Victoria replaced the cushion. “Ah, you see, therein lies your father’s genius. The extra power needed to transport this chair from the nineteenth century would be enormous, so Charles simply bought a field in Greenwich, which he knew would still be under grass, and he buried items there. When he comes to call, he brings a little label with some directions. It is his version of roses and champagne.” She flicked the chair’s label with a finger. “I still use the labels, as you can see. Anything to keep me going until his next visit.”

“You two have something special,” said Garrick, and to Chevie’s trained ear the assassin sounded sincere, even touched.

Victoria stroked his face, fingers rasping against stubble. “Yes, we do, and the next time he comes I’m going back with him for good. I’ve been taking the bisphosphonates for six months now. We’re to be married.” Victoria’s eyes were bright with excitement, but she was a decent woman and realized the discomfort her news would cause her beloved’s son. “I know this isn’t easy for you, Felix, to find out like this. But your father was so lonely—he missed you. He kept an eye on you, but it was too dangerous to make contact. Charles said that if you ever found me it might be because you were ready to understand why he left. He hoped that would be the case.”

Victoria led them through a door at the back of the shop floor and into open-plan apartment with an ultramodern minimalist kitchen and living room. Victoria filled the kettle, then sat them at an oblong table that basked in the latticed rays of sunshine pouring through the blinds. Pictures of Charles Smart and Victoria lined the walls. Apparently they had been having fun all over London for quite a few years.

Victoria sat at the head of the table and composed herself. Chevie guessed she was about seventy—a petite, striking lady with fine, porcelain features and eyes that were so wide and green they were almost feline. Her hair was mostly dark, but streaked with blond and gray. She wore a period bustier getup that would not have been out of place in a BBC costume drama.

“So, everyone,” she said, “are we all in the loop? The time loop?”

Garrick was getting anxious. His eyes darted around the room, and his brow glistened. Riley couldn’t understand it; there was no danger here. Garrick could face down a room full of armed Tartars without a drop of sweat sliding down his beak of a nose. Now here he was, suddenly agitated in the company of one old lady. What was wrong?