The witch returned my gaze coldly. She had already assessed the effect my extravagant gown had produced on the assembled company, and now her appraising eye swept over my jewels. My scrutiny was clearly unsettling her, compounded by the fact that all attention—from both the male and female guests—was now riveted upon me. At last, she could bear it no longer and approached me herself.

  "Forgive me, young mademoiselle, but what has so captured your attention?" Her tone was icy, venomous. "I am baroness Etna Malko. And you are...? Who are you, to stare at me so brazenly?"

  I arranged my features into an expression of bewilderment and confusion.

  "But how...?" I faltered. "I remember you! I was quite small when my father brought me to your estate... I was..." I began counting on my fingers with a foolish air, struggling to calculate the age. "But you must be so old by now!"

  A commotion arose behind me—the handsome was pushing his way through the crowd with some urgency. His expression boded ill.

  "I do not recall you, mademoiselle. You must have mistaken me for someone else." Not a muscle twitched on her face, but her eyes grew baleful, and madness flickered in their depths.

  "Oh, but surely! I am kreta Lidia Chrysstein." I pitched my voice high and thin, quavering with agitation, so that all in the hall might hear. "Do you not remember me? I visited your estate! That was when the neighbor's girl vanished—the milkmaid's daughter? Do you recall how everyone searched for her?"

  The witch's face contorted.

  "Forgive my companion." The inquisitor seized my elbow painfully and draped the stole over my shoulders, much to the gentlemen's dismay. "She is not herself, I..."

  "Your companion is certainly not herself! Appearing at a reception with an inquisitor in such a provocative gown! Or does the Holy Consistory now permit its servants such liberties?"

  The inquisitor's face hardened; a dangerous glint kindled in his eyes.

  "I don't understand." I faltered again. "Why do you consider my gown provocative?" I played the naive fool with great effort. "This cut was worn by voivodessa Leyla at a recent reception at the Sibersk embassy. The gown was designed by the court tailor, Gustavo Lucchi! It is the latest fashion of the season... How can this be?" I turned a pleading gaze upon the handsome. "Monsieur inquisitor, how can this be? Is the gown truly indecent? Why did you not say anything?"

  Tears welled in my eyes, yet I still managed to wink at him surreptitiously. Were it not for the assembled company, I daresay he would have throttled me then and there. He gripped my shoulder, squeezing painfully, and ground out between clenched teeth:

  "Alas, I fear the cut is not entirely appropriate for this quiet provincial city..."

  How magnificent he was when angry. I beamed and clapped my hands together.

  "Oh, of course—the provinces! How could I be so thoughtless? The latest metropolitan fashions simply haven't yet found acceptance here. But never mind!" I turned enthusiastically to the witch. "Madame Malko, should you wish it, I can give you the address of the tailor who created this wonder for me. Master Artem Izkhazi, on Clubfoot Street. I daresay such a cut would suit you as well..." I feigned some hesitation, tracing the outline of her figure in the air. "Though your age... I'm really not certain..."

  The host of the reception had now reached us. The burgomaster took my elbow, drew me close, and began to console me.

  "Dear Lidia, do not be embarrassed. Your gown is utterly charming, albeit... hm... somewhat piquant, but your purity and innocence are such that it casts no shadow upon your honor. Come, let me escort you to the table."

  I cast a satisfied glance over my shoulder. The inquisitor stood with clenched fists, glaring at me with undisguised hatred; the witch's face had broken out in red blotches.

  "Gracious monsieur..."

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  "You may simply call me by name—Avet." He was openly pawing me now, but let him. My hand slipped easily inside his coat and extracted a pair of keys. He noticed nothing.

  "How could I, though... if you insist, Avet." I smiled shyly again. "Might you seat the inquisitor and me next to baroness Malko? She was an old acquaintance of my father's, and it would please me to sit near someone familiar."

  "Heavens, yes, of course—whatever you wish!.."

  The table in the dining hall groaned under the weight of exquisite delicacies: roasted game, exotic fruits, fine wines. Well-trained servants stood along the walls, ready to serve, fetch, and indulge the honored guests' every whim. The guests were slowly taking their places, casting curious glances my way. The burgomaster's wife, a buxom matron bearing traces of former beauty, swept grandly to the table accompanied by her two grown daughters of marriageable age. The burgomaster visibly wilted at her approach and edged away. I nodded a greeting to the inquisitor, indicating the seat beside me. He hesitated, then moved toward me, evidently deciding it was best to stay close lest I commit some further outrage.

  Baroness Malko sat opposite, slightly removed. Her face betrayed nothing; she had recovered her composure and did not even glance in the tiresome girl's direction. My table companion, a wealthy cloth manufacturer named Evtanzi Adegey, struck up a conversation. I continued to play the demure and shy maiden, though I managed to mention, in passing, the private investigation office my brother and I had opened—which was not, I lamented, faring very well. A faint flush, barely perceptible on his swarthy skin, bloomed on the inquisitor's cheeks, and the knuckles of his hand gripping his cutlery went white. He was clearly furious. Good—better red with rage than white. When blood rushes to the head, one thinks more clearly and acts more swiftly. A valuable trait in a fight. The handsome raised his eyes and observed caustically:

  "I rather suspect madame Chrysstein is being modest. Her private investigation business appears to be thriving. Did you not recently assist the merchant Etienne with that fire at his warehouses?"

  Well, well! He had taken the trouble to inquire about me—impressive, that. Perhaps not all was lost for the future star of the ecclesiastical investigation after all? I lowered my eyes demurely and replied:

  "Monsieur inquisitor, you embarrass me. I was merely fortunate." I raised my head and shot him a mocking glance. "Unlike you, I'm sure. Tell me, have you ever seen a living sorcerer? Are they truly as vile, hideous, and malevolent as they say?"

  The handsome choked, and baroness Malko deigned to cast us a fleeting glance. I obligingly patted the inquisitor's back; his grip on his fork tightened further. I genuinely feared he might snap it. But he managed to compose himself, set down his cutlery, and replied calmly:

  "Why does this question interest you?"

  "Oh, but naturally! It is far more engaging than discussing the weather, is it not?" I fluttered my eyelashes.

  "I once had occasion to interrogate a particularly loathsome witch..." He paused briefly, then cast a meaningful glance my way. "She was approximately your age. Deceitful, hypocritical, cunning as a serpent, and utterly without mercy..."

  I gasped in feigned horror, clutching his arm.

  "How dreadful! But you caught her, surely? She can harm no one now? I beg you, tell me quickly—set my mind at ease!"

  "Rest assured, no sorcerer escapes divine justice." The handsome calmly disengaged my hands, picked up his knife, plunged it with some force into the roast pheasant, carved himself a portion, and continued: "The Holy Inquisition will protect you, have no doubt."

  He paused, then addressed baroness Malko:

  "Madame Malko, I have been approached by baron Cartouat. He suspects something untoward in his daughter's disappearance—perhaps foul play. You are acquainted with the Cartouat family, I believe?"

  The witch's hand froze mid-air, the fork hovering before a succulent morsel of game. At last, the handsome was posing the questions from my list.

  "Yes, I know them. And their daughter Cathérine —a lovely child. Why do you ask?"

  "It occurred to me that you might have noticed something unusual. You were visiting them on the day Cathérine vanished, were you not?"

  "How dreadful!" I interjected, arranging my features into an expression of despair. "So even this quiet provincial city is not free of witchcraft! A wicked witch has abducted the girl? But you have a lead, inquisitor Tiffano?"

  "Most assuredly." The words emerged through clenched teeth.

  "I am so overwrought—my heart is racing like mad. Forgive me." I rose in agitation, pressing a hand to my bosom. "With your permission, I shall go freshen up." I bowed and withdrew swiftly.

  I felt the inquisitor's helpless gaze upon my back as he remained mired in conversation with the witch. He would never have let me go alone, but he could hardly dash after me before the assembled company—that would have appeared odd and unseemly.

  I asked one of the servants to direct me to the washroom and promptly made my way to the second floor. I slipped past the servants and climbed higher still, to the third floor—the master's quarters. A guest bedroom, the daughters' rooms, the marital chamber, and finally, the master's study. The door was locked; the key I'd lifted from the burgomaster did not fit. I drew out my hairpin and glanced around—all was quiet. With a deft movement, I tripped the latch and eased the lock open. It was a simple mechanism, meant more to deter household curiosity than any determined intruder.

  Inside, I surveyed the furnishings, searching for a safe or a cache of jewels. A bookcase caught my eye—clearly for show, as I could not imagine the burgomaster being much of a reader. I approached and examined it closely. He had assembled a rich collection: Lives of the Protectors, A Treatise on Faith, Ecclesiastical Statutes on Urban Governance, and many other rare and costly volumes, some of which I would have gladly perused, but this was not the time. However, the burgomaster was plainly no bibliophile. A respectable layer of dust lay upon every spine but one. I tugged at that volume, and the bookcase slid aside on a cunning mechanism, just as I'd expected.

  Before me stood a safe of Garlian manufacture. Extremely sturdy, prohibitively expensive, and practically impossible to crack. But I had the keys. I inserted them one after the other; the locking mechanism yielded, and the safe door swung open. Inside lay gold coins—perhaps two thousand's worth—and family heirlooms. I opened my reticule, drew out an extraordinarily strong handkerchief of Sibersk silk, knotted its corners to form an improvised bag, and began scooping the loot inside.

  That done, I approached the window and opened it, letting the evening freshness into the room. Though I could see perfectly well in the dark, Anton required a signal. I lit a small lamp and moved to the open casement, shading the flame with my palm several times before waiting. At last, after an agonizing pause, I heard a faint rustle in the grass below, and Anton emerged. I nodded, dropped the bundle, and signaled half an hour with my fingers. He caught the bag and vanished into the darkness. I extinguished the light and began counting silently, listening to my heartbeat. One, two, three...

  I unhurriedly applied my thief's powder to the safe's lock, sprinkled a thin trail from the safe to the window, and was about to light the oiled cord fuse when I heard footsteps beyond the door. Damnation! My blood sang with the long-missed, intoxicating thrill of danger. I closed the concealed compartment and slipped behind the heavy drapery, freezing in place. Two hundred fifteen, two hundred sixteen...