The man was clearly reluctant to follow his orders, as frightened of Rue as she was of him. If he knew that she had metanatural abilities he clearly did not understand that they functioned only at night. Why else be wary of an Englishwoman alone and abroad?

Rue braced herself. He was but one man. She had a parasol.

He lurched in her direction as if he intended to leap over the wall. Rue prodded at him with the parasol tip as if she were a lion tamer. “Back, you ruffian! Back!”

Surprisingly, he backed away bewildered.

One of his fellows joined him. This appeared a source of courage, for they moved in, less frightened as a group.

There came a shout of anger and then a whizzing hiss sound. One of the men looked profoundly surprised for a split-second and then pitched forward, a dart sticking out of his neck. Rue did not risk a turn to see whose dart. She could very well guess. The second one shouted to his fellows before grabbing his fallen comrade and backing away from Rue.

Rue hopped over the wall – or, more precisely, clambered – and brandished her parasol at him threateningly.

The men loaded their fellow in on top of Miss Sekhmet, slammed the flower cart shut and, in a blast of pink steam, chugged off into the busy marketplace.

The steam cleared enough for Rue to see Quesnel standing, arm out, wrist following the departure of the stall, a look of such anger on his face as to strike fear into even Rue’s questionable soul.

He said something quite rude in French.

“We must follow them!” insisted Rue. “I was almost getting answers.” She pulled up her skirts, prepared, if necessary, to run the engine down on her own two feet.

Quesnel gave her a look that said he thought her unhinged. He was, perhaps, not wrong. For the flower cart had disappeared into the milling throng of a foreign city, with too many other steam engines and too much activity already hiding it.

Rue sighed. “Oh, very well.” She crouched down and looked about the area where the explosion had occurred. She did not quite crawl among the fallen flowers, but that was only because she had not entirely forgotten her upbringing. She used her parasol to poke among the heads of decapitated blossoms and fallen leaves. She wasn’t certain what exactly she was looking for but any clue was better than the nothing that currently befuddled her.

Quesnel came over and bent down. “What are we looking for?”

“Clues. Miss Sekhmet knew about the kidnapping and the dissidents. Someone didn’t want her to tell us what she knew. I should not have engaged in such a public conversation with her. She kept trying to involve my mother. I think there is something seriously political going on. And we do not have nearly enough information. Curse Dama, he could have said something.”