Had it been an hour before Matthew heard the key unlocking the little room’s door for a second time? The first had been when one of the guards had brought a bucket of water and a cloth for him to wash the gore of dead men off himself. But time had lost its bearings. He recalled that Victor had requested a coach return at midnight to pick him up, but was it now past that haunted hour? It seemed to Matthew that every hour would now be haunted, for Berry was surely doomed. Professor Fell was not going to give up even one copy of The Lesser Key of Solomon, and certainly not to Samson Lash nor to Cardinal Black. Matthew’s bargain with Fell had been to locate Brazio Valeriani in exchange for the chance to get the book back and find a chemist to save Berry. Just the chance, not the certainty. So Fell’s part of the bargain was done, and when Matthew returned to Y Beautiful Bedd the coach’s driver and the bodyguard would likely be pulled apart by red-hot pincers and the whole episode of the potions book put aside in favor of the impending voyage to Italy, with Berry’s sanity an unfortunate liability in this game of thugs.

The door was opening.

Matthew had no further reason to fear whoever was coming in. He had washed himself as best he could, leaving the bucket’s water stained red, and then dressed again in the atrocious garments of a clownish baron. At least now he had no need to wear white facepaint and balance a weighty wig on his noggin. He stood back from the door as Elizabeth Mulloy entered, bearing a silver tray on which rested a glass of amber liquid: the French Armagnac that had been promised to him.

She had returned to her civilized persona. She was freshly scrubbed, fragrant of a cinnamon-based perfume, and wore a sea-green gown decorated with pink curlicues around the neckline. Her arms were adorned by sea-green gloves up to the elbows.

In spite of himself, Matthew found himself continuing to retreat from her. There was not a stick of furniture in the chamber, so nothing to use as defense if the tiger jumped out of the cat once again.

“Your Armagnac.” She held the tray out until he took the glass. “How are you?” she asked.

“A good question. I’m not quite sure.” Matthew lifted the glass up toward the lantern light to look for anything suspicious that might be floating in it.

“It’s not drugged,” Elizabeth said. “He doesn’t want you sluggish.”

“What time is it?”

“Just past two o’clock. And snowing heavily outside again. The others are in the parlor. Samson has said he’ll feed them a good breakfast at dawn for their troubles. Anyway, some of them are playing at cards.”

“A delightful picture,” said Matthew with a sour smile. “What about Julian?”