“Caesar,” Madame interrupted, her voice honey in his ear, “now is not the time. The Seven-Ten list mess is what needs you now. Save yourself for that, and leave this to me. In a few days I’ll have the beast’s answers flowing on command.”

MASON turned to her, letting fatigue show for a moment as he limped a step away. “Madame, if the law offers no protections to this creature you have caught, do to it what you will.”

She let a smile peek over her fan.

I raised my head. “Caesar…”

I had to dodge to keep his heel from falling on my hand. “I’m dealing with the present now, Mycroft. The past can wait. Voltaire!”

“Yes, Caesar?”

Apollo’s coat creaked in Caesar’s grip. “Take it away.” He bundled it into Voltaire’s open arms. “We’ll never speak of it again.”

“Give it back!” I shrieked. I did not stand but sat straight, startled at the unaccustomed force in my own tone. “The coat is ours, Caesar!”

He turned. “It is Apollo’s.”

“When you slay the enemy hero you rip the splendid armor from his back and haul it back to Troy! You know this, Caesar! It’s ours! Our spoils! Our right! Apollo would agree.”

Mason stood frozen, unable to face the ghost of Apollo which welled, I’m sure, before his mind’s eye as it did before mine. I was right. He knew I was right.

What is Woman’s office if not to step in where Man’s pride makes him helpless? “Let’s compromise.” Madame lifted the coat from Voltaire’s arms, carefully, like a bundled infant. “You know Mycroft can’t walk the streets anymore, Caesar. You’ve asked me to keep them safe here, and I shall keep the coat safe here too, in reach of our Utopians and out of reach of any prying public. That’s fair, and safe, and fully in your power without separating trophy from victor. Now come, Caesar, you have affairs of state.”

MASON’s chest was heaving, quaking breaths which he forced down with the iron of his will. His hands hungered to rip the coat from her, as he would have ripped life from me, if Apollo let him. The call of state let him retreat in silence. Well done, Madame.

“Art thou injured, Mycroft?” She approached and bent low over me, or squatted, the architecture of her gown made it impossible to distinguish.

I licked blood from my lip. “I’m fine, Madame. Thank you.”

She laid the precious bundle in my arms, the Griffincloth turning my Franciscan habit to a uniform, not quite a Servicer’s, dappled with dirty camouflage. “Thou’lt want this, too.” She drew Apollo’s vizor from the depths of her frills. “Caesar never saw it.”

I shuddered with true gratitude. “Thank you, Madame.”

“Thou’st had a hard few days.” She rose again and moved toward a sideboard, where I saw my bowl waiting. “What time zone dost thou sleep by these days, Mycroft?”

“Any I can, Madame.”

“Wouldst thou like to spend the night inside the cage with thy stray?”