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The magistrate adjusted his robes, an unconscious gesture that made Graham's stomach clench. He'd seen that movement before, in surgeons preparing to amputate.

"Given the seriousness of the allegations and recent events," Gorse said, "I am ordering His Grace to be remanded to Hallowcross Asylum for overnight observation and evaluation."

"No!" The word escaped Graham before he could stop it.

Hallowcross. The very name sent despair spiraling through him. Not a proper hospital but a depository for the inconvenient, the embarrassing, the forgotten. People disappeared behind those walls.

He surged to his feet. "Your Honor, I have a custody hearing tomorrow morning at the Court of Chancery. My nieces' future depends on my presence."

Magistrate Gorse regarded him with something approaching pity. "Then you had best hope the staff at Hallowcross are efficient in their evaluation, Your Grace. This court is adjourned until such time as we receive their assessment.”

"Your Worship," Nedley protested, lumbering up to stand next to Graham, "this is unconscionable. His Grace has no history of mental instability. He is a respected physician and a decorated veteran. To commit him to an asylum on the basis of unsubstantiated claims is a gross miscarriage of justice."

"My decision stands," Gorse said firmly. "The asylum staff will make their determination, and the court will reconvene to hear their findings. Until then, His Grace will remain in their care."

"This is Hollan's doing," Graham said, his voice dangerously low. "He orchestrated all of this—the fire, the witness, these statements. Can't you see that?"

Gorse's expression hardened. "Mind your tone, Your Grace. Such accusations do not help your case."

The clerk rose and called the next case. Bailiffs approached and for a dangerous moment, darkness flickered on the edges of his vision. The walls were closing. Threats all around. He had to move, to think.

Abigail. He had to stay present for her. He saw her face, focused on it with single-minded intensity.

Think. Plan. Survive.

His training kicked in and his hands were steady as he grabbed his solicitor’s arm. "You must stop this."

"I'll file an emergency petition with the Lord Chancellor himself if necessary," Nedley promised, his face grim.

"Get word to Abigail," Graham said, forcing the words past the constriction in his throat. "Tell her to keep the girls safe at all costs."

The bailiffs reached them, one taking Graham's arm with bureaucratic efficiency. "This way, Your Grace."

"I'll have you out by morning," Nedley called as they led Graham away. "This injustice will not stand!"

But Graham saw the uncertainty in the old solicitor's eyes, the same doubt that gnawed at his own heart. They'd been outmaneuvered at every turn.

The holding cell was six feet by eight—a stone box with a narrow bench and a single high window that admitted a thin slice of waning daylight. Graham paced like a caged animal, countingsteps to hold his mind together. Three strides across. Four from door to wall. Eighteen circuits made a quarter-hour.

Think. Plan. Survive.

As he neared his one hundred and fiftieth circuit, a constable approached.

"Your carriage awaits, Your Grace," the turnkey announced, his voice heavy with irony as he unlocked the cell.

A hulking attendant in a stained uniform waited in the corridor. "Arms out,” he grunted.

"This is unnecessary," Graham said, even as he extended his arms. "I'm not resisting."

"Orders is orders."

The straps bit into Graham's wrists as the attendant secured them, checking the buckles with a professional tug. "Right, then. Let's be off before it's full dark. The night roads ain't friendly, and we've a fair drive ahead."

They led him through back corridors to avoid the public entrance, emerging into a narrow alley where a black carriage waited. No crest adorned its sides, no lanterns illuminated its interior. The only identifying mark was a small brass plate beside the door: Hallowcross Asylum for the Irretrievably Disturbed.

Irretrievably. As if madness were a place from which no traveler returned.

"In you go, Your Grace," Sharp said, his massive hand propelling Graham forward. "Mind your head."