He was. I trusted him. “If you don’t mind holding down the fort here, I’d like to go for a walk.”

The dangers of transporting the carousel wasn’t the only thing preoccupying my mind. After I’d woken up, I ferreted out Senator Wertheim’s current address. The distinguished gentleman from Massachusetts had chosen to live out his retirement in Manhattan.

I’d told myself I was not going to see him.

I was usually good with keeping resolutions. Unless they were I’m not going to have that second cupcake. Or, apparently, I’m not going to get arrested.

I grabbed my bag from the balustrade and left Sergei to his work. If Jo Bonger could march off and face dragons, then so could I. What I read nightly about her kept returning to me during the day. She came to America. That would explain how the little green book ended up in New York. Maybe she’d found Vincent’s secret love child and brought him or her too. I was still holding on to the daydream that Vincent was my great-great-great-grandfather.

I thought a lot about Jo.

Her struggles. Violet’s. Mine.

Johanna Bonger lived a hundred years before me.

And yet…

The more things changed, the more they stayed the same.

Half an hour of brisk walking carried me to the right building. Then all I had to do was get past the royal-butler-look-alike doorman, Fred, according to his name tag.

“I’m here to see Mr. Wertheim. Emsley Wilson. Violet Velar’s granddaughter.”

Fred’s frown said he judged me for my yoga pants, but he called up. “Mr. Wertheim would be happy to see you. Apartment thirty-six.”

The elevator had enough brass to outfit a brass band and enough mirrors to make me rethink the yoga pants and agree with Fred. I tugged my sweater down before I knocked on door #36.

Shuffle, shuffle inside, then the door opened. “Miss Wilson.”

“Mr. Wertheim.”

He let me in, sporting a black eye and walking with a stiff gait. His apartment had that musty old-man smell.

“No need to apologize.” He gestured me toward a brown leather chesterfield. “Accidents happen.”

I stayed where I was. “I’m not here to apologize. I’m here to tell you that I know what you did to my grandmother.”

He hesitated. “I’m not sure I follow.”

“Nineteen sixty-five. New Year’s Eve party at the Vanderbilt Mansion. You and Violet in the library.”

A quick glint in his eyes. “What about it?”

“You should have gone to prison for that.”

He inspected me with more care, measuring me up. “I assure you, the act was entirely consensual. You can spare me your MeToo nonsense. I no longer have a political career. You can’t blackmail me over five minutes of fun I had five decades ago.” He huffed. “I supported her. I went to several of her gallery openings.”