Especially since the heir to the Empire was critically ill. The crown prince is the last of all those children that the queen raised around her. What will happen when he is gone? And when would he be gone? How long did the Baskerville enterprise have before the heir's death forced their hand?

Westminster was near, the crowd in the streets mostly dark suits milling in a self-important bustle. There was scaffolding shrouding the Clock Tower and apparently it would be there for some time. The damage from the mosquito-shaped airship had been significant.

b.l.o.o.d.y waste, Holmes thought, although a tiny impertinent voice deep inside had to admit the visual of the bug in the clock had been amusing. Someone out there had a healthy if destructive sense of the absurd.

But any spark of humor evaporated as he saw his brother striding their way. Mycroft wore his bear-with-a-migraine expression.

"You are early," Mycroft said to the Schoolmaster without looking at his watch. Since he was punctual to a fault, there was no need. "And I didn't expect to see you." He shot Sherlock a narrow look, as if wondering what mischief he meant to cause.

"I am precisely on time," the Schoolmaster replied grimly. "I am where I mean to be at this moment."

Mycroft frowned. "But I was going to Duquesne's."

"And I have already been. I spoke with Bancroft already."

The effect of his words was immediate. Mycroft's features flushed, his nostrils flaring as he grabbed the Schoolmaster's elbow, pulling him into the pa.s.sageway between two buildings. Sherlock darted between them, shoving his brother back against the wall. Mycroft was a big man, and he knew from experience that his brother's fierce grip could hurt.

"Have a care, brother mine," Sherlock said between clenched teeth as he jammed his forearm beneath his brother's chin. "Remember to whom you speak."

But Mycroft was looking right past him to glare at the Schoolmaster. "What do you mean by exposing yourself like that? Now Bancroft knows your face."

The Schoolmaster's cheekbones grew flushed as his temper flared to life. Sherlock had not met the man's mother more than once or twice, but he recognized the stubborn set of the mouth. "I can't let others do all my work. It's not wise."

In other words, he needed first-hand information, not just the facts that Mycroft and his cronies saw fit to share. If that was the only lesson he ever taught the Schoolmaster, Sherlock would have done his job as a friend.

"That's why we're here-I'm here," Mycroft said much more humbly. "To keep you safe."

Sherlock watched the Schoolmaster ruthlessly rein in his mood. "I'm the leader of a rebellion. Safe isn't on the table."

"And what did you just gain by taking that risk?"

"Probably a shred of respectability. Bancroft is a viscount, and Edmond Baskerville is the vaguely eccentric but charming adopted son of a minor baronet. I don't usually lunch in such exalted company."

Mycroft huffed in disgust. "Bancroft is a snake."

Sherlock smiled, finally releasing his brother. Mycroft stepped back and snapped his jacket into place, his gaze trained on Sherlock like twin poignards.

"Snakes eat vermin." The Schoolmaster pointed to the Clock Tower. "We have an infestation."

Sherlock chuckled. "Does that make us a pack of stoats?"

The Schoolmaster grinned. "If I have to be the exterminator in chief, so be it."

Mycroft clasped his hands behind his back, fighting with his scowl. "Just keep in mind Lord Bancroft has a penchant for disaster. He barely escaped Disconnection once. Got on Keating's bad side."

"He seems too crafty for that," the Schoolmaster said.

Mycroft and Sherlock exchanged a look. "There are times that Bancroft is too clever for his own good," said Mycroft. "Every utility was switched off. My informant said Bancroft had to do some impressive backpedaling."

Disconnection was serious. Once that happened, a family was socially dead, plunged into metaphorical as well as literal darkness. Their bank accounts vanished, their credit was ruined. No school, no social club, and no drawing room would accept them. Eventually, they always disappeared, slinking away into obscurity. It was no wonder that anyone who could afford it festooned his house and gardens with every conceivable type of light. Although it was enormously expensive, a bright glow showed just how secure the family was in the steam barons' favor.

"So you see what he risks," Sherlock added. "The gentry who follow the rebels face utter ruin."

"All the more reason to look him in the eye." The Schoolmaster looked away. "When war finally comes, it won't be just my fate in the balance. I need to know who is with me."

Mycroft gave a mordant smile. "A good policy, and while you are about it, always be sure you can see both their hands. When are you leaving for Baskerville Hall?"

Holmes's ears p.r.i.c.ked up.

"Very soon." The Schoolmaster sighed. "Very soon I get on a train and face my destiny. I might even splurge and go first cla.s.s."

"Who will go with you?" Mycroft asked. "As always, I must stay with the queen."

"If you broke your routine, the world would know something was afoot," Sherlock observed.

"And if you left Baker Street," Mycroft shot back, "the world would suspect a crime."

The Schoolmaster looked from one to the other. "I shall travel with Edgerton."

Mycroft looked sour at Edgerton's name but for once didn't argue.

"Perhaps you should go alone," Sherlock suggested. "Whether we win or lose, it might be the last time you are free to travel in private, your face known only to friends and family.

"But be careful. We need you alive more than ever." Mycroft leaned closer, dropping his voice to almost nothing, "Your Highness."

A beat pa.s.sed between them, the noise of the busy street vanishing behind the thunder of blood in Sherlock's ears. Mycroft had blundered.

"I told you not to call me that." The Schoolmaster's voice grew icy. "Schoolmaster. Baskerville. Never the t.i.tle."

Mycroft straightened, his own expression frozen. "I'm glad you retain some sense of your peril."

The Schoolmaster laughed, but it wasn't mirthful. "I've been in hiding since I wore nappies. I've met ice cream with a better chance at longevity."

It sounded melodramatic, but Sherlock understood. Alert to the Steam Council's schemes, Prince Albert had secretly placed his youngest son in the care of a loyal subject. It had been a piece of brilliant foresight. Since then, all the prince's brothers and sisters had died one by one, and the eldest was about to go. Many suspected the hand of the steam barons at work, but there had been no shred of evidence to support such an incendiary accusation.

Now the country was on the brink of a civil war, and revealing Prince Edmond's ident.i.ty would plunge the Empire into chaos. Unfortunately, the rebels consisted of amateur gentlemen and a pa.s.sel of crazy inventors-not exactly a dream army. It was a wonder the only remaining prince hadn't run screaming to the Antipodes.

"Your Baskervilleness, perhaps?" Sherlock suggested.

At the quip, the Schoolmaster seemed to catch himself. He looked up at Mycroft. "Forgive my ill humor, but I haven't earned the t.i.tle of prince yet. Until the day I blast the Steam Council from the face of the Empire, I'm nothing but a traitor about to set fire to this land."

Mycroft looked astonished, but Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Aren't you being rather harsh on yourself?"

The Schoolmaster smiled, but it was bitter. "You told me history is written by the winner, Mr. Holmes. If I want a happy ending, I'd better get my troops in order."

"Any particular order?" Sherlock asked dryly. "Alphabetical, perhaps?"

Prince Edmond, falling into the spirit, waved an imperious hand. "You know. Pointing at London. Otherwise, they'll fall in the water."

"Very good, sir." Sherlock tipped his hat, including Mycroft in his glance. "You may trust the Holmes brothers to see the proper arrangements are in place."

London, September 30, 1889.

LADIES' COLLEGE OF LONDON.

5:30 p.m. Monday.

"FORGIVE ME FOR CALLING ON SUCH SHORT NOTICE AND AT an unconscionably late hour of the afternoon," said Miss Emily Barnes, taking a seat in the chair where Nick had been sitting the night before. She was wearing a green and white striped dress that reminded Evelina of a circus tent three seasons out of fashion. "I promise not to stay long. Far be it from me to interfere with a young lady's evening plans."

"That's quite all right," Evelina said, all too aware that the woman's visit would be recorded in the matron's report to Keating. It was just fortunate that she was supposed to be cultivating the leaders of the Parapsychological Inst.i.tute. "I'm honored that you thought to call. And to bring your friend."

The other woman sat silently. In contrast with Miss Barnes's gaily colored outfit, she was wearing the thick black garb that denoted mourning. A veil hung from her hat brim, shadowing features that might have been attractive in a mature way-but it was hard to tell. She had been introduced as Mrs. Smith, another member of the inst.i.tute.

Evelina crossed to her worktable, which was doubling as a sideboard at the moment, and began to pour out tea into the college's utilitarian white china cups. Steam rose in lazy clouds, catching the late afternoon light from the windows. It had been sunny that day, although the autumn beauty had been all but lost on Evelina.

"Our interests are obviously aligned in many ways," said Miss Barnes. "It would be remiss for me not to pursue an acquaintance."

"I'm delighted to hear that."

"I am a firm believer in possibility. A bright young woman who combines such special talents with academic rigor is quite an exciting prospect for our inst.i.tute."

As flattering as that was, Evelina stifled a yawn while her back was to the woman. She was still reeling and exhausted from the night before. Nick had been gone by the first birdsong, but it was not as if she had been able to rest that day. Agitation had kept her pacing the floor.

First, there had been Nick's miraculous reappearance. That had brought a measureless joy that still fizzed through her. Nick was alive! Alive and whole and in my arms, if only for one night.

But then there had been everything that notion brought with it. Last November, during their interlude in Miss Hyacinth's house of pleasure, they had pledged their futures to one another, and both vowed that commitment had not changed. But circ.u.mstances now complicated everything.

Evelina paused, the teapot still in her hands. She realized her mind had drifted, and she pulled herself back to the present. She turned back to her guests. "I should start by saying I am terribly sorry for the disturbance the other night."

"It is hardly your fault," said Miss Barnes sensibly. "And it is not as if one has a means of barring the riffraff once the aetheric doors are opened. That kind of disembodied ruffian is the plague of these events."

"Then why does the inst.i.tute permit seances? After all, isn't your official mandate to debunk all claims of psychic phenomena?"

Miss Barnes made a derisive sound. "We come across charlatans, that is true, and unmasking them is a particular pleasure. But our real search is for bona fide talent. Danger does not preclude the value of the search, and the opportunity for scientific inquiry is too great to pa.s.s up because a few bits of china fall victim to a poltergeist."

"But someone might have been hurt."

"But they were not," Miss Barnes said calmly.

Evelina set down the teapot, suddenly weary. To be honest, the seance felt as if it were a lifetime ago. Last night divided her existence into before and after Nick's return. Eventually, they had told each other everything-about Imogen, the battle, and how he'd escaped Manufactory Three. She'd been starving for someone to talk to-and not just anyone, but Nick, who understood her as no one else could. Yet the longer they'd talked, the more it was clear there was no quick and simple means to walk away, hand in hand, into the wide, adventure-filled world. Indeed, nothing could happen until she was free and in control of her magic, and he had reclaimed the scattered pieces of his life. When she'd shown him the report about the ruins of the Red Jack, they both had wept for his crew. But Nick had rejoiced, too, because it gave him a clue to where, disoriented and running for his life, he had hidden Athena.

And so with reluctance and more kisses, they had parted at the first morning light. Again.

"Miss Cooper?"

Evelina turned, smiled graciously, and deposited one teacup in Miss Barnes's hands and gave another to Mrs. Smith, who stirred enough to accept the refreshment. Then Evelina took her own seat and sipped the hot brew.

"Have you had any experience like that before?" she finally asked, remembering her role as hostess.

"Rarely," said Miss Barnes. "It is just too bad so few were there that night to lend their strength. Normally we number closer to fifty than just eight, but as you heard there was a confusion of dates. An intentional one, I might add. We were cautious of allowing the Gold King's maker into our midst."

Evelina had wondered if the other forty-two members were elsewhere with Madam Thala.s.sa that night, while she and Tobias had been shunted to a smaller decoy meeting. "I see."

"We are all too aware that Jasper Keating is, shall we say, on the warpath. We put him there, with your uncle's help."

She remembered Tobias mentioning Uncle Sherlock, and suddenly had the feeling she was leaving the road for a twisting, rocky path. "Why attract his attention? That could be deadly."

"All for a good cause," Miss Barnes said briskly. "It seems your uncle's interests and ours coincide. At his request, we provided a reason for Keating to let you out of the college on a regular basis, primarily to pave the way for your eventual escape."

Adrenaline bolted through Evelina, and her teacup rattled as she sat forward in her chair. Those brief periods of liberty had already formed a cornerstone for her own plans-and her uncle, as always, had seen the possibilities and manifested them. But that he would take the society into his confidence? "Forgive me for asking, but why would my uncle trust you?"

Miss Barnes c.o.c.ked an eyebrow. "A good question. He enjoys a cordial relationship with Madam Thala.s.sa, and had already approached her on another matter concerning a Miss Imogen Roth. Which takes us back to the seance. That ent.i.ty knew you."

Evelina's stomach filled with bone-deep horror at the memory. "Yes."

"It claimed it was your friend, the same Imogen that Mr. Holmes mentioned to Madam Thala.s.sa. What can you tell us about your friend? Who was she to you?"

"Is." For some reason, she cast a glance at Mrs. Smith, but the woman was all but inert. "My friend has been stricken ill. She has been unconscious for some time, and I believe her spirit is wandering."

"And Imogen is Mr. Roth's sister?"

"Yes."

Miss Barnes sipped her tea, clearly thinking. "Is that why you were eager to meet Madam Thala.s.sa when you came to my home?"

"Yes, that was my hope," Evelina said. At least, that was her reason if not Keating's. "I understand Madam has some expertise in this area. I knew my uncle wanted her to consult, and I wanted to warn her about some spells that I already have in place around my friend."

Mrs. Smith stirred slightly at that, as if that had finally caught her interest.

"Spells to keep your friend alive and healthy?" Miss Barnes asked as casually as if requesting a recipe.

"Yes. They shouldn't be disturbed."

"Naturally. I shall make it my business to tell Madam."

Relief made Evelina sink back in her chair. "I would appreciate that greatly."

"I shall tell her word for word."

"There is something else she should know."

"Oh?" Miss Barnes asked, setting her teacup aside.