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The sour smell of his own urine reaches his nostrils; something begins to snap in his mind, a series of sharp, collective cracks.

“Hezekiah—”

“Where is Dora?” he bellows, the broken pottery clattering noisily at his feet. “I’ll have it out with her now!” He pushes past Lottie, violently pulls on his leg to help him along. “Upstairs in that hovel of hers, is she? That pit of a room!”

“She isn’t here!”

The words are spoken at such a high panicked pitch it stops Hezekiah in his tracks. He turns on her.

“What?” he snaps, and Lottie blanches. Her pale bruised skin reminds him of the bulbous mantle of an octopus he saw once, washed up on a beach in Mykonos, and for the very first time in his life the woman disgusts him.

“She...” Lottie wrings her hands again. “She’s dining at the Hamilton’s. Lord and Lady, she said.”

Silence.

Lord Hamilton.

A fist clenches his lungs.

“What?” he asks again, and this time he cannot control his fear.

But Lottie has fallen silent, seems to see the Devil is in him, and he flings open the apartment door so violently the bell dents the wall. He pulls himself up on the first step of the stairs.

“Where are you going?” she cries, scrambling up the treads behind him.

“To her room! She is hiding it. She knows. Which means he knows! I must get to it before Coombe gets to her.”

“Hezekiah, don’t!”

But he is already on the landing, then the second, Dora’s attic, and he wrenches the door open so hard he feels the wood pull on its hinges.

The room is impeccably kept for so drear a place. The magpie—that dratted disgusting bird—squawks loudly at him, an affronted rattle, but he ignores it.

Hezekiah goes straight to the wardrobe, flings its contents onto the floor. Nothing. The chest of drawers next. Each drawer he opens, rummages between the garments, flings those too to the floor. Nothing.

Where next?

From the doorway, Lottie is watching. “Hezekiah...”

“For God’s sake woman, leave me be. Go on, get out. Go!”

Lottie stares at him. Then, with a resigned sigh that irritates him beyond measure she disappears, and he waits for her heavy foot on the stair before continuing his search.

Hezekiah limps toward the bed, clatters to his knees, looks underneath. A carpet bag. He reaches for it, pauses only long enough to trace the embroidered H with his finger, remembering when he bought it for Helen, and in his anger he rips it. Nothing. Nothing!

The magpie screeches.

“Shut up!” he screams. “Shut up!”

Where else? Where else would she keep it? He spots the desk under the window, smiles in relief. Of course!

He opens a drawer, his lip lifting in a sneer. Junk. Glass, wire, scraps of leather and lace. He reaches for a glass bead. Didn’t he notice one of his mock-jade bracelets had gone missing a while back? He will punish her for this, too.

Hezekiah sifts through the flotsam and jetsam of useless items. Nothing! But just as he is about to turn away he notices a familiar pouch.

His coin purse! She took it! He reaches for the purse and opens it. No money. No note. Instead, a small tinderbox. And inside that...

“That conniving little bitch.”