Bob took the reins, his face a-glow with the sheer joy of flight. “Yessir, Mr. Riley. And if they nabs me, I’ll not peach, Winkle’s word on it.”

Riley passed him the last of Malarkey’s coin. “The princess thanks you, Bob.”

Winkle stuffed the money inside his ragged waistcoat. “You know where I lurks, if you have need. Inform the princess that next time I’ll be bartering for a kiss.”

Chevie threw open the door. “You wash your face,” she said, stepping onto the road, “and I might kiss it.”

Which caused the said mucky visage to churn in consternation, then grin widely as Bob Winkle snapped the reins and hurried off, vowing to wash his face at the next available opportunity.

The door of the Bayley Street house was solid wood with brass hinges and iron rivets and would obviously not succumb to a kicking.

Chevie was incredulous that a mere door might stop them, when they had come so far. She cast her eyes wildly around the square for some tool that would help them break in, but there was nothing on the street but nannies with strollers, enjoying the morning sun in the small park, or various street traders offering breakfast treats.

“How are we supposed to get in?” asked Chevie. “Our plan only works if we’re inside the house.”

“Calm yourself, Chevie,” said Riley. “I have cracked this drum before, remember?”

The assassin’s apprentice climbed on top of the groundfloor railings and sprang upward to grasp the sill of an upper window with his fingertips. Riley hoisted open the sash window and wriggled inside, just as he had during his previous, fateful visit. Last time the clasp had taken some forcing with a jemmy; this time it was already busted in two.

Half a minute passed, then Riley pulled open the door a slice.

“Duck inside,” he said to Chevie. “I smell Garrick approaching.”

Chevie obliged, saying, “I don’t smell anything. I think I broke my sense of smell in the Old Nichol.”

Riley closed the door, but he did not apply the chain. “I feel him near in the twist of me guts. It’s something I’ve always been able to do.”

Chevie placed the flat of one palm against her own stomach. “You know what, Riley? I think you may have something there. Let’s get moving. My guts are twisting something awful.”

Albert Garrick plucked another twenty-first-century phrase from the store in his mind: the runner’s high.

I ain’t a jot tired, he thought, as the adrenaline coursed through his system, maximizing his muscles’ performance. That is because my adrenal gland is releasing epinephrine. Fascinating.

Garrick leaned into the wind, pumping his arms in the style of Carl Lewis, one of Felix Smart’s favorite athletes.