A plague doctor. He was wearing a plague doctor’s costume.

I barely had time to feel the terror before a new light came. Once more to my right, down the third alley. I looked.

And I beheld a knight.

A warrior of old, with dark eyes and a black beard, his head covered by a mail coif. He wore chain mail all over, in fact, except for his boots, which were solid but simple leather. He held a sword in one hand and a lantern in the other. The light illuminated his tabard, which hung to his knees. It was white, with a big red cross in the center.

A Templar, I thought, amazed.

And then a fourth lantern burned, lighting up my last avenue of escape. I turned, and this time I saw a lady.

She was dressed all in white. White silk dress, white buckled shoes, white gloves, white hat, white parasol. Even her face was white, painted with thick makeup. The final figure to surround me, the memory of the ghost of Devonshire.

The White Lady.

They were all here. All my history, since Master Benedict had been killed.

The Cult of the Archangel.

The Plague Doctor.

The Templar.

And the Wraith.

I said nothing. My lips were frozen by confusion and fear. So it was the angel who spoke first, voice high and smooth.

“Do you have a coin?” he said.

I blinked. Were they going to rob me?

No, that didn’t make sense. I stood there, dumb, until the plague doctor spoke, his voice muffled by his mask.

“Do you have a coin?”

I didn’t understand. “I… I have some money with me—”

I whirled again, as a new voice spoke. Low and rumbling, like distant thunder. The knight.

“Do you have a coin?”

And it was as I stared at him, this knight of old

(not really, not really, he’s just a man)

wearing a tabard not seen in centuries, that flared Templar cross, that it came to me. And I finally understood what they were asking.

“Yes,” I said. “I have a coin.”

“Show us,” the White Lady said.

I tucked my pistols back in my belt. Then I reached, not into my coin purse, but to where I kept a secret, hidden deep in one of the pockets of my apothecary sash. My fingers found the metal, and I pulled it out.

It shone in the light of the four lanterns, bright, glittering gold. On one face was a flared cross, the twin of the symbol on the knight’s tabard. Baldvinus Rex de Ierusalem, the coin read. King Baldwin of Jerusalem, first patron of the Knights Templar. I held the Templar florin up so she could see. So they all could see.

The knight’s chain mail jingled as he held out his hand. In it was a letter, sealed with a simple circle of wax.

I took it from him. “Thank you,” I said.

“You must hurry,” he said. “Time is running out.”