He attempted to speak, but before he could get it out, a final rattle signaled his departure for the next world.

Chevie rolled herself from the worktop, landing with a thump on her shoulder, which did not break.

Lucky break, or lucky non-break.

Barnum’s battered face was two inches from hers on the cold floor, and his blank stare motivated her to keep moving in spite of the pain in her shoulder.

Find the knife, she urged herself. Find Julia.

It was not far away, jutting from between the floorboards, like Excalibur from the stone. Embedded where Barnum had dropped it.

Another stroke of luck, Chevie thought.

She wriggled like a snake toward the knife.

Come on, Julia. I hope you’re sharp.

She was. Once Chevie got a palm on either side of the knife, it took seconds to saw through the rope securing her wrists and, with her hands free, the rest of her bonds could be sliced off easily.

Overhead was regimented chaos. Chevie could hear the battle roar of a dozen troops as they stampeded through the house, searching for Charismo. Their tread knocked dust from the fractured ceiling, and one gas jet on the wall seemed to catch fire spontaneously, shooting a blue flame across the kitchen.

We need to get out of here, thought Chevie.

She heard footsteps split off from the others and descend the steps to the kitchen.

Chevie grabbed Barnum’s gun from the sink and squashed herself inside the dumbwaiter next to Riley, back into the oppressive heat and stale food stink, closing the hatch behind her.

Through a crack she saw a soldier’s black boots and pants push through the door. He strode briskly around the room, turning quickly as he looked behind the table and chairs. He paused over Barnum’s corpse, checking that the giant had indeed passed on.

Riley moaned in his half-conscious state, and Chevie stuffed her knee in his mouth, stifling whatever noise he might make next.

Luckily for the concealed pair, the soldier was still a little battle-deaf from the cannon’s roar, and he missed the muffled sound.

“Big,” he said, loudly, nudging Barnum’s corpse with his toe. “Big, big.” Then he snapped to and exited the room.

Chevie waited till the sound of the soldier’s footsteps had faded, then she yanked the leather strap, opening the hatch, and backed herself out into the kitchen.

Riley was moaning when she tugged him out of the tiny space, but also smiling.

“Agent Pretty,” he said. “A kiss from pretty Annie Birch.”

Boys are the same down through the years, thought Chevie, then punched Riley in the stomach.

“Sorry, kid,” she said as Riley doubled over, retching. “One more should do it.”

She punched him again and stood clear as the boy vomited a stream of half-digested macarons and, she hoped, deadly nightshade onto the floorboards.

“Okay,” she said, to herself mostly. “Okay. He should make it now. I hope.”