Savine liked to think she had changed. She was by no means the same woman who had sat in this box two years ago, jealously hoarding up the adulation. But who dislikes being applauded? She blew Curnsbick a kiss. Sentimental folly, perhaps. But that seemed to be in fashion.

“So much has been wantonly destroyed!” called Curnsbick as the clapping tailed off. “Everyone here has lost friends! Colleagues. Partners. Family.” His voice faded to a croak and he had to pause. The crowd murmured encouragement, wiped eyes, urged the Great Machinist on. He made a fist and shook it at no one in particular. “But we who remain must not allow ourselves to be buried in the past! We cannot afford to wallow in regrets and recriminations. We must look to the future. Our departed friends would not want their seats here to sit empty. Already we have new members, young investors, dynamic inventors boiling over with ideas and enthusiasm, keen to push the great work forward!”

Rowdy cheering. While attention was elsewhere, Savine slipped behind her fan and took the tiniest pinch of pearl dust, eyelashes fluttering at that delicious, invigorating burning in her face. Thank the Fates, trade of all kinds was flowing once again, at least for those with the money. She liked to think she had changed, but the Mother of the King, like any mother, needs a little something from time to time.

“A new age dawns, my friends! A new beginning!” There were tears on Curnsbick’s cheeks. “The Great Change is at our backs and before us lies a vista of prosperity such as mankind has never looked upon before!” They were already on their feet. Whooping, clapping, weeping. An almost religious rapture. Curnsbick struggled to scream his final words. “Progress, my friends! Progress!”

Savine stood to clap herself. “Well said!” Zuri was already offering a handkerchief so she could dab a tear from the corner of her eye without compromising her powder. “Well said.”

A considerable crowd had gathered beneath the two great chandeliers and the stump where the third had once hung, the air hot with excited chatter, dense with talk of rebuilding and renewal, grand visions and vast opportunities. Knots of brightly dressed gentlemen split and merged, sucked into dizzying currents and whirlpools, the ladies pale dots on the flood.

Her own white nursing dress was everywhere, her own modest lack of jewels, her own wigless, clipped hair and, mercy, did she even see a woman with a scar like hers painted on? Savine had taken pride in being at the forefront of fashion, but this slavish imitation was something new. Something at once gratifying and slightly troubling.

“The Lady Regent!” someone almost screamed.

The talk stopped instantly. Every eye turned to her.

For a moment, Savine felt a sucking of terror. As if they might see through her, to all the secrets, and the guilt, and the things she wished she had not done. As if they might denounce her on the spot and drag her to the Tower of Chains.