When he sees it, Thomas covers his face with his hands.

ф

They try the handle, rattle the doors, study the hinges. The lock is complex and made of steel; the bars sturdy and firm. There are no more than a few inches between the top of the gate and the top of the gateway; less space at the bottom. A cat could squeeze through; a rat. No doubt a thousand have.

Charlie articulates it first. “There we are. After all we have been through. Defeated by a lock.”

His bitterness is fed by Thomas, who continues to stand passively, smokelessly by his side. Livia watches him in his impotence and despair; lets drop again the hand she has raised to touch him. At another time, another hour, they would sit and talk to Thomas, help him mourn. But this is no time for funerals, not even to bury your best friend’s soul.

For five, ten minutes they simply stand there, wallowing in their defeat. Then Livia gathers her skirts in front of her and marches off. The boys follow.

“Where are we going?”

She only answers Charlie when the hotel comes into sight. Two porters stand outside its front steps, each flanked by a lamppost. The rest of the Regency lies in darkness, save for a window on the upper floor. Aschenstedt’s window. She remembers following him to this square; remembers his opening the shutters and looking out.

“We need to find Mother. And there is only one person in the whole world who can tell us where she is.”

“It won’t work. Sebastian has no interest in showing us the way. Besides, you heard what Mrs. Grendel said. He’s being watched.”

Charlie is merely being reasonable. Nonetheless she grows angry at once.

“What else do you want to do? Wait and do nothing?”

They watch the square. Despite the late hour there are quite a few people there, some drinking, some talking, some merely passing through. The longer they watch, the more they are aware of a number of men who do none of these things but simply stand there, in thick overcoats, their eyes on the hotel.

“Three, I think,” Thomas says. And then (weary, resentful, mustering the last of his will): “I’ll go.”

Charlie stops him before he can take a step. “You can’t. You are covered in blood. You’ll never make it past the doormen.” He hesitates, continues. “I will go. I can talk them into letting me through.”

Thomas sinks his fingers into Charlie’s sleeve. One sticks up funny. Hurt and fear constrict his voice.

“The last time you went off by yourself, Charlie, a man tied you to his bed and whispered about virtue. If anyone goes, I—”

“Neither of you can go,” Livia interrupts him. “It is a good hotel. A place for gentlefolk. And you both look like vagrants.”