“Mr. Lyle,” the woman said from behind me, “would you take him now, please?”

Mr. Lyle had come in after us. He nodded and smiled, and gathered Mick up and over his shoulder.

“You should rest,” the woman said. She stood at the foot of the wide walnut staircase. “Then we will talk. Come with me.”

Frances might have been made of stone, if stone could shrug. She walked stiffly toward the stairs. Mr. Lyle, behind me, said, “After you.” So I went.

We climbed to the third floor, turned right down a short hallway, right again, and stopped halfway down another hall, carpeted, lighted by a window at one end. The walls were yellow, and the trim was white. It’s hard to feel apprehensive in surroundings like that, but I did. After all, werewolves only grew hair at the full moon. The woman opened a door and stood aside for Mr. Lyle to pass. Then she went to the next door in the hall and opened that.

“Yours,” she said to Frances. “If you need anything, pull the bell.”

After an instant’s hesitation, Frances inclined her head and went in. I didn’t hear any loud noises.

I, of course, got the next door. It was open, and the woman waiting for me to go in, when I said, “Do I need to call you anything yet?”

A look crossed her face, something like embarrassment. “I’m China Black,” she said. “Though there are many other things to call me, even respectful ones. Is it respectful to call you ‘Sparrow’?”

“It’s the only name I have.”

She nodded. “Until you have another, then.” She turned and walked to the joining of the two halls, where Mr. Lyle waited for her. I heard them a moment later, going down the stairs.

I looked back at the open door. Apparently it was not going to be locked behind me. I went in.

It was a very nice room. It had sloping, papered walls and a large dormer window. It was so honest and pleasant and innocent that I felt a rush of panic. I hurried to the window. It was neither barred nor locked, and looked out over the gardens we’d just driven through. I thought back over the orientation of the stairs and hallways. I must have missed something; I hadn’t expected this to be the front of the house. I opened the window and sat on the bench under it to examine the rest of the room.

There was a bed, with a high carved head and foot, and a dresser with a round mirror. On the dresser was a pitcher and bowl, soap and towels. Any minute the porter will bring my luggage up, I thought wildly. Across from the dresser was an armoire. I got up and flung its doors open. A sudden movement, a person — a mirror on the inside of one door. I closed the armoire and sat on the bed until my pulse settled down. On a table next to the bed was an oil lamp and a box of matches. One doesn’t supply a prisoner with the means to burn down the house. Unless it’s impossible to do; I thought of the inlay in the hall.