“Mama says we’re to have a séance in the Gallery at Hampton Court. The spirit of Catherine Howard walks there, you know. She was one of Henry the Eighth’s wives. He had eight wives. Baine says he only had six, but if that were true, why would his name be Henry the Eighth?”

I glanced at Miss Brown, who was smiling gently. At close quarters she was even more beautiful. Her hat had a veil, caught up behind into a fall of sheer white over her auburn hair, and through it her fair skin and pink cheeks looked almost ethereal.

“Henry the Eighth’s wives were all beheaded,” Tossie was saying. “I should hate to be beheaded.” She gave her blonde curls a toss. “They clipped off your hair and dressed you in a horrid plain shift without any decoration at all.”

Or ruffles, I thought.

“I do hope it won’t just be Catherine Howard’s head,” she said. “It is sometimes, you know, not the entire spirit. When Nora Lyon came to Muchings End, she materialized a spirit hand. It played the accordion.” She looked coyly at Terence. “Do you know what the spirits told me last night? That I would meet a stranger.”

“What else did they tell you?” Terence asked. “That he was tall, dark, and handsome, I suppose.”

“No,” she said, perfectly serious. “They rapped out ‘Beware,’ and then the letter ‘C.’ Mama thought it was a message about Princess Arjumand, but I think it meant the sea, only we aren’t anywhere near it, so it must mean the stranger will arrive by the river.”

“Which I have,” Terence said, far gone.

We were nearing the crest of the hill. An open carriage stood at the top with a driver in, of all things, full morning dress: swallowtail coat and striped trousers. He was reading a book, and the horse was grazing listlessly at the grass. I was surprised there wasn’t a “No parking” sign.

As we came up, the driver closed the book and sat up stiffly at attention. “I was afraid we couldn’t come after all,” Tossie said, walking past the carriage without so much as a glance at the driver. “Madame Iritosky’s boy was to have driven us, but he was in a trance, and Mama wouldn’t let us take the landau alone. And so then I thought, Baine can drive us. That’s our new butler. Mama stole him from Mrs. Chattisbourne, who was dreadfully angry. Good butlers are so difficult to find.”

That explained the striped trousers and the stiffness — Finch’s tape had been very clear. Butlers did not drive carriages. I looked at him. He was younger than I’d expected, and taller, with a rather haggard expression, as if he hadn’t been getting enough sleep. I could relate to that. I felt as though I’d been up for centuries.

Finch’s tapes had said that butlers were supposed to be poker-faced, but this one wasn’t. He looked distinctly worried about something. I wondered what. This outing, or the prospect of working for someone who thought Henry the Eighth had eight wives? I tried to sneak a look at his book as we passed. It was Carlyle’s The French Revolution.

“I don’t like our butler,” Tossie said as if he wasn’t there. “He’s always cross.”

Apparently Cousin Verity didn’t like him either. She kept her gaze straight ahead as we passed. I nodded to the butler and tipped my hat. He picked up his book and resumed reading.

“Our last butler was much nicer. Lady Hall stole him from us when she came to visit. Imagine, while she was staying under our roof! Papa says servants shouldn’t be allowed to read books. It ruins their moral fibers. And gives them ideas.”

Terence opened the gate to the church. It had a sign on it which read, “Close gate when you leave.”

He and Tossie walked up to the door. It was plastered with signs — “No visitors after four o’clock.” “No visitors during services.” “No photographs or daguerreotypes allowed.” “For assistance contact Mr. Egglesworth, Churchwarden, Harwood House, do not disturb except in case of EMERGENCY.” I was surprised Luther’s Ninety-Nine Objections weren’t on there, too.

“Isn’t the church cunning?” Tossie said. “Look at those sweet zigzags carved over the door.”

I recognized them even without tapes as dogtoothed ornamentation dating from the twelfth century, the result of having spent the last several months on Lady Schrapnell’s cathedral. “Norman architecture,” I said.

“I do so love dear old-fashioned churches, don’t you?” Tossie said, ignoring me. “So much simpler than our modern ones.”

Terence opened the simple old-fashioned note-covered door, Tossie furled her parasol, and went in. Terence followed her, and I expected Cousin Verity to follow suit. Finch’s tapes had said Victorian young ladies were never allowed to go anywhere unchaperoned, and I had assumed that Cousin Verity, vision though she was, was that chaperone. She had certainly looked disapproving enough down on the riverbank, and the church would be dimly lit and full of opportunities for hanky-panky.

And it was clear from the sign on the door that the churchwarden wasn’t inside. But Miss Brown didn’t so much as glance toward the half-opened door or the shadowy darkness within. She opened the iron gate, which was decorated with a sign that read “No spitting,” and walked into the churchyard.

She paced silently among the graves, past several signs directing us not to pick the flowers or lean against the tombstones, past a badly tilting obelisk, against which somebody obviously had.

I tried to think of what one said to a Victorian young lady when alone with her. Finch’s tapes hadn’t given any guidelines as to proper topics of conversation for a young man and a young lady who’d just met.

Not politics, since I had no idea what they were in 1888, and young ladies weren’t supposed to bother their pretty heads about affairs of state. And not religion, since Darwin was still controversial. I tried to remember what people had said in the Victorian plays I’d seen, which consisted of The Admirable Crichton and The Importance of Being Earnest. Class issues and witty epigrams. A butler with ideas was clearly not a popular idea in these parts, and I couldn’t think of any witty epigrams. Besides, humor is always fraught with peril.

She had reached the last of the tombstones and was looking at me expectantly.

The weather. But how was I supposed to address her? Miss Brown? Miss Verity? Milady?

“Well,” she said impatiently. “Did you get it back all right?”

It was not exactly the opening line I had expected. “I beg your pardon?” I said.

“Baine didn’t see you, did he?” she said. “Where did you leave it?”

“I’m afraid you’ve confused me with someone else…”

“It’s all right,” she said, looking toward the church. “They can’t hear us. Tell me exactly what happened when you brought it back through the net.”

I must be having some sort of relapse of the time-lag. None of this was making any sense.

“You didn’t drown it, did you?” she said angrily. “He promised he wasn’t going to drown it.”

“Drown what?” I said.

“The cat.”

This was worse than talking to the nurse in Infirmary. “The cat? You mean Tossie — Miss Mering’s cat that’s lost? Princess Arjumand?”

“Of course I mean Princess Arjumand.” She frowned. “Didn’t Mr. Dunworthy give her to you?”

“Mr. Dunworthy?” I gaped at her.

“Yes. Didn’t he give the cat to you to bring back through the net?”

The light began to dawn. “You’re the naiad in Mr. Dunworthy’s office,” I said wonderingly. “But you can’t be. Her name was Kindle.”

“That’s my name. Miss Brown is my contemp name. The Merings don’t have any relatives named Kindle, and I’m supposed to be a second cousin of Tossie’s.”

The light was still breaking. “You’re the calamity,” I said, “who brought something forward through the net.”

“The cat,” she said impatiently.

A cat. Of course. That made much more sense than a cab or a rat. And it explained the peculiar look Mr. Dunworthy’d given me when I mentioned Lady Windermere’s fan. “It was a cat you brought through the net,” I said. “But that’s impossible. You can’t bring things forward through the net.”