“Perhaps you are considering flight,” said Charismo, linking arms with them both. “After all, who is this mysterious benefactor who has pulled you from the frying pan? Perhaps only to toss you into the fire, eh? If that is your decision, then leave now. Charismo will be devastated, as I have prepared for your coming. A hot bath, fresh linen, soft pillows, roasted fowl, and beer for the boy, but, as you wish. I saw you both in my vision, and I felt that somehow you were special. I would simply like to talk with you, and perhaps document something of your story for my next novel. I was working on a comedy of errors for the stage entitled The Panther That Was Pink, but that can wait; I have a feeling that your story is far more interesting. So, you may stay with me for as long as you wish, and in return for a few hours of your time each day, I shall treat you like royalty and perhaps introduce you to some. What say you?”

What say we? thought Chevie. I have no idea who this guy is or what is going on here. The Panther That Was Pink? Riley and I need a few minutes to talk.

She turned to consult her young friend, but he was already halfway up the steps to the spectacular town house.

“It looks like we are staying,” she said to Charismo.

The tiny gentleman squeezed her arm. “Capital. You have no idea how happy that makes me. We will get you cleaned up and find you some ladies’ clothing, instead of that boyish rigout that you were obviously forced to wear by your abductors.”

Chevie spied two young women stepping from a nearby carriage wearing enormous bonnets and a million layers of skirts.

Ladies’ clothing? she thought. Not in this lifetime.

•••

Chevie was woken by a vertical shaft of sunlight slicing through a gap in the curtain. She ignored it for as long as possible, but whichever way she turned her head it seemed to follow, lighting the inside of her eyelid. Eventually she summoned the energy to drag a pillow over her head, and she would have drifted off to sleep once more had it had not been for the sheep.

Sheep? Aren’t sheep supposed to help a person go to sleep?

Her subconscious threw up the idea that she should try to count the sheep.

No, Chevie thought. I am not counting sheep.

But the mind is its own master, and hers was soon trying to figure out how many sheep were in the flock, based on the tones of their bleatings.

It is amazing how each sheep has its own little personality, if you really listen.

And this thought finally forced Chevie to open her eyes. A thought like that could be enough to get a person kicked out of the Bureau if you happened to voice it aloud to the agency shrink.