The small compartment creaked slowly toward the basement, and Riley moaned and tried to stretch, which was impossible in the confined space. The air was heated, the walls stank of meat, and the box seemed incapable of sustaining their weight. Though she could not see it, Chevie felt the shaft yawn below them, waiting for the box to pop its cord and drop down and down.

“Hey, Riley,” Chevie said, nudging the boy’s leg with her elbow. “Are you okay?”

Riley was not alert enough to reply.

I wonder, has the poison begun to do it work? No. Charismo said he had hours left. There is still time.

The dumbwaiter came to an abrupt halt, and the trapped pair could do nothing but breathe recycled air and wait until Barnum pulled them out. Chevie was first.

He tossed her on the wooden worktop like a side of beef, then tied on an apron and ran his fingers across a row of kitchen knives.

It’s funny, thought Chevie. I am not afraid. That is because I still believe we will get out of this alive, in spite of all the evidence.

Barnum selected the largest knife, with a stained bone handle and serrated blade.

“Ah, Julia,” he said to the knife. “You knew I would choose you.”

He talks to his knives, thought Chevie. I bet Garrick would love this guy.

Barnum froze suddenly, like a deer that has heard a sound not meant for the forest.

What does he hear?

Then Chevie heard it too: a trundle of carriages, but also the clatter of marching feet.

“What now?” said Barnum, then cocked his head, waiting for the commotion to rumble past. But it did not. Instead, the cavalcade came to an abrupt stop outside Charismo’s residence.

“Next door,” muttered Barnum to himself. “Surely the militia have business next door?”

But it was not next door, as was made abundantly clear by a barked command from outside: “Halt! Charismo residence, blue door! Ready the cannon.”

“Cannon?” said Barnum, in a voice that was surely two octaves above his usual register.

The manservant dropped his beloved blade, drew a revolver from inside his coat, and raced across the kitchen and through the service doors.

The doors had not yet finished flapping when a thundering explosion rattled the very foundations, channeling compressed air through the house’s stairwells and passageways. The blast threw Barnum and his gun back through the service doors. The six-shooter pinwheeled across the kitchen, shattering a wall tile with its butt, then skittered into a sink.

Barnum himself was not in good shape. His waistcoat had been shredded, and a hundred small wounds on his chest allowed his life’s blood to leak onto the wooden floor.

Barnum had seen enough of death to know that his number was up. He turned his gaze laboriously to where Chevie lay on the worktop.