Page 24

Twenty-Four

That night, James Ratcliff, the former policeman turned Rui’s fight-club associate, met me in an alleyway near a brothel on

Cable Street. It was a brothel Rui owned, but Rui was nowhere to be found. The dark of night obscured the scars on Ratcliff’s

bald head.

“So Rui sent you to meet me instead?” I said. I hadn’t changed out of my riding habit. My nerves were still too agitated from

what had happened earlier in the day. Rui and I were to meet here. It was in the letter I quickly wrote and handed to Harriet

to send to one of Rui’s men to give to him. Such a roundabout, tiresome form of communication wouldn’t have been necessary

if he’d just told me where he lived and slept at night. It was like he was everywhere and nowhere. Other times, that might

have been alluring.

“He said he’s got business. Disappointed?”

A little. But no matter. Ratcliffe’s information on Wilkes had been helpful. He would surely be of use now. I stretched my

shoulders as Ratcliff gave me a file. “If it makes you feel better, we’ve been looking for information on your little cretin

for a few days now. Though I dare say I did my fair share of work there.”

“As expected of a former officer.” I took it from him, opening it to find slips of paper inside. On one page, clearly torn

from a book, Mary Sass was scribbled next to the title mother . Father unknown. I was looking at Dalton Sass’s record of birth.

“There was no civil registration of this boy’s birth,” Ratcliff said. “But I found this in a dead preacher’s record book left

behind in St. Clement Danes. It was buried under the floorboards. Someone didn’t want it found.”

“October 24, 1839.” It was hard to hide my frustration. “I don’t see how knowing his birth date will be at all helpful.”

“Read the next page.”

I flipped to the next torn page as Ratcliff’s eager grin egged me on. A journal entry. It was in the preacher’s handwriting.

March 8, 1844

Mary Sass’s boy, born in sin out of wedlock, has shown how easily the devil can slip into our midst. The boy called Dalton

by the missionaries was found yesterday stabbing pigeons behind the church with a dining fork. Now he sets them on fire. He’s

been thoroughly disciplined by his mother, but the case has become too severe. I fear for the safety of the parishioners if

we let Sass and her wayward son stay for another second. I’ll recommend that she relocate somewhere far—another country where

her son’s violent behavior would not harm anyone of consequence nor reflect badly upon this church.

And the preacher signed his name.

Anyone of consequence. I thought of the girls in the Institution and bristled with anger. No wonder Sass never mentioned him. No wonder she homeschooled him. There was no telling what he would have done to us if he was allowed anywhere near the Institution, though knowing Miss Sass, she was more concerned for her own reputation than our safety. I wouldn’t have been surprised if she never let him out of the house until the day she died.

“All that bunk about not remembering England.” I scoffed in disbelief, shaking my head. “He was at least five years old when

they left for Sierra Leone.” I snapped the folder shut. “I must show this to Bertie. He’s been getting in my way for far too

long. It’s time for Dalton Sass to be excised out of my life for good.”

“He’s a dangerous bloke to be around.” Ratcliff folded his arms. “You have a plan?”

Better yet: I had a party to attend.

The next morning, Mrs. Schoen drew my bath in the largest bucket she had. The warm water soaked my skin, easing the pain in

my shoulders and neck.

“I hope you haven’t been too idle since Miss Welsh canceled her lessons.” Mama washed and brushed my hair with a wide-toothed

comb to prepare for tonight. “Remember, you’re getting married soon, Sally. I’m not sure it’s the time to be attending all

these events.”

Then why did her voice sound so chipper? She seemed plenty happy enough to see how deeply I was still accepted in these royal

circles. She parted my hair in the middle, as was the style, and used the prettiest silver clips in her possession to pin

it down.

“It’s a séance, Mama, not a ball. There’ll be a medium and everything. Doesn’t that unnerve you? Especially after that business

at the museum photography gala.”

“Yes, that was... rather unfortunate, wasn’t it?” Mama Schoen shuddered. “But the talk has changed. I hear more and more

people might give this... spirit photography a chance. I mean, if the Queen is doing it.”

I turned my head so quickly, the comb flew out of her hand. With an irritated grunt, Mama went after it.

“You’re not serious,” I said, accidentally kicking the bucket in shock and stubbing my toe. “I can’t believe that people wouldn’t be completely disgusted by Her Majesty.”

“But if the Queen is throwing a séance after everything that happened at the museum, she clearly doesn’t think of those photographs

as a scandal.” Mama bent down and picked up the comb. “In fact, she seems rather firm in her stance on spiritualism. I heard

a few of the girls talking about it down the street—that they feel sorry for her.”

I clenched my fists underwater. They feel sorry for her, did they? Yes, of course they would. I should have guessed that the

Queen would retaliate for her humiliation by leaning into her spiritual activities, giving others permission to dabble without

fear of reprisal. This was the same monarch who’d turned white dresses into a must at every wedding. I should have known she’d

have something up her sleeve. I gritted my teeth.

“To be honest, I feel sorry for Her Majesty too,” Mama said. “She hasn’t been the same since Prince Albert died. Everyone

knows that. She still refuses to make public appearances. Wears black every day. Some will find it morbid, while others will

relate to her. Though if you ask me, it is all a bit morbid.”

We were past morbid and into delusion as far as I was concerned, but I didn’t dare say it as she dried me off and dressed

me in an appropriately black dress trimmed with lace. We stood in front of the mirror in my room, stuffy because I refused

to open the window.

“I suppose,” Mama continued, “losing the love of one’s life can make a woman do strange things.”

“I think if it’s the dead she’s interested in, there are far more suitable candidates for her to contact than her husband.”

Mama’s hands paused atop my head while she was fidgeting with the black bow. “What do you mean by that?”

I clenched my teeth and turned away from my image in the mirror. How many lives had been lost over the years in the name of the Queen of England? How much land taken and drugs trafficked? Children lost to war and empire and ego? Only for her to fuss about her husband. For a queen, her world was inescapably small.

“Then again, from what I’ve heard, the Queen seems to have found a companion of a different kind.” I didn’t know why Mama

spoke in hushed tones. We were, as always, the only ones in the entire house. Still, I was intrigued.

“What do you mean?”

Mama covered her mouth coquettishly before making a point to look over her shoulders and leaning in. “There’s a man at the

palace. Rumors say he sticks to her side like grease on a pot. They may even travel to Balmoral together in a few weeks. Maybe

sooner. You’ll probably see him tonight. If Her Majesty is to be there, so will he.”

I frowned. “Who?”

“John Brown. The Scotsman.”

At the sound of his name, my thoughts turned to Rui. It was he who had wanted me to arrange for his arrival at the palace.

Did Rui know how quickly he’d befriend the Queen? Did he anticipate their bond? Or was it a fluke? With Rui, I could never

tell. And he wasn’t around to tell me .

Just what was this Scot to the criminal prince of the East End?

The séance would tell me more.

It was all a macabre affair, and yet everyone came in their finest jewels, suits, and dresses in different dark colors: garnet, purple, one courageous green, and, of course, black. Lots of black: fur shawls, top hats, gloves, and canes. The violin was playing the moment I walked into the crimson drawing room where some of the Queen’s closest friends—I counted at least thirty of them—milled about greeting each other, kissing hands as if they hadn’t met for years despite the fact that I’d spotted some of them at the gala just a few days ago.

I glided past the women who watched me and gossiped behind their hands.

“The Queen’s goddaughter did come.”

“She really is so dark in person.”

“From the darkest parts of Africa.”

All this nonsense again. They always made sure the fuss they made was just loud enough for me to hear. They were bothered

that I out-ladied them in all manner and behavior. I could tell. What they didn’t know was that I was bothered by it too.

Ignoring them, I slipped past the heavy red velvet curtains, only to be greeted by a familiar enemy.

“Sarah Forbes Bonetta.” McCoskry hadn’t gotten rid of that bad habit, throwing his arms open wide and expecting a hug from

me. I lifted my hand instead and he, surprised for a moment, laughing the next, took it and kissed it. Thank goodness for

my gloves. “I believe I saw your betrothed jousting with the prince close by the gin. Come.”

He offered me his elbow, and if I didn’t take it, I’d draw even more eyes. Touching it only slightly, I walked with him through

the crowd. His red beard was still playing tricks on me with its strange shape. I couldn’t look at it directly.

“How is your uncle George? His mother has told me he’s ill with fever.”

He was rotting in the asylum last time I checked and there he would stay. What I had in store for this fiend would be just

as terrible.

I gave McCoskry a languid smile. “And what about you, Mr. McCoskry? It couldn’t have been easy being the acting governor general

of Lagos.”

“Oh yes, you know the place well, don’t you? Actually”—he leaned in—“You helped me get that particular job, Miss Forbes. Or Sally, shall I call you?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I was but a mere merchant before you. Of course, a successful one. But my connection to the Forbeses, the Queen and, Sally, to you, an African princess saved from slavery, gave me the boost I needed to gain the people’s trust—the kind of trust that leads to a position.”

My fingers twitched around his elbow. “I’m happy I could help,” I said with no emotion in my voice. “I know you did your best

for the Yoruba people.”

“Indeed, I did.” He rubbed his beard with his other hand. “The Liberated African Yard continues until today to employee freed

slaves looking for labor.”

“You also did your best for the slave owners. Making sure those that could keep their property did.”

McCoskry stopped, his mouth paused in midair. It was then that I spotted Bertie and Davies by the gin just as the acting governor

had guaranteed. When Bertie spotted me, his face flushed even redder, if it was possible. But he drunkenly waved us over to

the white-draped table.

“Sally. I’ve been trying to tell your future husband that he’s wrong about Lord Byron.” Bertie grabbed my hand and pulled

me out of McCoskry’s grip toward him. “He wasn’t a deviant. He was a poet. A genius.”

“And a deviant who had a relationship with his own sister.” Davies, far more reserved, rolled his glass of gin around in his

hand. “Or, I suppose, his half sister.”

“Half? Okay, then it wasn’t that bad. Maybe she was lovely?”

I shuddered as McCoskry laughed at his joke. Well, I suppose inbreeding wouldn’t be such a big deal to the British royal family.

“Regardless of his private life, he contributed much to the arts of his country. ‘Ode to a Nightingale’ was...”

And just as Bertie was about to kiss his fingers in appreciation, Captain Davies cleared his throat. “That was Keats, Your

Highness.”

Bertie inhaled a frustrated breath, glaring at Davies before tugging me to his side. Davies bristled but didn’t make a move to stop him. He was a prince, after all. “Sally, I see you’ve been escorted to our conversation by one William McCoskry.”

“He was just telling me about his work in Lagos.” I smiled up at him. And how much horror he wrought to the slaves he purported

to help. McCoskry scratched his jawline through his bushy red hair with an awkward expression.

Captain Davies spoke. “By chance, are you a member of the Anti-Slavery Society? They’ve got an event scheduled in a few days.

Sadly I won’t be able to attend—too many wedding preparations of my own to do.”

As Captain Davies grinned at me, Bertie spoke up, suddenly slamming his glass of gin down on the table. “My father was a member.

Or at least, he did work for them. Before I was ever born he gave an abolition speech at Exeter Hall. It was a smashing success.”

He fell silent. The shadow of his father loomed ever larger.

“I recall hearing about it,” said Davies, who did very well not to let his annoyance toward the prince show. The mask he wore

was a heavy one. I should know. “Your mother couldn’t give the address because of her position. But your father was very passionate

about the subject. The society’s putting on an event on the first of August. I heard they’d reached out to you to attend,

Prince Albert, but you declined.”

Bertie squirmed.

“That’s too bad. I had wondered if you would follow in your father’s footsteps.” Captain Davies topped off his drink with

the decanter and walked up to my side. I could feel Bertie’s eyes watching us.

If Davies was trying to make Bertie insecure and jealous, that would only help me. I played along. “In the twenty years since

your father gave his speech, slavery still hasn’t been abolished everywhere,” I said.

“The war they’re fighting in America at this very moment.” Captain Davies shook his head. “Every day that I breathe free air I’m reminded of the days I didn’t.” His gaze slid to me for just a moment and I suddenly thought of my family being slaughtered. Rusty machete blades against tender flesh. Clenching my teeth, I shut my eyes against the memories.

But Bertie, as drunk as he was insecure, shifted on his feet and gave only a noncommittal grunt in response. “I’m not my father,”

he whispered, before falling back into silence.

Over by the marble table displaying ceremonial plates stolen from Egypt was Harriet, with a small envelope under her arms

and her mother, Mrs. Phipps.

“If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen.” I curtsied, excused myself, and began toward the two women.

I glided by guests who clinked drinks as they chatted next to the Balinese vases taller than I. Others were gossiping by the

oil lamps, or by the painting of kings that hung on the walls and underneath the chandelier.

“The new medium Queen Victoria had found is an expert,” I heard someone say very loudly so all could hear. “Not like those

other conmen. This one is a true clairvoyant.”

“Perhaps it’s the Wizard Queen, Georgiana Eagle.” I gave a start as Dalton Sass slipped into my view, a glass of wine in his

hand. “Unless the mesmerist is overbooked? What do you think, Sally?”

And at his side: Inspector Wilkes. “I think young Miss Forbes has more to worry about than the psychic du jour.”

Both men were dressed to kill—kill me, if I would hazard the guess.

“The Queen should be here at any moment.” Wilkes took a sip of his own wine, gesturing to the entrance manned by royal guards.

“When she does, I suspect you know what to do. Otherwise, Her Majesty will be in for a particularly intriguing story about

her obedient Negro goddaughter by the day’s end.”

He didn’t bother to hear my retort. He’d come only to give me his warning. Soon he was off joining his wife in hobnobbing with society’s elite. But Dalton stayed.

“I don’t know what you’re so proud about,” I said, watching him loosen his black bow tie. “Is it that the royal guards still

let you in despite the fact that you tried to murder me yesterday?”

“Didn’t you hear? That was an accident. The fog, the prince concluded.” He gestured around him as if he’d conjure it up in

the air as we spoke. “Besides, when I’m done with you, I suspect you’ll be the one hauled away by the guards tonight.”

I frowned as he downed his gin. “And what do you have planned for tonight, Sass?”

“Oh, me?” He wiped his lips and, with a little chuckle, leaned in. “Your complete and utter disassembling, you wench.”

He whispered low so that only I could hear his threats. My body seized. He seemed slightly more off-kilter than usual since

the hunt. I suspected my taunts had cut deeper than even I’d expected them to. After meeting with Ratcliff, I knew now precisely

what he was capable of. But I wouldn’t give him the pleasure of seeing me react. Even as my heart sped up in fear, I kept

my breathing a quiet, rhythmic lull.

He straightened up, fingers combing his brown curls. “Well, enjoy the rest of the night, Miss Forbes. By the way, Bambridge

says hello.”

Curling my fingers until they dug into my palms, I let him leave. We would soon see who disassembled who. The corners of my

lips quirked into a vicious grin before I replaced my mask and continued on.

The closer I got to Harriet and her mother, the better I could hear their conversation.

“How can you let that bloody girl who’s been in the palace less than a year be promoted before you? Do I have to remind you

of your lineage? Of all your father has done in this court?”

“No, Mother.” Harriet shook her head. She looked terrified.

The feathers in Mrs. Phipps’s French antique headpiece shook too as the woman bristled. “You are the daughter of Sir Charles

Beaumont Phipps. The granddaughter of Henry Phipps, the first Earl of bloody Mulgrave. Being a courtier is in your blood . I made sure of that. And now I have to deal with the girl’s mother bragging in earshot, mocking me with that horrible yellow

grin of hers all because my own daughter is such a lazy, good-for-nothing fool.”

“I’ll try harder, I swear,” Harriet said in a hush, looking around, hoping no one had heard her mother lambasting her. That’s

when she saw me approaching. Whatever terror her expression had shown turned immediately to embarrassment and then bitterness.

With red cheeks, she turned away as I curtsied again.

“Hello, Mrs. Phipps,” I greeted her.

“Oh, you .” Mrs. Phipps couldn’t even feign civility as she snarled. “See, Harriet? As much as I am loath to admit it, even this African

girl is more capable than you. Look how she carries herself. And look at you slouching . How can you let yourself be outdone by even someone like her?”

“Mother!”

Mrs. Phipps seemed to only then realize that I was standing right next to her and could hear every word. But this wasn’t anything

new for the woman. That night too in the parlor, when I was a child, she insulted me to my face as if I wasn’t there. As if

I possessed no emotions.

It was why I wouldn’t mind when the time came to treat her in the same way.

Mrs. Phipps refused to apologize. She only adjusted her shawl over her shoulders with a defiant “humph” and left to go greet one of her friends with her nose up in the air. Usually Harriet would profusely apologize on behalf of her mother the moment the woman was out of earshot. This time, she adjusted the dark violet lace covering her shoulders before becoming suddenly very preoccupied with the Egyptian plates.

“The envelope.” I pointed at it underneath her arm. “You found what I asked?”

Harriet made sure no one was near. “Police reports going back decades. Confirming the juvenile criminal activity of one Dalton

Sass.”

I knew it. I knew that given what I’d learned about Dalton’s past, there was a chance he’d committed other deviant acts—acts

that may have been documented. Harriet passed the envelope to me and I took a peek at the slip inside. My eyebrows rose at

what I read.

“So he went from stabbing pigeons to stabbing lads-men,” I whispered.

“Excuse me, pigeons?” Harriet frowned, scandalized, and bumped into the table she backed into. The Egyptian plates rattled.

“That’s why I spared you the dirty details. It’s not a surprise that he’d graduate from animals to humans—and child thieves

at that. It says here the parish tried to cover it up. I’m sure they covered up much of his activities before shipping their

little problem off to Sierra Leone, but not everything in one’s past can be so thoroughly erased.”

I slipped the torn pages Ratcliff had procured for me out of my left glove and added them to the envelope. “Thank you, Harriet.

This will help me get rid of that eyesore for good.”

Harriet was usually happy to be privy to my schemes, playing the Blandy to my Cranstoun. This time her gaze remained on the

back of her mother’s dark red fitted bodice. Defeated. “Will you go to the prince, then?” she asked me. Fatigue echoed from

deep within the cavern of her slender body.

“Don’t worry, Harriet.” I gave her elbow a supportive touch. “I’ll handle things from here. You’ve done a wonderful job. Try

to get some rest when you can.”

In a flash, Harriet ripped her arm from my touch. “ Rest? I don’t need rest. I’m not a child, so don’t speak to me like one.”

A few guests began to stare, but none were more surprised than I. Even Harriet seemed to suddenly realize we’d become the

center of others’ attention. She curtsied quickly and scurried off. It was her mother, no doubt. That woman was going to destroy

her own daughter. I felt sorry for her, of course. But I couldn’t have Harriet breaking down before this was all over.

“Come with me.”

I gasped, hearing Bertie’s whisper in my ear from behind. He grabbed my wrist and pulled me away from the crowd, refusing

to listen to my protests. Out of the drawing room and away from the congregation, we came to a stop underneath a winding golden

staircase, draped in red carpet that stretched up both sides of the palace hall. The Grand Staircase. I could tell by the

statue of George IV at the head. An opulent royal tribute to a man who illegally married a Catholic. A touch of rebellion

Bertie probably identified with.

We didn’t go up either staircase. Instead, Bertie hid me beneath the left crook, pushing me against the white plastered wall

with drunken brazenness.

“What are you doing, you lout?” But when I pushed him away, it only seemed to excite him. He brushed both hands through his

blond hair, by now a mess, and then pressed his hands against the wall on either side of my face.

“What am I doing? Do you really not know by now, Sally?”

His blue eyes were unfocused, dazed with alcohol, but they didn’t waver. He leaned in. I covered his face with my hand and

pushed him away.

“You’re drunk,” I said. “At a séance. Only you.”

Bertie shook my hand off his face and let out a sigh. “The séance hasn’t begun. Why? Because mother’s with that John Brown,

probably having a little séance of her own.”

I glanced up the stairs, where the Queen could come down any minute with John Brown and her attendants. Then my expression turned sour thinking of the Queen “séancing” with that burly man before the true event began.

“He’s a medium himself, you know. He’s got this... this hold on her. He says he can communicate with Father. Can you believe

that?” Bertie loosened his tie as if it were strangling him. “He’s probably a conman. I don’t know why you had me bring him

here, Sally.”

Rui. But what Rui was planning, I couldn’t tell. I hadn’t seen or heard from him in days.

As Bertie bristled in front of me, I missed Rui. His calm and charm. The memory of his kisses on the floor of Bambridge’s

secret studio had me flushing before I could stop myself.

Bertie had clearly mistaken my body cues for some kind of signal. Before I could stop him, he grabbed my cheeks and pulled

me toward him. A kiss. A passionate one. He cradled my head with one hand, the small of my back with the other, crushing me

against him.

I ripped my face away from him, taking in the deep breath he’d deprived me of. “Bertie!”

“Please, Sally, don’t turn away my advances. This is... this is surprising for me too.”

And he did look it—surprised at himself. But with his shoulders drooping and his chest heaving, he also looked strangely helpless.

What nonsense. How many girls had Bertie gone through before he decided it was my “turn” for an illicit affair?

I reached into my bodice and pulled out the envelope I’d hidden there. “Dalton Sass,” I said, snapping my fingers to get him

to focus. “He’s a criminal.”

Bertie shook his languid head. “He’s a what?”

“A criminal. You’ve let a criminal into your circle. These police reports dating back years prove it. If you don’t want your mother to despise you any more than she does, I would get rid of him as soon as possible.”

Bertie pulled the contents of the envelope out and read the first couple of pages. “Stabbing pigeons?” He squinted as if he’d

read it wrong. “Laundering and extortion... Bloody hell...”

My fingers were itching to show him more; the boy read slowly, even when he was sober.

“You’re the future King of England, Bertie. Do you really think leaving Dalton Sass alone is going to end up reflecting well

on your choices of confidants? Besides—”

“I don’t care.”

I pulled back, blinking. “You don’t—?”

“Care. I don’t care.” He shoved the papers back into the envelope, tucked it underneath his arm, and cupped my face. “I don’t

care about anything right now except you, Sally.”

A mixture of fury and confusion building up inside me made me want to scream. “You cannot be serious. After what you’ve learned?

After what I just told you?”

But Bertie wasn’t listening.

“Captain Davies is pompous and overly proud of himself,” Bertie said through gritted teeth as he looked down the corridor

at the statue of his ancestor. “With a little bit of education he aims to embarrass me at every turn, all the while pretending

to be a polite gentleman. He isn’t right for you, Sally. You’re a firebrand through and through. You’ll be bored to tears

with him.”

My head was starting to throb. Did he really not care about Dalton?

Or perhaps, in his lucid state, he couldn’t help but admit he cared more about romancing me than securing his reputation as

a responsible heir.

This was madness. The prince’s feelings were nothing but lust. It couldn’t have been real.

It couldn’t have been.

Bertie cared for no one but himself. I’d learned that when we were children. I could still feel the honey dripping down my

forehead. The humiliation and rage I felt even then. This wasn’t a man who could love anyone and he wasn’t a man anyone should

love, least of all me.

And even if he did love me...

I pressed a hand against my head, my thoughts swirling until a familiar chant emptied out the voices.

Their “love” for you is conditional, Ina.

I would never forget, Ade.

Standing up straight, I looked him in his eyes. “Captain Davies? I suspect I would be bored to tears with him,” I agreed, because it was true. “However, can you tell me your anger towards Davies has nothing

to do with his ability to embarrass you at every turn despite his race?”

Bertie looked taken aback, like they always did when you spoke what was meant to be unspoken. “N-Not at all. You have me all

wrong, Sally!”

I didn’t. Bertie wouldn’t have been half as annoyed at Captain Davies’s virtues and abilities if his skin were a different

hue. Being in this country taught you that much.

Still, I needed Bertie on my side for now. It wouldn’t be prudent to spurn him. So when he reached out to me again, lightly

touching my cheek with his bare fingers, I didn’t move away though I wanted to. And when he leaned in to kiss me, I let myself

lean into it, taking his loosened bow tie and drawing him deeper into me.

“Sally,” he whispered after we’d parted. “This may sound insane....” He paused as if he believed it was. The words forming on his lips, wet from my mouth, must have sounded insane to him, the Crown Prince of England, as he played them again and again in his mind. And while he mulled over whether or not to speak them, I watched the envelope he’d tucked underneath his arm, my fingers itching to pull it out and show him the rest of the contents.

“Bertie,” I said before he could speak. “I care about you.”

Bertie’s ears flushed red.

“And that’s why I need you to look at those contents again. All of it.” I pointed to the envelope. “Look and then tell me

what kind of man you are.”

Bertie fell into silence. The tension between us was so palpable, we almost didn’t hear the sound of the double doors above

the grand staircase opening. I ran out from underneath the stairs into the hall. Queen Victoria descended with her party of

attendants and ladies-in-waiting, her sullen face covered in a long black veil. At her right, holding her hand firmly, was

Rui’s Scotsman: John Brown. He was burly, with his thick, hairy legs showing just above his knee socks and below his kilt.

His jacket and dress shirt were buttoned tightly over his sturdy chest. He spared Bertie and me a glance before fixing the

train of the Queen’s black dress.

“The Queen is ready,” he said. Lord Ponsonby, who trailed behind them, would have been the one to say it except now, with

John Brown in the picture, he’d become utterly redundant as Queen Victoria’s secretary.

The Queen put up her hand to silence him. “Not quite yet.” Though a little woman, she was imposing whenever she crept up to

her target as if they were her prey. Bertie flinched and squirmed back, but I stood my ground as the Queen sidled up to me.

“Sally.” She looked me up and down. “So you came.”

“I was invited.”

“Yes. You do seem to like being where the action is these days, don’t you?”

Her eyes slid to Bertie, who floundered on his own behind me.

“You were at the museum that day too, weren’t you?” the Queen said.

“Yes, with Gowramma.” I kept my voice pleasant. “Did she tell you?”

“No, a detective—Inspector Charles Wilkes—told Lord Ponsonby.”

Silence. Everything fell away. We stared into each other’s eyes, neither one of us wanting to give up our neutral expressions,

as strategic as they were. The universe, at this moment, consisted only of two queens.

“That’s all he told him, however.” The Queen adjusted her veil. “But your acquaintances have become quite unexpected.” Her

blue eyes darkened. “I don’t like unexpected, Sally.”

My body didn’t relax, not even when John Brown bent down until his lips were to the Queen’s ear. “We’ve been given word the

medium has arrived.”

“Then,” Queen Victoria said, her words a low mumble from behind her funeral veil, “let us go contact Albert.”