HILLIARD HOUSE.

9:05 p.m. Wednesday.

POPPY WATCHED AS Bucky finished s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g the tiny mechanical door to the side of Magnus's clock. It was made from whatever he could find at Hilliard House, because getting back to his workshop after delivering Poppy and Lord Bancroft wasn't an option, especially with the fighting coming so close.

By that night, the battle had clearly turned in the prince's favor, but communication had become sketchy. Some said the prince had disappeared. Others that he was in the palace. Still more had seen him in Cavendish Square, near Tobias's home. The last report made her the most curious. There had been no sign of Keating, Tobias, Alice, or Jeremy and Mrs. Polwarren.

Poppy was more than happy to have Bucky there. Tobias had said plenty of times how he was good in a fight, and she figured her big brother would know. Plus, she needed Bucky to make the door. It might have seemed a strange request after all that had happened that day, but he hadn't given it a second thought. It was for Imogen, after all.

Bucky stepped back from the clock. "There. Is that how you wanted it?"

"Show me how it works."

He pushed a b.u.t.ton on the frame of the door. It popped open, showing an opening cut through the side of the clock.

"Brilliant," said Poppy. Madam Thala.s.sa had told her to guard the door, but she'd found it a difficult thing to visualize. Having a lot of imagination was all very fine, but she'd kept changing the door from an ordinary front door to a castle gate to the bronze masterpiece she'd seen in a book of Italian cathedrals. If Poppy's partic.i.p.ation actually mattered-and it wasn't just Madam Thala.s.sa making her feel as if she were helping-she needed to settle on one door and stick with it. After all, how was Imogen supposed to find something that kept changing?

Bucky looked down at her, his eyes tired and sad. "Did I tell you I dreamed of her?"

Poppy nodded. "You gave her what she needed. And now you're doing it again."

"How do I know it wasn't just me wanting her back so hard I invented it?" His voice sounded lost.

Poppy's heart squeezed. He'd been with her father, dodging the enemy and risking his hide to get Tobias's equipment to the rebels. Bucky was smart and brave, but when it came to Imogen he was as fragile as spun gla.s.s. "Because when she came to my dream I wrote to Mr. Holmes, and he found Evelina because of what Imogen said. It's real, Mr. Penner, and you've made her a door to get home."

He looked down, nodding. "I'm going to go sit with her for a while."

Poppy touched his arm as he left, feeling oddly maternal. She watched as he went down the hall and turned into Imogen's doorway. The house was deathly quiet, everyone subdued and waiting for news, good or bad, of the prince and his army. Behind her, the clock ticked like the countdown to doom. She sank to the floor, not caring if her mother caught her like that. After everything that happened, dirty hems were of no interest. She fished in her pockets, pulling out the metal forms of Mouse and Bird and warming them in her hands. She'd had the feeling all day that it was time for their adventure to be done.

Resting her head against the clock, she felt the deep tock-tock resonate through her skull. She imagined the open door and wondered what it would look like from the other side if she were small enough to walk through it. The view down the stairs would be rather odd, given that Bucky had put the door about five feet up. The first step out would be extreme, but disembodied spirits would probably manage ...

And then her imagination was inside the clock, with all its moving gears, and she felt a malevolent breath on her neck. It rippled over her scalp, leaving a tingling at the tips of her ears. She wished she had a sword, or an aether weapon, or anything besides her own weak hands to fight with. She backed up until she was braced in the doorway, ready to jump herself if need be. Mouse and Bird rushed her way and she reached out to help them. They had to get home safely-that was her role to play-but more than that, more than the nightmare of getting trapped inside the clock, she was terrified of what might get out. Once again, she felt the dribble of cold terror down her back.

"Hurry!" she screamed, poised to fling herself into action.

And jolted back to herself, wondering if she had really cried out. Her heart hammered as if she'd just woken from a nightmare and she had that same disoriented feeling of being inside her body and yet not. Poppy shook herself, setting the toys down and wiping her clammy palms on her skirts. The clock ticked calmly behind her and no one was pounding through the house, so she suspected that she hadn't actually screamed.

Thank heavens for that. Everyone was hysterical enough as it was.

Poppy heaved a sigh, thinking about her mother weeping, the servants fainting, and whatever else might have occurred. War, mayhem, and mediums aside, she really did live too much in her fantasies. Maybe it was time to get at least a little bit serious about life.

And then Bird opened its wings in a flash of crystal and bra.s.s, and launched into the air. Mouse sprang into motion, clambering over Poppy's ankle, and scampered down the hall toward Imogen's room.

Poppy sprang to her feet, hiked up her skirts, and ran. Serious was for people who didn't have adventures.

THE CLOCK FELT unspeakably hostile without Mouse and Bird, but Imogen was done waiting. She wandered aimlessly through it, so used to the precipitous drops by now that she hopped from walkway to platform with barely a look down. She took risks, leaving herself exposed in the hopes that it would tempt Anna to jump from behind a gear with murderous intent. This insane adventure had to simply end.

Perhaps her impatience was an excuse for Anna to draw things out longer, because nothing changed. Time dragged on as meaninglessly as before.

Annoyed, Imogen flopped on the velvet-covered rack that housed the tubes of aether. She closed her eyes, letting the incessant ticking of the clock hypnotize her into a stupor. "I want to go home, Anna," she said dully, doubting her sibling was even nearby to hear. "Why don't we get this over with?"

As she lay there, eyes closed, the ticking pounding in her brain, she became aware of a sound that didn't belong with the others. Tick, tick, tick, skrick, tick, skrick ...

Imogen's eyes snapped open. A pair of feet dangled just above her. She scrambled to her feet, stumbling back for a better look. Anna-dressed just like her, of course-was hanging from the beam above, a rough rope twisted around her neck. The face was mottled a ghastly hue, the tongue protruding. Imogen cried out in disgust. "What is this?"

The corpse started to laugh, the distorted features leering down. "Isn't this what you're begging for, sister?"

"Yes," Imogen snapped. "I'm done with you."

"Oh, poor, frustrated Im. Are you sure I can't be redeemed? Forgiven? Absorbed back into your soul like some missing piece that's wandered off?"

Imogen didn't respond.

"Isn't it all about enduring?" Anna taunted. "You'll fight back, but never like you mean to make it stick. You're the peacemaker, the good girl, the one who sees the good in everyone."

Imogen wasn't sure that was true anymore, but she was too tired of the whole business to argue. "Whatever you say, Anna."

"Not even a wee little protest? Some show of spirit? You're no entertainment today."

The dead body vanished, and Imogen groaned. Was that how it was going to be now? Just brief episodes of mockery?

She slumped back to the velvet, her head on her knees. Maybe she could escape into another of Bucky's dreams. Maybe she could make it last awhile, and just rest in his arms. It would be easier than grinding through this nonsense. No. You can't escape. You have to see this through if it means taking the clock apart gear by gear to corner her. A tear slid out from under her lashes. She felt like a trapped animal slowly turning vicious, and she didn't like knowing that much anger was inside her, but she could feel it rising like a storm-swollen river and was more than a little afraid of what it would do.

A cold wind pulled at her clothes, making her shudder. Imogen lifted her head in surprise, then gasped in shock. The clock was gone, and she was sitting on cold stone steps, looking out at an alpine winter view. It looked like their old home in Austria, which had been a castle perched on a mountainside just like this. Imogen looked up, not wanting to be right-but she was. The black stone edifice was all too familiar, and the topmost tower was where Anna had been locked up and died.

Imogen got to her feet, her shoes slipping on the icy steps. "This is an illusion, Anna! I refuse to be entertaining for you."

And yet ... Imogen gazed out at the landscape, feeling its power. Her childhood home had been beautiful, even if it was the fertile ground where the seeds for all their tragedies had been sown. Maybe it was fitting that things ended there. At least she didn't have to listen to the wretched ticking.

She turned to ascend, but lost her footing on the ice and stumbled down a few steps. Grabbing the stone handrail, Imogen began to climb more carefully, wondering what horrors Anna had for her inside. She'd always wondered whether the place had a dungeon.

When she reached the top of the stairs, the double doors of the castle swung wide. Imogen approached the threshold, already lost in memories of the place. They'd had a huge, s.h.a.ggy black dog, and between banquets Papa had turned the great hall into his workshop, with sawdust littering the flagstones. There had been happy times here and there.

But Anna had ignored all their true history. As Imogen crossed the threshold, she beheld a brocaded fantasy of banners and tapestries and still, silent pages with long trumpets raised to their lips.

Anna's voice came from behind her. "Do you like it? You always were the good little princess, whereas I was the interesting one."

Imogen spun. Anna was wearing a tall, pointed hennin with a cloth-of-gold veil, her gown of peac.o.c.k silk embroidered with silver stars. Her gray eyes were as flat as ever.

"What do you want, Anna?" Imogen snarled, her voice barely like her own. "It's bad enough this isn't real, but it's not even a ghost of our past."

As soon as she spoke, the image collapsed, leaving nothing but a heap of silks on the floor. Unnerved, Imogen took a few steps forward and kicked the cloth on the floor. She half expected something nasty to run out-spiders or snakes-but nothing.

Imogen considered. Anna's anger was over her death, so there was only one logical place for this to play out. Without wasting another moment, she began looking for the door to the highest tower in the castle, where Magnus had trapped Anna's soul.

Unfortunately, the castle wasn't quite as she remembered it. It was oddly disproportionate, with the doork.n.o.bs too high up as if from a child's perspective. She found the first set of stairs going up, but had a hard time with the second, as if Anna hadn't been sure where they were supposed to be. The next two floors were like a treasure hunt, each one lined with a series of doors leading to empty rooms. These were the servants' quarters. Anna would barely remember these at all.

But eventually she found the low, humped doorway that led to the tower stairs. They would originally have been used by soldiers defending the mountain pa.s.s below, but Dr. Magnus had claimed the tower for his own during the time he'd stayed with the Roth family. Later, her parents had made it Anna's sickroom until she died. Imogen had fuzzy memories of this tower, but Anna had provided minute detail, from initials scratched into the stone by long-dead lovers, to a dead spider in the corner of the winding stairs. Imogen wondered how much was fact, and how much was Anna's imagination.

At the top of the stairs she found an arched wooden door into the tower room. She grasped the old iron ring and pushed. It swung open with a sepulchral creak, showing an empty room with whitewashed walls. The stone floor was painted with symbols, and Imogen remembered her father's tale of how he'd found Magnus with Anna's twisted body, and the crude automaton where he'd imprisoned her essence in lonely darkness.

Pity wrung Imogen. For all that the seeds of Anna's insanity had begun in the cradle, what had happened to her hadn't been fair. But it didn't make Imogen's will to live any less.

She stepped across the threshold, the knife Evelina had given her in her hand. The round room was ringed with pointed windows, chill sunlight spilling through with diamond brilliance. It was cold enough that Imogen could see her breath, and she began to shiver, but fear kept her focused.

There was a door on the far side that hadn't been there before. By Imogen's reckoning, it would have led to thin air.

"That's the way home," said Anna. She was sitting in a plain wooden chair against the wall to Imogen's right. She hadn't been there a moment before.

"And what happens if I walk through it?"

"If you try, I kill you."

"Or I kill you," Imogen returned.

"I don't think so. I was the one who should have lived."

Imogen had lost by hesitating before, so this time she took the first step. Anna rose from the chair, and then-she wasn't Anna anymore.

Mouse had said the longer a soul lacked a body, the harder it was to maintain a face. Now Imogen knew what the creature meant. The closest words she could come up with was that Anna melted and a thing took her place. It crouched like a dog, three legs on one side and two on the other. It shuffled side to side as if seeking shadows to hide from the sunlight, fading into translucence where the light was brightest. In fact, it looked as if it were made of shadows, with a melted head and two pits for eyes.

Imogen's first instinct was to scream and run, but desperation made her slash with the knife. It was an ungainly, awkward slice, but then she'd never fought like this before. The thing dodged, scuttling to the side in an unnatural crab-walk. It made a sound that was half a wail, half a savage snarl.

Imogen swore under her breath. The thing that was Anna was so hideous, Imogen couldn't figure out if it had an expression, much less what it looked like. Drool dripped from it, as if it was starving.

Maybe it was. The thing lunged, the shapeless gash of a mouth opened wide to show needle-sharp teeth. But Imogen was ready, and raised the knife, letting the misshapen thing skewer itself upon the point. The Anna-thing howled, struggling backward. The knife slid out with a slurp, something wet oozing over Imogen's knuckles. The substance-whatever it was-burned her with cold.

Imogen staggered back, her back b.u.mping the embrasure of a window. It was a bad position, because there was no gla.s.s and the shutters were wide open. A fall would easily snap her neck. Something in the posture of the Anna-thing said she had come to the same conclusion. Imogen scooted to the side, her eyes glued to the remains of her twin.

When Anna lunged the next time, Imogen feinted to the side, slashing under one of the thing's limbs at what might have been ribs. It howled, lashing out with a clawed hand to rip open Imogen's back. White-hot fire ripped down her shoulders, sending her to her knees. Anna pounced, mouth gaping, but Imogen rolled away in the nick of time. After a lifetime of sickness, pain didn't slow her down.

Both sisters scrambled upright at the same time. "Let's end this," Imogen muttered, and this time she went on the attack.

Anna clearly wasn't expecting it. The knife slid smoothly into the creature's throat, burying itself to the hilt and growing icy to the touch. A terrified wheeze escaped Anna, and for the first time, Imogen saw the flicker of real emotion. It was pure, abject terror.

For the barest second, Imogen balked. But backing away meant surrendering all that she was. She had been the lucky one, but she had paid with nightmares and illness, never quite living for all that she had survived. But the evil dreams had been Anna invading her sleep, and without that drain on her soul, there was every chance she could live in good health.

"I have too much to live for." And Imogen ripped the knife free.

Anna screamed. So did Imogen. A sensation like a blanket of ice smashed into her as the other half of her twin's soul tore free. Agony blinded her as she fell to the hard floor, the knife still clutched in her hand. Anna was down, too, flailing and scrabbling at her throat as black ooze poured out. Imogen got to her hands and knees, crawling across Magnus's scrawled symbols, knowing she had to get home, but even more aware that she couldn't leave until Anna was finally dead.

The monstrous thing thrashed, the pits of its eyes growing even darker. Imogen rose to her knees, raised the knife in both hands, and thrust downward with all her strength. The blade sc.r.a.ped on bone, but slid to find the heart. There was a rending sound, and Anna stilled.

"Be at peace, sister," Imogen said softly.

She knelt there for a long time, at first solemn, and then too exhausted to move. A corner of her knew that she would never be the same. The shadow of what she'd just done would never leave her.

Most of her knew she would be a thousand times stronger. As Anna's tortured form dissolved, the room slowly faded back to the clock's interior. Only the mysterious door that had stood in the tower room's outer wall remained.

And she ached to go home. Imogen picked up Evelina's knife from the floor, thrusting it through the sash of her gown. The ticking had returned, driving Imogen to her feet. She was going to return to Hilliard House and push this blasted clock down the stairs.

Imogen opened the door homeward and stepped through.

And then she fell. At first it was hard to say if she fell down, or even if it was head or feet first, or if she spun in a whirlpool or just dropped like a stone. It was just blackness and falling and she wondered if she would ever reach the end. Leaving the clock was only that. She had yet to find her body. Panic began to squeeze her and she tried to cry out ... but then she knew she wasn't alone-and for once that thought didn't fill her with dismay. Anna was gone.

Strong arms caught her and she automatically grabbed for balance. She was suddenly aware of broad shoulders and a muscular chest, and the warm, comfortable feeling of home.

"h.e.l.lo," said Bucky. "I've come to take you home."

They were the best words she'd ever heard.

IMOGEN OPENED HER eyes to see Bucky asleep and snoring slightly, his head propped up on one hand, the other hand clutching hers. She felt slightly drugged, as if she'd forgotten how to move, or she would have done something about Mouse and Bird, who were chasing each other across the bed.

Ouch, stop catching my tail, you disgusting chicken.

As if you haven't caught my feathers in your nasty little rodent teeth.

She could still hear them! Mouse tackled Bird and they rolled over and over, tumbling over her knees.

"Thank you," she said softly.

"Hm?" Bucky came awake, blinking. And then he looked down, and met her eyes.

And grinned. It was the sweetest smile.

"Still waiting to marry me?" she asked, her voice scratchy with disuse.

He leaned down and gave her a kiss that any fairy-tale princess might have envied. Neither of them noticed Poppy as she peeked inside the door, and then quickly backed out again.

London, October 25, 1889.

HILLIARD HOUSE.

8:15 p.m. Friday.

BANCROFT GLARED AT THE CAT SITTING ON HIS DESK. THE ragged yellow thing belonged to the cook, but keeping it in the kitchen was like catching smoke in a b.u.t.terfly net and every so often it found its way here to deposit hair and paw prints across his private papers.

"Shoo," he said, waving a hand.