Curtains in the surrounding buildings darted open here and there, revealing the curious faces of residents taking notice of the gathering. A few passing workmen stopped to lean against the fence, passing a silver flask around while they waited for something interesting to happen. By the evening’s end, they would not be disappointed. I caught sight of a pair of ladies whispering and casting severe and condescending looks in my direction. One wore a bonnet overloaded with flowers, and the other was in a canary yellow dress.

“Yes, exactly,” came flower-bonnet’s nasal drone over the dull murmur of the square, “she’s that sort.”

“Shameful,” intoned yellow-dress.

I had no intention of playing their repentant lost lamb, withering at their glances. Instead, I threw them a cheeky wink as I jogged up the steps into the square. They looked mortified and bustled away, noses raised, in the opposite direction. I drew up to my employer’s side as he halted at last, my heavy breaths puffing out in pillowy, white clouds ahead of me. He was scanning the assembled officers, and those still trickling in from Mason Street, when his eyes narrowed slightly and his posture straightened.

I tried to slow my labored breathing and spot the target of his interest. “What is it?” I whispered.

Jackaby nodded in the direction of a slender alley through which a figure was approaching, wearing a dark cloak and stiff top hat. The drainage grates billowed steam across the alleyway, shrouding the figure in a pale silhouette at first. As he neared, his features grew slowly more distinct, until he reached the street and came out of the fog and shadows, revealing a bushy-bearded face with rosy cheeks. Jackaby relaxed. “No one. Never mind.”

“Wait, I’ve met him,” I realized. “Let me see . . . Mr. Stapleton, I think. He tried to buy a tin of Old Bart’s from me.” He spotted me as we passed, and gave a polite nod of recognition, which I returned before he continued out of sight down the lane.

Jackaby looked at me. “Why were you selling tins of—wait, Stapleton?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“As in Stapleton Foundry? As in Stapleton Metalworks?”

“Maybe? I don’t know. He was nice. He told me to keep my chin up.” Jackaby was already hurrying off after the man.

“Wait here!” he called over his shoulder. “I’m going to see a man about some lead!”

I stood, alone, clutching Jackaby’s old books to my chest and stamping my feet to keep out the cold while I watched the police officers collect.

“Hello again, Abigail Rook,” called a familiar female voice behind me, and I turned to see who had spoken. All around were men in uniform, and none of them appeared remotely interested in me.

“Something different about you,” she continued. She was only a few feet away when I finally spotted her.