” As Diana sagged with my words, I led her over to an armchair. “I’d say it’s working, wouldn’t you?”

Dredmore stared at me. “What do you mean, soldier’s trick?”

“They’ve been using wound paste on her,” I told him. “When it dries it looks like the real thing, and if you try to remove it, it tears the skin, like a fresh scab.”

“I’ll not listen to another moment of this!” Nolan said, sweeping his arm toward the mage. “Do your work now, Dredmore.”

“I can do nothing with Miss Kittredge present,” Dredmore replied. “She must be removed from the house.”

Diana suddenly revived and latched on to my arm. “You can’t leave, Kit. Not before you make him understand what’s been done to me. Please, I beg you.”

“We’ve arrived at a stalemate, milords,” I told the men. I pried Diana’s fingers away and went to Lord Walsh. “Dredmore will not perform for you in front of me because he knows I will expose him for the fraud he is. Your lady wife desires me to stay and prove her innocence.”

The red patches on Lord Walsh’s face turned purple. “You dare challenge my authority, in my own house?”

“My only wish is to investigate the matter further, milord,” I pushed on. “Allow me to speak with your servants; one of them has surely witnessed something to lead us to the—”

I didn’t expect him to backhand me, but once I was on the floor, my face throbbing, I saw Walsh draw back his boot and suddenly understood Diana’s bruises and why Dredmore had wanted me to go. I brought up my arms to protect my face and waited for the next blow, which never came.

“Allow me, my lord.”

The kick never landed; instead two strong arms snatched me from the floor and carried me away. By the time I dropped my hands from my face, Dredmore had me through the front entry and halfway to his coach.

“No.” I twisted and nearly freed myself before he shifted me up and over his shoulder. “I can’t leave her like this. He’ll kill her.” I pounded my fists against his back. “Put me down.”

“He won’t risk beating her now, not when she can use her injuries against him in court. You, however, will not get off so lightly.” Dredmore tossed me in the coach and slammed the door, securing it from the outside. When I tried to dart out the other door, I found it locked. The windows were too small for me to crawl through, so I sat and watched as Dredmore walked back to speak with Nolan Walsh, who had come out of the house after us.

Walsh blustered while Dredmore soothed, and while I couldn’t hear what they said, it was obvious it was about me. Then Walsh did a curious thing; he gestured for the butler, who handed Dredmore a large satchel. Dredmore nodded before he returned to the coach and handed off the satchel to his driver before climbing in with me.

“My turn, is it?” I lunged at him only to be pinned against his body. I maneuvered my arms between us and pushed at his chest. “I can still scream.”

“I can still have you gagged.” He ducked my fist and jerked me closer to pin my arms between us. “And bound, if you like.”

Being an inch from his face brought on all sorts of ugly feelings and ideas, but he grabbed my hair and held me in place.

“If you wish to bite me, Charmian,” he said softly, “there are far better spots than my face.”

“So you like it rough.” I changed tactics and moved a breath closer. “How will it be, Lucien? You tied naked between the posts, me in leathers, snapping a little whip? Is that what it takes to brick your chimney?”

Instead of being offended, the cold bastard smiled at me. “You’ve been spending too much time among strumpets, my sweet.” He wrenched me around so that my back was pressed to his front. “Sit still, or I will show you exactly what I like.”

I sat still. Not because he ordered me to, but to give myself time to think. From what I saw through the coach window, it was obvious that he was taking me out of the city. We left behind the dark streets and alleyways, rode through the pasturelands, and started up the cliff roads. Since Dredmore owned most of the coastal property beyond Rumsen, that meant our destination was his lair.

Castle Travallian, or so it had been before Dredmore had been disowned.

I’d seen it once when I’d gone atop one of the taller buildings downtown and looked over toward the sea. From there the manor had looked like little more than a pile of rubble. It came into view as the coach left the road and started up a long, winding path between two rows of black iron gaslamp poles. The cessation of jolting made me look down at the smooth pavers of obsidian rock, cut and fitted together so perfectly, I barely made out the seams.

“I had the stone shipped in from the islands,” he said. “The masons called it the road to hell.”

Was it to be mine? “I suppose Torian granite wasn’t dark or dramatic enough for you.”

“The islanders worship a fire god who they believe dwells in their volcano,” he said instead of answering. “Every year before planting season they take a young virgin up to the edge of the crater and toss her in. Her sacrifice pleases the god, who then provides a bountiful harvest.”

“For burning a gel to death.” I tried to sit up. “How delightful. How do they celebrate the harvest? By setting little babies on fire?”

“They feast on the fruits of their labors.” He tugged me back, tucking my head against his neck. “It’s not as grim as it sounds. According to legend, courageous virgins are given eternal life as the god’s handmaidens.”

“There’s a bloody fabulous reward for you.” I felt him touching my hair and snapped my head away. “Trapped to serve forever the bastard who killed them. Where do I sign up for the next sacrifice?”

“Perhaps they love their god so much that they don’t mind,” he suggested.

“I wish you’d . . . stop . . .” My voice died and my neck cricked as the coach came to a stop.

The cliffside manor was not a heap of rubble but a magnificent edifice that seemed to be growing out of the very ground. This effect came from the cliff stones, which had originally been an enormous pile of black and white granite boulders hewn and squared at the topmost peaks to form the great house’s foundation. Other, identical stones had been quarried and brought to build atop them, creating a manor that soared some five stories above the cliff’s edge.

Dredmore’s driver opened the door, blocking it when I tried to scramble out.

“I have her, Connell.”

Somehow Dredmore managed to hoist me under his arm as he maneuvered me out of the coach, and he carried me like that across the drive.

“I’m not a sack of turnips. Put me down.” I struggled to get my head up to see where he was taking me. “Dredmore.”

He flipped me over so that he held me like a new husband about to cross the threshold with his bride. “Welcome to Morehaven, Charmian.”

Chapter Twelve

Dredmore carried me into his lair as if it were my new home, and for a moment I wondered if it would be. As solitary and standoffish as Dredmore was, he wouldn’t have brought me here for a nightcap or a friendly chat. No, I had the feeling I was headed straight for some underground torture chamber or filthy cage.

Dredmore had no enemies, it was said, because he disposed of them before they could become known as such. As a licensed deathmage, he had the Crown’s blessing to kill whomever he deemed needed to die, but I’d always thought the threat a better deterrent. Why would anyone cross a man who could legally murder you?

Other than me, naturally.

“What are you doing?” I asked as he carried me over to a dimly lit staircase and began ascending. “The dungeon is downstairs.”

“I have no dungeon.” He turned and went up another flight before stepping into a hall. “I have guest rooms.”

I tried not to gawk at the magnificent paintings we passed, but the place was like a bloody national museum. “You are obliged to kidnap people in order to have gues—My God, is that an original Raphael?”

“I do what I must, and yes, it is.”

I glanced over the railing to see Connell carrying the satchel into one of the rooms downstairs. “What did Walsh put in the bag? Some leftover pheasant? Can I have some? I’m feeling peckish.”

“Of course you are.” He stopped in front of a door, and a valet opened it from the inside.

“Help me,” I told the manservant in my best terrified, helpless tone. “I’ve been brought here against my will.”

“That will be all for tonight, Winslow,” Dredmore said as he carried me into the chamber.

“Yes, milord.” The valet bowed and left.

I listened for the latch of the lock but heard nothing.

“He doesn’t seem too worried about me,” I said as Dredmore halted in front of a roaring fire. “Have you trained your servants to ignore your captives? How do you go about that, by making threats on their lives, or dropping a few more coins in their monthly wage packets?”

Dredmore held on to me. “I’m going to put you down now, Charmian, so that we may talk. Don’t run.”

I sighed. “Really, Lucien, you must stop reading so many romantic novels. I’m very happy that you abducted me. I’ve wanted to see the inside of this place for ages. You should really allow the tour companies to put you on their rounds. They’d pay you heaps to let a few nosy old ladies shuffle through here every week.”

“Morehaven is not a curiosity shop.” He lowered one arm and set me down on my feet. “Don’t run.”

I held on to him until I found my balance, and smiled up at him. “Why would I run from you?”

“You hate me,” he said. “You want me dead. If I walked in front of your carri, you’d run me down in the street.”

“Is that what you think?”

“It’s what you’ve said you’d do,” he reminded me, “along with shoving a spell scroll down my throat, using a rusted blade to relieve me of my manhood, setting my coach alight with me locked in it, and oh, yes, my personal favorite, hiring a thug to toss me over my own cliffs.”

“Lucien, Lucien.” I kept beaming as I stroked my hand up his arm and curled it around his neck. “Have you no understanding of women?”

“Evidently not.”

“Let me show you exactly what I’ve always dreamed of doing to you.” I pulled his head down toward mine, and as soon as his eyelids drooped and his mouth parted, I clutched his neck and rammed my knee into his groin.

Dredmore shifted to deflect my blow with his hip, which I had expected, and tried to shove me to the floor, which I had not. I curled over under his weight, spun on my heel, and got out from under it at the last possible moment. He landed on the floor; I ran.

Connell, who was standing guard at the end of the hall, ran toward me and tried to seize me, but I dropped to my knees and slid between his legs, leaping up on the other side to hurl myself at the banister. I hoisted up my skirts, put a leg over, and took a long, perilous slide down to the next landing, where I jumped off and took the steps to the first floor two at a time.

I saw the front entry and knew I was going to make it. I was going to best Lucien Dredmore, and I was never going to let him forget it, either.

A figure stepped out of the shadows to block my path to the door, and I gaped at Dredmore’s face.

I whipped my head back to glance at the stairs. He hadn’t followed me down; I was sure of it. “How did you do that?”

He smiled a little. “Guess.”

The only thing that could have gotten him downstairs so instantly was magic. What if he could do all that they said he could? Cast spells, exorcise spirits . . . kill with a touch . . .

I whirled, hauled up my skirts, and ran in the opposite direction. I didn’t hear Dredmore shout or footsteps behind me and looked frantically for the chute or tube he had used to get to the first floor ahead of me. I found nothing, not even a bucket-waiter. All the windows and doors I stopped at to try wouldn’t open.

I made it to the kitchen and hurried toward the first weapon I saw, a thin-bladed boning knife left sitting on a cutting block. Did I want to stab Dredmore in the heart? Many times. But could I actually do that? As I reached for the blade, my hand trembled, and I stared at it, suddenly and completely terrified out of my wits.

Not yet, something whispered inside my head. Hang on.

“Are you finished?” Dredmore asked me from where he stood, just inside the kitchen. “Or would you like to scamper around the house a bit more?”

I drew my hand back from the knife, and glanced at a cook’s stool sitting by the banked hearth. Every door in the kitchen was locked, but the one leading out to the garden had a long panel of glass in the center.

I grabbed the blade, turned, and threw it at a spot on the wall beside Dredmore, who instinctively ducked. That gave me enough time to get to the stool, pick it up, and hurl it through the doorglass.

Jagged shards tore at my arms and hips as I stepped through the opening and out onto a pavilion. I shook bits of glass from my sleeves as I hurried down the steps, looking this way and that for a path leading away from the manor.

“Charmian.” Dredmore sounded angry now.

No path appeared, but a formal garden formed neat beds of flowers around a dark spiral maze of rose hedges almost twice my height. I trampled innumerable posies, violets, and zinnias as I rushed into the maze.

There were no helpful gaslamps and no way to navigate through the fragrant darkness; the only way I knew I’d taken a wrong turn was when I ran into a thorny wall of canes, too densely packed to let me squeeze through them. I stopped to catch my breath, think, and listen.

“Stay where you are,” I heard Dredmore say from some point in the maze to my right.

“Eat dirt,” I called back.

“You’re wounded,” he said. “I can smell your blood.”

“Leeches always can.” I went left and nearly knocked over a pedestal bearing a marble bust of, who else, Lucien Dredmore.

The cold stone chilled my hands as I tried to lift and toss it, but it was too heavy to move. I settled for picking up a handful of the ornamental pebbles surrounding the base of the pedestal. They weren’t large enough to inflict any serious damage, but with a good hard throw one might blacken his eye or knock out a tooth.

I couldn’t see the tops of the rose hedges, so I had no idea if I was heading in the right direction. The tonners loved hedge mazes, as did Rina, who always regretted that living in the city had prevented her from planting one.

“Not one of those dull old branching mazes, either,” she’d told me once. “I like these new island mazes. There are so many wrong turns and corner traps that you can send someone into them and not see them again for days.”

Travallian Castle had been built by one of Lucien’s ancestors at the turn of the last century; it would be safe to assume the maze was branching. That meant that there was only one path to the center, and one path out.

I emptied my reticule on the ground and used it to wrap my hand, then followed the hedge by touch to the next gap, which I ducked in. I kept my hand on the hedge as I followed it to the next dead end, and then around until I found another gap. The rose thorns snagged and tore at the fabric, but I kept going until the hedge became smooth black stone.

I stepped into the center of the maze and saw a gazebo by a small pool of water. The reflecting pool was being fed from a black-and-white stone fountain. As hot and tired as I was, I didn’t go near the water but circled around it, looking for a place to hide. I had to go round four full-size marble statues of Lucien Dredmore. I stopped by the fifth to unwrap my scratched, painful hand.

The statue reached out and clamped its stone hand over my wrist, making me scream.

“Release,” Dredmore said from the gap in the black stone wall, and the statue’s fingers uncurled.

“Sweet Mary.” I backed away from the thing and heard gears turning as the arm lowered. “What is that thing? A mechanized statue?”

“The property is protected by movement-triggered sentinels.” He started toward me. “They’re too heavy to knock over, invulnerable to injury, and utterly impossible to escape. Quite efficient in detaining uninvited, unsuspecting guests.”

I backed away. “Well, then, since I wasn’t invited, I should go.” I darted to the gap opposite the one I’d used to find the center, only to come up against another of the mechanized statues standing in it. I dodged its stone hands and ran smack into Dredmore.

“Hello again.” I offered a smile. “Lovely maze. What’s the forfeit?”

“Come here.” He dragged me over to the pool, holding my hand under the gaslight to examine it. “What were you thinking?”

“I’ve been thinking . . . run away, escape, call the authorities, have you arrested and charged with assault, see you imprisoned for several decades.” I yanked my arm, but he wouldn’t let go of me. “You know. The usual things.”

He forced me to kneel down on the pool’s narrow ledge and immersed my wounded hand in the icy water.

I yelped. “Damn you, Lucien, it’s freezing.”

“It will stop the bleeding.” He tore his cravat from his throat and used it to blot my palm, examining it again before wrapping the neckcloth around it. “Walsh might have beaten you to death tonight.”

I pretended interest. “For standing up for his wife? Does that generally merit a death sentence?”

“This has nothing to do with Lady Diana.” Dredmore tied off the cravat. “Walsh is involved in some sort of conspiracy against the Crown. He’s been seen with Talians, and they’ve not come here for the fishing.”

“Talians? Then why are they here?” I demanded. When he didn’t reply, I yanked my hand away. “All right. Why would he want me dead if I know nothing about this business of his?”

“You do know something. You simply don’t know what it means to Walsh and his plans, and neither do I.” He gave me a long look. “But he does.”

Kneeling there as we were, him tending to my wounds, me wanting to pummel him, and the two of us exchanging confidences, felt a bit too romantic for my tastes. “I would like to go home now. I keep early hours and if I don’t get my rest, I’m an absolute hag in the morning.”

He lifted his head. “Don’t run from me again, Charmian.”

I didn’t like what I saw in his eyes. “Oh, is this when you confess your deep and abiding affection for helpless, wounded females, and declare that you would never, ever do anything to hurt one?”

“No.”

“Pity.” I balled up my good fist and punched him in the face.

My knuckles crunched against his chin, which was apparently made of iron, and then the world turned sideways, and cool, soft grass filled my face. Dredmore straddled me, using his weight to keep me pinned under him as he hauled my arms up over my head and kneed my skirts to keep me from kicking.

“What are you doing?”

“We have several matters to settle, my sweet.” He bunched his fist in the back of my bodice and pulled it out of my waister. “At the moment, this is the most pressing.”

“Don’t.” I kept my tone calm as I lifted my face out of the grass. “If you do, I swear, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.”

He lifted, rolling me over before he yanked at the front of my bodice and pulled it up over my head. “That would be nothing new, Charmian.”

Once he had exposed my chemise, I waited for the ravishment to begin. Society held that seeing a female in her undergarments stimulated a male beyond any hope of self-control, and a woman who disrobed in the presence of a man—voluntarily or not—had only herself to blame for the inevitable inflammation of his passions. So even if I got away from him later and went to the police, they would tell me only that it was all my fault.

Instead, Dredmore lifted me up in a curious position, my skirts bunched around my waist, my bare legs draped over his. He used his fist to bring my hands down between us, and then tore open his shirt before inserting them and pressing them flat against his chest.

I felt the incredible heat of his skin, the hammering of his heart, and the hard bulges of his muscles beneath my palms. Touching a man in such an intimate fashion was not within my scope of experience. This was the work of strumpets, mistresses, and wives. Unmarried females were supposed to keep their hands to themselves.

I glanced up, and in that moment Dredmore looked more remote and aloof than I’d ever seen him. “What do you want from me?”

“Everything,” he said.

But he wasn’t going to take it, I knew that now, and the realization smashed through me, harder than a fist, more painful than finding my way through ten thousand mazes of thorns. He was not the monster I’d always hoped he’d be. He was only a man, and in his arms, I could be simply a woman.

If I chose to be.

I could face his wrath without flinching. He could beat me black-and-blue and I’d still taunt him. But this, this tenderness, this self-denial on my behalf, it infuriated me. I could not fight an enemy who would not attack. I would not give myself to a man whose downfall I had dreamt of causing and whose ruination I had dearly anticipated celebrating. I might as well offer myself from a street corner to anyone with two coins to rub together.

“It will end here and now,” he murmured. “All you need say is no, and I will take you back to the house.”

He was ravishing me by not ravishing me, the evil bastard. In that moment I had never hated him more. “You think you know me, Dredmore?”

“Not at all,” he said politely. “But I can feel you, Charmian. Your loneliness. Your silent longing.”

As he gathered me close, I closed my eyes and made my choice. “Goddamn you, Lucien.”

“He already has,” he murmured against my hair.

I tucked my face against his throat, opening my lips and using the flat of my tongue against his skin. He tasted salty and smoky, and stiffened when I dragged the edge of my teeth up to his jaw. There I followed the strong bone with my open mouth, turning my face into the silken locks of his black hair, letting them soothe my hot face. He bore it a few more moments before he worked his fingers into my hair and turned my mouth to his.

His breath blended with mine, and then we kissed, not with unsure pecks or tentative brushes of lips, but mouth to open mouth, capturing each other for the thrust and glide of tongues, the gasps of pleasure, the explosion of tastes. The raw intimacy of it astounded me, as did the way it stole the air right out of my lungs. That two people could do such a thing to each other and not have their chests collapse or their hearts explode seemed impossible.

I heard myself making the oddest sound, and then I went deaf to myself and the rest of the world as he slanted his head and took me deeper.

Things became rather frantic after that. I tore at his shirt, and he ripped my chemise apart, thrusting my bare breasts against the bruising plane of his chest. I rubbed myself shamelessly against him, eager to relieve the heavy aches and sharp tightness all over plaguing me. Like water on a lamp fire, I only caused it to spread.

His hands kept moving and adjusting me, a supreme annoyance until I felt more cloth tearing and the night air on my bare thighs. The shock and delight of it sent me up on my knees, my spine arching as his mouth attacked my breasts and he shoved his hands between my legs.

I felt the smooth bulb protruding from his fist the moment it touched the astonished, slick folds of my body; after a moment I understood he was positioning himself, and gazed down at him as I curled an arm around his neck.

“Lucien.” I took in a quick breath as he pressed up, seating that heavy, full plum of flesh against me. “A certain confession is perhaps in order.”

“So I feel.” He already knew, but he didn’t cast me away or shove through the thin membrane that kept him at bay. He held me suspended, watching my face. “I want it, Charmian.”

Rina had educated me about the gift I was only supposed to give a husband. Among other things, the giving often caused discomfort and sometimes bleeding. She firmly believed a woman should see to it herself before taking her first lover and had often scolded me to do the same.

I hadn’t, and now—perversely—I was glad. “Then have it.”

Dredmore’s entire body tightened as he laid me down in the grass and came up over me. At the same time, his body pressed into mine, and I felt a burning, tearing sensation.

Prepared as Rina had made me, I still bit into my lip to keep from yelping as he worked himself deeply inside a place Rina swore was made for just such a reason. I was beginning to have serious doubts. “Tell me this is the worst of it.”

“Aye.” He seemed to be in as much pain as I was.

“Just . . . be . . . still.”

Skewered as I was, I couldn’t seem to do that. My insides clenched around him, and there was some quivering involved. My body wanted up and I wanted him out, and my hips rose under his.

He withdrew, leaving behind a hot, wet emptiness, but that was no good, either. I clutched at his waist, not knowing how to make it right, and then he filled me again with a force that was only slightly less painful than his initial foray.

“I don’t think we’re suited,” I told him once I felt the full length of him throbbing within me. “But I did like the touching, very much. Could we do that—”

He cut me off with another of his open-mouthed, completely indecent kisses, which distracted me from the other things he did for a time. Only gradually did I become aware of his hands on my breasts and his shaft in my body, and how he was using them with steady, deliberate intent.

I wanted it to stop. The way he worked inside my body, dragging the heaviness of himself out before driving it back in again, created a new degree of discomfort, not as injurious but just as unbearable.

He kissed my eyelids. “Look at me, Charmian.” When I did he moved faster, driving deeper. “You can feel it now.”

I shook my head, pushing at him. “Leave off. I gave you what you wanted.”

“So you did. Now this is what you will have in return.” He propped himself up higher, spreading my legs wider so that the top of my sex lay open and exposed to the thrust of his. The knot of nerves there seemed to swell, and my body went liquid as the intolerable ache grew to a silent, wrenching agony.

He wouldn’t stop, he was never going to stop, and then something caught me, a dark and furious engine of pleasure and pain. I couldn’t fight or think or free myself, and suddenly I didn’t want to. Some terrible, glorious beast came to life inside me, one that roared in my ears and laved my skin, and wrapped around me, a demon from hell torching me alive; an angel enfolding me with the softest, silkiest of wings.

Dredmore held me as I convulsed and murmured to me, words I didn’t understand. His body became a merciless mech, hammering at me without stopping. Only when he went very still and said my name did I understand that his own beast was having at him.

I was convinced I couldn’t move after that and felt grateful that he could as he turned on his side, his hand latched against my body to keep our parts meshed.

When he kissed my brow I actually stiffened, thinking there might be more and convinced it would be the end of me. But he only held me and stroked my hair back from my face.

He looked all over my face before he smiled. “Thank you, Charmian.”

“My pleasure, Lucien.”

Chapter Thirteen

“Is it always like that?” I asked him a little later as I let some strands of his hair sift through my fingers. “Or are you insanely talented in this area?”

His chest rumbled with a chuckle. “No, not insanely, and it is never like that.”

“I beg to disagree.” I snuggled closer to him. “If you’d done this the first time we’d met, I’d have liked you much more.”

He thought about it for a minute. “There wasn’t enough room in the coach.”

“Lust at first sight?” I lifted my head. “On the Hill? For shame, Lucien.”

“You weren’t on the Hill. You were standing in the fruit market. It was a Tuesday morning.” His expression grew as distant and detached as his tone. “Connell stopped to allow some goatherd to cross the street, I looked out, and there you were, haggling with an old woman over the price of peaches.”

I didn’t recall the day, but it sounded like me. “I haggle with everyone.”

He didn’t seem to hear me. “The sun was very bright that morning, so much so that I could see the motes of dust in the air, and the blemishes on every face. Except yours. Your hair seemed to soak up its radiance and pour it back out through your eyes and skin.”

“You noticed me because I was glowing?” I didn’t know how to feel about that. “Maybe you mistook me for a lamppost.”

“I am a man of this world, Charmian. I know how relentless its indifference is. I solved all the mysteries of navigating through it long ago.” He looked at me. “Or I thought I had, until that moment I first saw you.”

“So you were after my peaches,” I tried to joke.

“I wondered if you’d smell of them, or sunshine.” He put his face in my hair and breathed in. “Tonight you’re all over moonlight and roses.”

“We’re in a rose hedge maze,” I reminded him, “under a full moon. What were you thinking anyway, spying on me like that? Surely you had better things to do.”

He shook his head. “That day I thought of very little, except the manner with which I could persuade you to get into my coach so that I might take you away with me.”

“You could have had Connell snatch me off the street.” Then I remembered the time he had sent his driver after me, and reared up. “That’s why you had him chase me down and gag me that day? So you could make off with me? You bastard.”

“On that day I had every expectation of success,” he said, “until Connell informed me that the rear wheel rim that he’d repaired with a mending spell that morning had for no apparent reason split in two.”

A dim memory of hearing a sharp crack came back to me. “That’s why you let me go.”

“That was when I realized what you might be. What I discovered you are.” He ran his hand along my arm from shoulder to elbow and back again in a smooth, soothing caress. “It was maddening to watch you and know I could do nothing. A hundred years ago I could have claimed you that day in the market.”

He referred to the old practice of freeclaiming, something caused by the shortage of women among the original colonies. In those days, any man could take an unprotected or abandoned woman from wherever he found her and with or without her permission put her into his household, where she would be subject to his will until such time as she married. No decent man wanted to take a freeclaimed woman to wife, however, so the abducted women were helpless to escape their captors. Fortunately, after the Uprising the Crown had discovered men keeping as many as two dozen freeclaimed women in their households. After hurriedly getting them married off, the authorities had promptly outlawed the polygamous practice.

“How romantic.” That killed my mood as effectively as an ice bath, and I pushed his hand away.

He caught my arm again as I tried to rise, his touch less gentle. “You are not leaving.”

“As you know, keeping women against their will is now illegal, Dredmore. So is slavery.” I reached for the remains of my chemise, examined it, and then tossed it aside. “Where the devil is my bodice?”

“It’s no longer safe for you in Rumsen.” He fastened his trousers and stood, scanning the ground around us. “I can only protect you from Walsh here at Morehaven.”

“I’ve done nothing wrong. Well, aside from the obvious.” I shook down my skirts, straightened my waister, and spotted my bodice hanging from a lilac bush. “Walsh can’t have me arrested for being criminally cheeky.”

“He won’t.” Dredmore retrieved my bodice and held it out of reach. “He’ll shut down your business, seize your property, and leave you penniless.”

“You forgot ruining my name,” I said as I grabbed at my bodice. “Come on, now, that’s not fair. You’re at least a foot taller than me.”

“Everything Walsh said and did tonight was only for show. There is something seriously wrong with the man.” Dredmore held out the bodice like a nurse dressing a child, and I let him help me into it. “He knows exactly why his wife is being assaulted, but he hasn’t put a stop to it for reasons I can’t fathom. But if you’re liable to stumble onto the truth, that makes you a liability he cannot afford.”

“I never stumble.” I turned my back on him so I could fasten my own buttons. “I investigate. The lady deserves to know why she’s being tormented like this, especially with Walsh threatening to divorce her.”

“Men in Walsh’s position do not take their wives to court.” He picked up his cloak and wrapped it around me. “They arrange an unfortunate accident and, after an appropriate period of mourning, they remarry.”

“She didn’t choose to marry him.” I saw his expression and lost my temper. “For God’s sake, Lucien. Diana Walsh is barely out of the schoolroom. She’s shallow and brainless, but she’s still an innocent person. Her people are all up near Settle. There’s no one else to look after her.”

He started walking me toward the gap in the stone wall. “You can’t help her, Charmian. She was doomed from the moment she knocked on your door.”

“Why don’t you kidnap her and bring her up here, then?” I strode ahead of him. “Walsh has her well trained. She’s lovely. Maybe you could teach her to enjoy it.”

“You’re going in the wrong direction,” he said, and waited until I came back to him. “Stay here with me, Charmian. It’s the only way I can keep you alive.”

Dredmore could be a deceptive, theatrical jackass, but he didn’t fear anything. Now he looked afraid . . . for me.

I considered what I could do to protect myself. “We’ll go to the police. The chief inspector is the grandson of an old friend of my family’s.”

“You no longer have family.”

“I did once, but . . .” I peered at him. “Why, you nosy sod. You had me investigated.”

“Several times,” he said without a shred of remorse. “All my men discovered was that you are an orphan without money, people, or connections.” His tone changed. “I assumed that it would make things simpler.”

“You mean, you thought you could carry me off and no one would give a bloody damn.” I was starting to hate him again, and as soon as we emerged from the maze, I turned on him. “All this talk of freeclaiming and kidnapping, as if I’m some prized cow instead of a person. How do you sleep at night?”

“I don’t.” He hauled me into his arms. “You’re going to change that.”

The kiss he gave me caused me to temporarily forget the various aches and pains afflicting me, and for a moment I allowed myself the luxury of imagining a life where I could have such kisses whenever I wanted them. Slipping into Dredmore’s arms every night, spending long hours rousing each other’s beasts and then falling asleep, boneless with exhaustion and saturated with contentment . . .

It would only cost me my independence, my heart, and every ounce of my self-respect.

“I did mention that I was leaving,” I said as soon as I was permitted to breathe again.

“Someday we’ll go to Paris, and I’ll introduce you to more Raphaels,” he told me. “But for now, you will remain here.” He looked past me and nodded.

I glanced back and saw Connell and another brute coming down from the pavilion, both focused on me. Which meant—“You can’t be serious. Not after what just happened between us. Lucien.”

“It’s for your own good, my sweet.” He handed me off to the men. To them, he said, “Lock her up.”

Will Deathmage Lucien Dredmore ever let Kit escape? Who sent the snuffmages after her—and whose side is Inspector Doyle on? And finally, what is the nefarious plot Lord Walsh is involved in—and how will Kit ever survive it?

To find out,

get Disenchanted & Co. Part 2: His Lordship Possessed now!

Acknowledgments

The only name on the cover of a book is the author’s, and sometimes I wish I could change that. It took nearly four years to make this novel happen, and while I’ve rarely worked as long or as hard to get something into print, with this one I never fought alone. Since I can’t give everyone who had my back a byline, I’ll offer them instead my gratitude: Tim Kim and all the wonderful folks at National Novel Writing Month and the Office of Letters and Light, who provided me with motivation for writing this story, and followed that up with unstinting support and enthusiasm. What you do for writers and kids all over the globe is nothing short of miraculous.

The readers of Paperback Writer, who cheered me on while I was working on the first draft, and all of my readers out there who have followed this journey with enthusiasm and encouragement. You are a constant joy and true blessing in my writing life.

New York Times bestselling authors Gail Carriger and Larissa Ione, whose generosity and kind words kept me going even when things fell apart completely. Ladies, I will never forget that.

New York Times bestselling author Darlene Ryan, who has been there for me in so many ways that it would take another three pages to list them all. Dust bunnies will never be safe again, and Bubba, you rock.

I wouldn’t be able to write anything without the support of my guy or our kids, but for this book they went above and beyond, and for four long years they never once complained. I love you, and you are my heart.

The art department and copyediting and production teams at Pocket Star, who have collectively done magical things for this novel. I know how lucky I am to have you, and I hope you all know how grateful I am, too.

There’s one more person whose name should be on the cover of this book, and I saved him for last because if I could I’d put it there in fifty-point font right now. For believing in me and this story, for fighting for it (twice), for restoring my faith in the creative partnership between publishers and authors, for being so damn good at what he does, and for giving me this marvelous opportunity to bring Disenchanted & Co. into our world, I’d like to thank my editor, Adam Wilson.

Torian Glossary

abstainers: religious agnostics

across the pond: When in Toriana, a reference to Great Britain or Europe; when in Great Britain or Europe, a reference to Toriana (“pond” being the Atlantic Ocean)

aid-solicitor: legal representative provided by the Crown to defendants who can’t afford to hire a barrister

ambrotype: photography that uses chemicals (silverblack) to etch images on glass plate negatives

annum: year

apothecary: pharmacy

Aramantha: the island homeland of the Aramanthan, destroyed by mysterious forces that caused it to break up and sink beneath the sea

Aramanthans: a race of superhuman magic practitioners who ruled the world before the rise of mankind

bacco: tobacco

barrister: attorney

bathboy: a male attendant/masseur who works at public baths for women

beater: a uniformed police officer who patrols the streets, usually on foot

believer: someone who believes in magic

belowground: beneath street level

binding: a stone or other object that can contain psychic energy until its release is triggered by touch or proximity

black: very strong, thrice-brewed tea

blackpot: a coal-fueled boiler

blacks: formal suit worn by high-class male servants

bloodbane: one of the highly toxic magic poisons used in snuffballs

blower: a chamber that uses air leeched from the city’s tubes to dry wet items

blue ruin: gin

blues: people of aristocratic birth

bookmaker: printer

braves: warrior class of native Torian people

BrewsMaid: an automatic tea maker

bronze, bronzen: a theatrical cosmetic that temporarily darkens the skin

brown: Talian currency

bruiser: a large or physically intimidating man; thug

bucks: clothing made of buckskin

bum: ass

calendula: an herbal tincture used as a topical disinfectant

care kit: first-aid kit

carri: steam-driven carriage

carriwright: maker of steam-driven carriages

cartlass: a girl or woman who sells food and/or beverages from a portable cart on the street

cashsafe: a hidden, locking recess in a private home where money and other valuables are kept

catchall: an extending/grasping device with a pinchers at one end

Church: the Torianglican Church, the only religion recognized and approved by the Crown; the Church of England

clearstone: quartz

clopboard: building siding made of planks recovered from abandoned horse barns

coal burner: engine that runs on coal

coddles: cod cut into chunks

collar: vicar

commoner: an ordinary, untitled individual; someone of low birth

conciliator: mediator

cosh: bludgeon

coin: money

crispie: potato chip

croke: croquet

Crown, the: the English monarchy as well as its authority over Toriana

crowswalk: a viewing deck that encircles the upper portion of a building

dear: costly

deathmage: magical practitioner licensed to kill

deb: debutante

detector: a magic practitioner (generally employed by the court) who uses touch to discern truthfulness

digger: miner

dink: a small or short man

dipper: strip of treated paper that changes color when exposed to poison or drugs

drawers: underwear

drips: syphilis

Druuds: mortal magic practitioners who captured and imprisoned the Aramanthans to end the mage wars

ducklings: children

echo: device used to detect hidden objects

elshy: hellchild

entitlement: inheritance of title and property

exormage: exorcist who nullifies curses and rids people and places of demon infestation

faeriestale: fantasy stories told to children

fete teller: the humblest of fortune-tellers who set up tents at village fetes to do many readings for very little money

fichu: a shoulder wrap, usually made of lace

firebrigader: fire fighter

fishncrisp: a shop that sells fish fillets fried together with potatoes cut in various shapes

flat: apartment

flathouse: a building that has been divided up into flats

Fleers: remnant members of the American rebel forces who fled west after losing the war to England

flystick: a clear glass rod containing live lightning bugs, used like a flashlight or lantern

foundling: abandoned orphan

freeclaiming: a social practice caused by the shortage of women among the original colonies, which allowed men to kidnap and hold captive unprotected or abandoned women

freedman: ex-convict

fry bread: bread fried in bacon drippings

furrin, furriners: slang for foreign, foreigners

garms: garments

gaslamp: exterior lighting powered by natural gas

gel: girl (common, casual; generally used to refer to females of the merchant class)

get the sack: be fired

gildstone: marble

ginger: woman with red hair

glass: common term for ambrotype glass plate negative

glassed: photographed

glasshield: windshield

glassies, glassines: protective, preservative glass coatings applied to documents

glasslung: terminal respiratory disease caused by inhaling sparkglass; suffered by painters and construction workers

gogs: protective eyewear

goldstone: building made of blocks of pyrite-flecked granite

gone off: suffered a mental breakdown

gowners: dressmakers who specialize in creating gowns for wealthy society women

gravecart: hearse

Great Uprising, the: Toriana’s name for the failed revolutionary war against England

Great War, the: Toriana’s version of WWI

hatch drop: manhole access to underground tunnels

hellchild: a child believed to be demon-possessed and therefore impervious to magic

Herself: slang term for the queen of England

hidey-holes: small, concealed places in houses for people to hide in or use to spy on someone

Hill, the: an area of Rumsen where most of the wealthy and titled reside

H.M.: abbreviation for Her Majesty

hothead: woman with red hair

illuminator: a device that works like a primitive film projector

Independence: freedom from English rule

johnnies: men who hire prostitutes

keroseel: a combination of seal, whale, or fish oil and kerosene

keyfob: a chain-and-loop key ring, carried by men

keylace: a ribbon key ring, worn around a woman’s wrist

kipbag: mesh tote

kneecappers: criminal enforcers who use clubs to shatter the knees of their victims

knickers: underwear

lampflies: fireflies

lass: girl (affectionate, proper)

lav: lavatory

loo: toilet

loomgel: a girl or woman who works in a menial position at a textile factory

loomworks: textile factory

loon: a mentally disturbed person

loon herder: an orderly at an asylum

loonhouse: asylum for the mentally disturbed

Lost Timers: brigades of English and Italian soldiers who became lost in the Bréchéliant forest and were there possessed by Aramanthan spirits

lungfever: slang for influenza

mage: magic practitioner

magis, magistrate: judge

maiden night: the first time a virginal woman has sex with her husband; term often used for betting purposes by men who want to break an engagement

mariners: sailors

matchit: a disposable, one-use lighter

mate: friend

mech: a mechanic; anything mechanical

mechworks: mechanical rooms

mercantile: a shop selling some variety of merchandise

Middleway: industrial Torian city located on the Great Lakes; also called Middy

mixpot: mixing bowl

mole: city underground worker

nappy: diaper, women’s panties

navyman: a current or former member of H.M.’s naval forces

necktwister: assassin

negli: negligee

netherside: the spirit world, invisible to ordinary mortals; the source of magic power

new industry: the beginning of the industrial age in Toriana

New Parliament: governing body of Torian officials who petition the Crown and enforce the Queen’s legislation; the Torian version of Congress

nightstone: a semiprecious mineral used to contain the spirits of long-dead mages and Aramanthan wizards

Nihon: Japan, Japanese

nits: head lice

nobber: private security guard hired by Hill residents to patrol their streets and keep out any undesirables

Norders: people from the North of England

nozzer: nose; a face mask used with a portable oxygen tank

nudie: a flesh-colored garment worn to give the illusion of nudity under a semitransparent gown or overgarment

Occupancy, the: a period of thirty years after the Rebellion failed during which Toriana was occupied by English troops and governed by martial law

on the stroll: working on the streets (said of prostitutes)

pain powder: a mild opiate or analgesic

partymage: a magic practitioner who uses his power to entertain

pasturelands: farm lands

penders: suspenders

physick: doctor

piesafe: kitchen cabinet where food is stored

piper: plumber

pong: stink

portents: predictions or signs of future events

portints: portraits made from ambrotype photographs that are hand-painted to colorize

posh, posher: wealthy aristocrat

poxbox: diseased prostitute

prayerhouses: the Fleers’ religious gathering places

privy: restroom

prodder: iron fireplace poker

prommy: the promenade in the city’s central park used by horseback riders and carris

pyre: crematorium

queensland, the: England

Queen’s Voice, The: the Crown’s official newspaper

questioning: police interrogation at New Scotland Yard

rasher: strip of bacon

red joy, ruddy joy: opium

redcoats: English militia

redstone: brick

reticule: purse

rondella: an automated carousel-type apparatus

rounder: a rubber carri tire

rub: massage

Rumsen: major city on the west coast of Toriana, roughly equivalent to San Francisco in the United States

satchel: tote bag carried by women

scrabbler: a person who makes a living by scavenging

scram: salvage

seeing: an act by a fortune-teller of predicting a client’s future

seeking: an act by a fortune-teller of finding someone or something

Settle: Seattle

shaman: a native Torian holy man

shopkeep: shop proprietor

short sheet: a hastily printed, illegal daily list of horse races and other events for the purpose of placing bets

silverblack: chemicals used to etch photographed images on ambrotype plates

skip: boat

Skirmish, the: a recent, brief naval conflict between England and Spain

slaterow: a row house with slate shingles

snuff: kill

snuffballs: hollow glass spheres filled with magically enhanced poisons like bloodbane that kill on contact, used like grenades

snuffmages: mage assassins who generally work in teams of two

Son, the: Jesus Christ

soother: chamomile herbal infusion, usually added to tea, to relax, relieve stress, and help with insomnia

Southern Church: a Baptist version of Church of England, begun in the southern provinces of Toriana, tolerated by traditionalists

sparkglass: a substance made of various minerals such as mica, galena, and silica that have been ground to a fine dust and mixed with exterior paint in order to create sparkle

spellcraft: the methods and materials used by magic practitioners to cast spells

squawks: slur for native Torian females

stones: testicles

streaky: a carri with copper sideboards from which the black paint is wearing off or has been stripped off to simulate wear

strumpet: prostitute

sweet Mary: Mary, mother of Jesus

sweets: candy

switch: wig

Talia, Talian: The Torian universe’s version of Italy, Italians

tealass: a girl or woman who sells hot tea and cakes in a café or from a street cart

teller: fortune-teller

tenner: ten-pound note

Tillers: a secret society comprising important political, business, and social figures

timepiece: watch

tinnery: a factory where fresh fish and other perishables are processed and canned in tin containers

tint: a paper-copy image printed from an ambrotype glass plate; makeup used to redden cheeks and lips

tinter: device used to imprint images on ambrotype glass plates

tintest: a professional ambrotype plate developer and tint maker

to let: available for rent; empty

tonners: members of high society

Toriana: short name for Provincial Union of Victoriana, the alternate-history name for the United States

tosser: a drunk

trade: business

trolling: looking for work

trunch: a wooden baton carried by beaters

tubes: a system of pneumatic pipes that deliver goods and food across the city

tunneler: an underground city worker who polices the subsurface tunnels and keeps the city’s tubes in operation

understair: belowground level of building; cellar or basement

unjammer: a mechanical snakelike device used to unblock tubes

uptoppers: above street level

vicar: priest of the Torianglican Church

waders: thigh-high protective rubber boots

waister: a wide cummerbund-type belt made of fabric that females wear around their waists to cover the joining of skirts and bodices

warders: magic practitioners who create protective charms and spells to protect people, possessions, and property

wardling: an object used as a protective charm

warren: a tunneler’s assigned work area

watershed: raincoat

Welshires: people from Wales

whitecart: horse-drawn conveyance used to transport the wounded to hospital or the mentally disturbed to asylum

wichcart: a street cart that sells sandwiches

willowbark: herbal remedy for headaches and hangovers (equivalent to aspirin)

winge: slang for an older, grouchy person

Yard, the: short name for New Scotland Yard

zoopraxiscope: a device that uses images on glass disks as the first form of stop-motion projection

Content

Her Ladyship's Curse
Disenchanted & Co. Book 1, Part 1
by
Lynn Viehl

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Acknowledgments

Torian Glossary