She peered out into the corridor and, upon seeing no one, she stepped out onto a plush runner with an intricate floral pattern, which muted her limping footsteps. She crept past imposing behemoths of mismatched furniture—a few Second Age pieces and several lesser examples from the Third; and busts on pillars, portraits of stern personages in garb of unknown style, and statuettes of young shepherds and milkmaids cast in gaudy gilt. Definitely not to her own taste. There appeared to be no set scheme to the décor, and it had more the look of the jumbled accumulation of a collector who lacked focus. Or discernment.

She came to the top of a curving flight of stairs with a handsome banister of deep mahogany. Under different circumstances she’d enjoy sliding down it to the bright foyer at the bottom. The voices came to her more loudly now, and one she immediately recognized as the circus boss. He must have figured out she was here. As she could not see either of the speakers, she determined they must be meeting in a room—a parlor, perhaps?—just off the foyer.

“I want you to keep your nose out of my business,” the circus boss declared. “No more hoaxes.”

“I am sure I’ve no idea of what you are talking about,” replied the other man in a milder tone. “You have come into my home accusing me of the most ridiculous—”

“I’ve five hundred witnesses who saw it, some girl, a live girl, stepped out of the sarcophagus.”

“I am still mystified as to why you believe I’ve anything to do with this.”

“Who put her in there?” the circus boss demanded. “Eh, Professor? Who put her in there? You are the one constantly attacking me with your libelous detractions.”

“I do not care for your tone, sir,” the one referred to as the professor replied, “or your accusations.”

“I want to know where the coffin is, and the old bones that were supposed to be in it. I want them back and with all the goodies intact.”

There was a moment of heavy silence before the professor responded. “Mr. Hadley, I had no part in this hoax of yours. Perhaps you should speak to your supplier before heaping groundless accusations upon me.” Karigan detected the distaste in the professor’s voice.

“Groundless? You are the one always speaking against me, calling me a desecrator. How is that any different from you, hmm?”

“I do not open the resting places of the dead for entertainment, and then sell their burial goods for profit.”

“They’re dead,” Mr. Hadley said, “and they don’t care. What you do is not so different, opening tombs for your own audiences. Why shouldn’t I profit from it, too?”

“My audience, as you call it, consists of other archeologists and scientists. We do so to study our ancestors, and in dignity, not to entertain the crass multitudes.”

Mr. Hadley laughed. “Sure, sure, whatever you say.”

“I think this interview is quite over, Mr. Hadley, and I will thank you not to return. You are not welcome here. If you’ve any commentary to make, take it to my solicitor. Grott! See Mr. Hadley out, please.”

A man in domestic livery stepped into the foyer with a brimmed, bowl-shaped hat in his hands and waited. Mr. Hadley, the circus boss, entered the foyer from the opposite direction, grabbed the hat from Grott, and clapped it on his head. He turned toward the room he’d just left. “If I discover you had anything to do with the other night, I will not be back, but I will send Inspectors in my stead and you can answer to them. Your solicitor be damned.”

Grott opened the door, and Mr. Hadley stomped out into the glare of the street. The butler wasted no time in closing the door after him.

The professor emitted a long, thunderous sigh. “Grott,” he said, “I need a brandy.”

“Yes, sir.” The butler left the foyer in measured steps.

Karigan watched in fascination as the man whose house this must be, the man who either sheltered her or held her prisoner, emerged in the foyer. She remembered him. She’d seen him in the . . . had it been a lecture? The one with the drooping mustache who had spotted her hovering on the building’s threshold.

He paused before a mirror, fussing with his cravat and grumbling to himself about bloody-minded grave robbers, and then said to his reflected image, “A little early for brandy, old man, but Hadley does that to you, doesn’t he.” He chuckled, then patted his cravat and turned when Grott appeared with a glass on a silver tray.

Perhaps catching Karigan in the corner of his eye, or sensing her gaze on him, he glanced up the flight of stairs and found her. Karigan wanted to flee, for she’d become accustomed to running and hiding, but resolutely she held her ground and stared unflinchingly back at him. She would not be afraid, and she would demand answers.

“Grott,” the professor said removing his brandy from the tray, his own gaze not leaving Karigan. “I believe we’ll need another.”

UNCLE

A door at the far end of the corridor burst open, making Karigan jump. An imposing woman, all swishing skirts and matronly bulk, charged through the doorway and down the corridor toward her. Karigan tensed to flee.

“Don’t you trouble yourself, Professor,” the woman boomed. “I’ll deal with her.”

Karigan glanced down at the professor, who held his brandy frozen halfway to his mouth, a bemused expression on his face.

Then, before Karigan could utter a protest, the woman swooped down on her, took hold of her good arm, and swept her down the corridor. “You should not be out of bed, missy.”