Night had fallen while the brothers had talked, as much as night ever fell in the city. The air had turned sharp and cold, and Sam wondered where he’d left his scarf.

“We’re staying at some fancy new hotel on East Twenty-ninth,” Benedict said, turning left at the next street. “Maggie talked Mother into staying there. Something out of her magazines.”

“I don’t even know where East Twenty-ninth is,” Sam said cheerfully. “As long as they have a decent kitchen and can produce me some dinner, I’ll love it.”

“Maggie says they’re famous for some French dish,” Benedict said. The brothers shared a concerned look.

“Maybe it’ll be steak,” Sam said, after a pause.

“It’s probably fish jelly,” Benedict said. “It’s always fish jelly, with the French.”

“They wouldn’t,” Sam said, shooting his brother a horrified look.

“They might,” Benedict said. “It’s that kind of place.”

After a second of daunted silence, during which Sam made up his mind to be courageous in the face of possible fish jelly, he recalled himself to the moment.

“How was the conference?” Benedict had been a featured speaker at the meeting in Philadelphia, attended by doctors and scientists working in the rapidly expanding field of brain research.

“Would you believe we were protested?” Benedict said, pulling his coat tighter. “Some local church decided we were digging up graveyards to cut people’s heads apart. I even went out to explain we only use cadavers with correct legal permission, but it didn’t help. They threw a potato at me.”

Sam winced in sympathy. “Ow.”

“Oh, I caught it. Still, I told them in the future they should stick to rotten fruit, unless they wanted to do real injury.”

“Did Caton make it?”

“He did, and it’s a good thing those protestors didn’t get a look at his work.…”

CHAPTER THREE

When they reached the seventh floor of Gilsey House, a scene of carnage greeted them. Black-coated waiters scurried back and forth, a thick cloud of smoke hung in the air, and two maids were crying in a corner. The double doors of the suite were open, one hanging drunkenly off its hinges. Sam and Benedict exchanged a look and entered the room.

Inside was not much better. The long silk curtains framing one window had fallen to the floor, and the desk below was charred and smoldering. A large gray puddle had formed where the water used to extinguish the fire mingled with ash and soot. Sam quickly scanned his family, and once he was assured everyone was both alive and uninjured (mostly; Maggie had a bandage on her hand), he announced their presence.

“You could have saved the explosions until after dinner,” he said. “Now the chef probably won’t even serve us.”

“That was just the one time,” his mother said, launching herself towards him. “Oh, Sam!”