“To save his sister, unless I am wrong. And I am not wrong.” René reached over to the window seat and held out his gold jacket. For once there was no tease or grin around his mouth. “Put down the sword, Mademoiselle. We must talk.”

“Jennifer Bonnard went missing sometime after highsun, when the foxes were tracking your man on the chase, just before the family was to have left Mrs. Rathbone’s for their new location. Jennifer admitted to seeing your brother flee the Holiday on horseback, and identified him as the holy man who helped her family and eight others escape the Tombs.”

Sophia stood at Tom’s wardrobe, wrapped in the gold jacket, calf length on her, a new bandage and René’s bloody shirt beneath it, staring into one of Tom’s open drawers. He’d taken nothing with him. Did Jennifer really think it had been Tom in the holy man’s robes instead of her? Or had Jennifer chosen between them? Sophia glanced over her shoulder at René, waiting calmly in the doorway with his arms crossed.

“What did LeBlanc do to her?”

“Hammond says her arms were cut. Some places were burned.”

Sophia lifted her eyes to the window, where the last of the daylight was spinning the bracken field into autumn gold. She was going to break Albert LeBlanc, break him into a thousand tiny, evil pieces. She slammed shut the drawer that held too many of Tom’s things and pulled the next, nearly empty drawer all the way out of its slot, setting it aside. She reached an arm into the cavity, grimacing at the pain from her stitches. “And you said Tom was bleeding?”

“Yes. But I am certain he cut his leg himself. There was blood on the knife at the dinner table and on his chair.”

“And LeBlanc thinks a fresh cut made from a table knife is the same as a sword wound from the day before, does he?” She pulled out a packet of papers from their hiding place behind the drawer. Maps of the Sunken City, meticulously drawn by Tom, Spear, and her over several summers, plus a bag of Parisian francs and Commonwealth quidden. She was furious with Tom. How could he do this? But she was so much angrier with herself. “And Tom’s bad leg; I suppose that’s all just part of the disguise?”

“LeBlanc has a witness, and a wounded man in the right place at the right time who has confessed. He believes his Goddess has smiled on him, and he looks no further.”

She wanted so much to cry that it really was infuriating. She left the wardrobe and passed René with her handful of money and maps, walking as fast as she was able down the corridor. Which was not terribly fast. René came along behind. “Do you plan on following me everywhere I go?” she snapped.

“Since you never stand still, it is the only way to have a conversation with you, Mademoiselle. I have stopped fighting it.”

She rounded a corner and started up a stairwell. She had to get back to her room, get dressed, get Spear, and go get Tom. When René had also come around the corner, she said, “Did Spear follow LeBlanc to the port?”

“Yes. My cousin brought an escort of twenty Parisian gendarmes. You should be flattered he thought so many would be needed.”

Sophia stopped and turned. René paused midstep just behind her, looking up from where he’d been running a hand over the Ancient, pitted metal rail. She caught another glimpse of that intense scrutiny she’d seen in the sanctuary before he smoothed it away. Sophia held the gold jacket tight, the cold of the concrete step seeping through the matting to her bare feet, and asked, “Where is my father?”

René’s brows drew together, and then they both looked down the stairwell. There was a voice somewhere below them, deep, male, and near the front hall, insistent words bouncing off the paneling along with Nancy’s vague protests. But the name “Miss Bellamy,” spoken in a thick Manchester accent, was coming clearly up the stairs. Sophia clutched the bag of money and maps, the other hand going to her hair.

“It’s Mr. Halflife!”

“Who?”

“From Parliament! He’s heard about Tom. Is our wedding canceled?”

“What?”

“Your cousin is trying to execute my brother!” she hissed, holding her exasperation to a whisper. “No heir, and no marriage fee! Mr. Halflife has come to take the house!”

René’s brows came down farther. “I thought Bellamy had some time before that happened?”

“If Tom is executed, there’s no heir and they take the land anyway! And Father will be considered dependent because of the debt. Halflife will be wanting me to sign …”

René said something that Sophia had heard only in the back alleys of the Lower City, grabbed a flickering taper from the wall sconce, sprang up three stairs, and held out his hand. “Come!” he said, and then again. “Come!”

She went. Up the stairs, painfully, leaving the sounds of a full-blown argument behind them, and then René turned left down an unlit corridor ending in a large window, where another stairwell led to an upper floor. “What is in here?” he asked, throwing open a door opposite the stairs. He pulled her inside and shut the door.

It was a bedroom, one of its corners a small, round tower that looked over the cliffs to the sea. There’d been a time when all these bedrooms were in use, when an entire clan of Bellamys had lived under one roof, adding the rooms as they added the children. They’d been doing the opposite the past century. Closing the doors as they closed the coffins. The door to this room had been closed for a long time.

René was looking for another candle, but there wasn’t one, only an empty, rusting iron holder. He shoved the candle he had into it, doing little to illuminate the gloom of coming dusk and dark-papered walls. He picked up a blanket folded across the bed and shook it, making a dingy cloud before he held it out.

“Take the blanket, Mademoiselle. You are not dressed, and the room is cold.”

She was “Mademoiselle” and “Miss Bellamy” now, she’d noted, never “my love.” She wondered if this meant they weren’t playing games. She laid the maps and the money bag on a dusty table, took the blanket he offered without meeting the blue of his eyes, and went to stand in the round-walled tower. Outside the windows, the lower roofs of the house slanted downward to the lawns, and beyond that were the cliffs and the sea, a gray dark coming down on the whitecaps. She hardly recognized the view from this room. She hardly recognized herself. Tom was gone, and here she stood, hiding in her own house from a member of Parliament, half dressed in the half dark with a half-wild Parisian with red hair and almost all her secrets.

“You should stop moving,” René said after a moment. He’d chosen the floor instead of a chair, resting his back against the wall, elbows on his knees. “Or perhaps you would like for me to sew you up again?” A smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. “I would not mind.”

Sophia turned back to the window, hoping it was dim enough that he could not see her flush. It had not escaped her that if René Hasard had never drunk Mr. Lostchild’s brew, then he had never been drugged. And that meant he had known exactly what he was doing in Tom’s sanctuary. Saying those things in her ear, making her think he wanted to kiss her. Making her wish he had. He was good. Very good. She vowed to look only out the window. Looking at René was not safe.

“Is it canceled, then?” she asked, eyes on the sea.

“Tell me about this Mr. Halflife,” René said instead of answering. The tease was gone from his voice. “Are you certain he is not here to help your brother?”

“Very certain. Parliament wants the land. There is a bay just down the coast, with a tidal river. They want a new port. Tom thinks it was Mr. Halflife who made sure the printing license was taken, to drive us into debt. He’d be more likely to put Tom on the boat than take him off, I think.”