“What a marvelous fellow,” the Trickster murmured to Chance as they looked at Julian settling himself in a chair beside the woman. “He could be one of the Lesser Lords of Misrule. A man like that is never comfortable unless others are uncomfortable. His sort is useful to me. They make it their business to know everything scandalous and tell it abroad. No need to rifle through minds with them around.”

Julian soon came wandering back, a sly smile on his face. The expression in his eyes, however, did not quite match the smile, as if there were some things that even he preferred not to hear. He went to where Dr. Boadu’s overfull plate sat on the table and began to pick from it without asking.

“Well?” asked Dr. Boadu, reluctant to gossip but interested in spite of himself.

Julian swallowed and reached for a napkin. “Her son, who is called Lukas, has not only lost a father. He has also lost a friend who I believe may also have ended up on your slab with his innards on display.”

The Trickster and Chance turned in an instant to fix their attention on Lukas.

“Follow him?” asked the Trickster.

“Definitely. Perhaps we can get closer to his friend’s murder than the Mermaid’s.”

They went over to the small boy. He was seven or eight, all beautiful bones and large, long-lashed eyes. He looked like what humans thought angels looked like, not least because of the hollow sadness in his gaze, which gave him an otherworldly air. He shivered and looked around nervously, as if he knew himself to be observed.

Chance felt pity but did not voice it. He was distracted by a strange feeling, an inability to grasp hold of the information he needed. “Do you see it?” he asked his brother at last, frustrated.

“Yes,” said the Trickster. “And I can see that you can’t. I’ll have to go alone.”

“Meet me at my place when you’re done. I’m going to check on Miranda,” Chance said, his words clipped and irritated.

The petulance he felt expressed itself as a spiteful precision as he sliced open a door and dropped into his own world with a far greater adroitness than his previous scrambling entrance with Miranda. At the sight of her, still dreaming and at rest, his vexation leached away.

He sat beside her and woke her with a soft nudge. She frowned slightly, the bemused, disgruntled frown of a small child wakened too early, turned to look at him, and stared.

“Better?” he asked gently.

She blinked slowly and gave a weak smile. “Well, you’re still here, so I suppose I have no choice but to adjust.”

He smiled back but did not hesitate. He had too many questions that he wanted answered. “Are you willing to walk the mazes again?”

“If I must. If it helps.”