“But Mr. Corbett should know one more important thing, should he not? That you and I have a long history, before Samson Lash took you away from me. Oh, yes. Truth be told.” Firebaugh offered a chilling smile to Matthew. “You see, I told a little lie when I explained how Samson Lash and I connected with each other. He came to Highcliff hospital not to have a boil lanced, but to have a conference concerning placing his insane wife in the asylum I directed there. And lo and behold … in those halls of bedlam he met an angel.”

“I think that should be enough,” Elizabeth said, but her voice was weak because she knew it would not be enough.

“Met her that day when he came to my office,” Firebaugh went on. “After the treatment she had become good with figures and I let her do some accounting. The work seemed to calm her, and by all means I intended to keep her calm … because, as you no doubt know, she can be a trifle active.” Firebaugh paused for a moment, as the fine landship of a coach sailed along the snowy road on the western side of London and the sound of the horses’ hooves were like muffled drumbeats against the frozen earth. His eyes narrowed. “Just a moment. Matthew Corbett. I am familiar with that name, from somewhere. I can’t quite place it. Oh … a favor, please. Would you remove your finger from the trigger of that pistol? If we happened to hit a bump, my usefulness to you might come to a sudden end.”

Matthew did as Firebaugh asked. He lowered the gun but kept it in his lap. Of course the doctor was right; the gun was simply a hollow threat. Matthew drew the ivory-handled dagger that had belonged to Albion out of his jacket, pretended to inspect the blade so Firebaugh could get a good look at it, and then set it at his side. Such a dagger was a better threat, for a cut could be delivered whereas a bullet could not be.

“Oh look, Lizzie,” said Firebaugh in a silken voice, “he’s brought a nice sharp toy for you to play with.”

“I know what you’re trying to do,” she said. “You’re trying to awaken it.”

Matthew definitely did not like this avenue of conversation. He thought he probably should put the blade back into his jacket, but before he could do so he felt the coach begin to slow … slower … slower yet … and the coach stopped.

“Stay still,” he told both of them. He drew aside the white linen curtain at the porthole on his left and was greeted by the sight of snow falling upon a stark gray tableau of shops on some street it appeared the dawn had not yet awakened.