Petra shrugged. “What sort of person would act so casual when the president is in the room? That sounds like good manners to me.”

“It’s paranoia. He’s afraid any given person might have a gun or a knife in his pocket. It’s embarrassing.”

Petra gave a world-weary sigh. “My friend, I’m afraid you are sadly naive. We live in a dangerous world with hostile people who would force change at the end of a gun. It’s far easier to eliminate the head of your enemy than to take on his army. That is why the assassins are so dangerous these days. Let your new security agent enforce his rules, even if you think them silly. Someday you may be grateful for that.”

It was a worrisome thought. Caroline’s entire life had been spent among wealthy, high-society intellectuals who fought with words, not guns. It was hard to imagine the world Petra described, but maybe she was right.

Nathaniel strolled the White House grounds to inspect the new security fence along the perimeter. Cormac Sullivan stood guard at the main entrance, broiling beneath the hot August sun. He was a newly promoted field agent and the son of Irish immigrants from Boston’s south side. Next week a guardhouse would be installed to provide shelter for the men on guard duty, but for now Sullivan stood in the open, the beginning of a sunburn on his pale Irish face.

Nathaniel moved in close to speak in a low voice. “I overheard a tourist from Maryland say she thinks you look like Prince Charming.”

Sullivan blanched. “Really?”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

Nathaniel continued patrolling the grounds. A pair of electricians worked to install new lampposts every twenty yards along the perimeter, a desperately needed addition to their nighttime security. The new fencing, the lamps, the guardhouse, and the nightly patrols had already greatly improved security outside the house.

The problems inside the White House were atrocious. The building was only partially electrified because Mrs. McKinley refused to tolerate construction racket. She had scuttled the west wing addition for the same reason. The house lacked proper office space and staff quarters, resulting in cramped and inadequate facilities. A west wing would have doubled the size of the mansion, but it wouldn’t be built until a new administration took office. For now, the western lawn was filled with a series of greenhouses to supply fresh flowers, fruits, and vegetables.

He strolled toward them, scanning for problems. This afternoon Mrs. McKinley would be posing for some official photographs in the greenhouse, and he needed to be sure the space was secure. The greenhouses covered almost two acres and were made of glass. Glass! Any radical anarchist could smash through that glass and be inside before a guard could even draw a gun. It made Nathaniel’s blood run cold.