“You shouldn’t have let anyone in,” Liza said, her voice suddenly stern. “Mrs. Webster’s only arrived; she’ll be wanting rest and a cup of tea, not to deal with some man.”

“I’m sorry,” Maisie said. “I told him you weren’t here, but he insisted on waiting, and pushed his way in and sat down. I didn’t know how to stop him.”

“It’s all right,” Alva said, familiar dread beginning to trickle through her veins. “I’ll take care of him. Liza, take my case up to my room, please.”

Handing her hat to Maisie, Alva patted her hair into place and pulled the sitting room door open.

Alfred lounged gracefully in a chair, one impeccably clad leg crossed over the other. Quickly Alva closed the door behind her.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded, her stomach one tight, painful fist.

“My dear sister,” Alfred said, not rising from his chair. “I knew if I only waited a few minutes you’d arrive. Of course, had you informed me you were in the city, you could have spared me a journey.”

“I don’t owe you any information about my whereabouts,” Alva said, slowly taking in his appearance. Though his clothes were perfect, there was something tired and rumpled about his person: his eyes were tinged with blood, his skin pale and marred with light bruising underneath the eyes. If she were a few steps closer, she imagined she’d smell alcohol lingering on his breath.

He looked so like Alain, but here was proof of their difference: Alain would never have appeared in public like this.

“You persist in making this an adversarial relationship,” Alfred said, his voice smooth and low. “You shouldn’t, you know. You wouldn’t like me as an adversary.”

“I am not the one committing a felony,” Alva said. “You are my adversary. I don’t see the need to clothe the fact in fancy dress.”

He made a tutting sound. “You’re forgetting murder is a felony, dearest. Pot, kettle, and all that.”

“I didn’t kill your brother.”

He shrugged. “I hope we’re not going to rehearse this whole tiresome business every time I call on you, Alva. It’s tedious. You used to be a better hostess.”

“What do you want, Alfred?”

He sighed, as though such boorish behavior was painful to him. “I’m afraid I have to require an additional installment,” he said. “Circumstances have changed. Another six hundred will suffice.”

Alva stared at him, her back pressed hard against the cold marble of the mantel. Iciness spread from the stone through her back, down her arms, up into her shoulders. With it came clarity.