They made their way toward the wrecked door. Kingdom led, pushing the unconscious Metz with one hand, rapier drawn in the other. Alex walked behind his grandfather, keeping the blue flame held close to the picture frame. The seven dogs pressed around them as Kingdom shoved aside the last of the barricade.

Alex had his other hand in his pocket, clutching the toy robot. He ordered his panic to calm. He thought about the way he had controlled the flier—that sense of sectioning off his mind, so different parts did different things. He tried it again now while he walked.

First the robot, then the tablet, then . . . Kenzie. Then the light.

In the hallway, they threaded through a frozen army of machines.

“Looks like they’ve brought everything,” his grandfather marveled quietly. “All or nothing. Why so desperate?” The only other sounds were the squeak of Metz’s wheelchair, the whine of fliers hovering motionless in the air.

Outside in the pale afternoon, yet more things lined up silently along the path. Fliers sat on hedges and on the shoulders of four more life-sizers. The lifeless eyes watched them pass.

Figures had gathered far across the lawn, at the tree line: the bald man; a tubby blur that must have been von Sudenfeld; the dark smudge and pale, round face of the ancient little girl. Behind her stood the tall man in black, massive, motionless, merging with the shadows. Kingdom was studying them closely, Alex noticed. He could almost feel Zia’s vehemence on the breeze.

But one missing, Alex thought distantly, trying not to disturb the process of his other thoughts. All this time, he had seen no sign of little Hans Beckman, he realized, the toy shop owner who had helped design all these robots in the first place. He recalled the little man’s unctuous, treacly voice and shivered. He supposed Beckman must be around the back of the house, directing operations at the kitchen door. He stopped wondering about it when he realized his flame had gone out.

The dogs growled as the frozen tableau around them came to life. Machines started moving, crawling, rolling, jumping. Alex clicked uselessly at the blowtorch. It spat sparks, but nothing more.

“Really would be awfully good if you could get that going again, Alex,” his grandfather said. The old man whipped his Swiss Army knife from his pocket and held it to the canvas. The machines kept coming. After a second Alex got the vicious little blue flame going. It guttered alarmingly, then steadied. The robots froze again, as though they were all playing a hellish game of Statues.

“I think it’s almost out of gas,” Alex said. He tried to swallow.

An engine roared, coming closer. Through the trees that lined the driveway, Alex saw their rental car, moving fast.

“Harry,” he said in reply to Kingdom’s questioning glance.