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W HAT THE DEVIL ?" Enoch Leng roared, staring at the dead bodies of the two guards splayed in a puddle of blood across the basement corridor outside his surgery. He rushed into the surgery suite itself and saw a sight that curdled his vision: three dead assistants sprawled across the floor—and surrounding an empty operating table.

"Cheese and crust," murmured Decla, coming up behind him with a posse of Milk Drinkers.

Leng knew instantly what had happened: Constance. She had been in the house, spying, plotting. That bloody bitch had stolen his patient—and no doubt she'd also freed, or was freeing, the other children. He had underestimated her. He felt an intense, destabilizing fury… but quickly recovered himself.

Where was she now? Had she fled with the children? Did she know Pendergast and his policeman friend were locked in a distant wing?

He turned to Decla and the gang. "Seal up the house. Now. I want that woman."

"So do I," said Decla.

"By God, you shall have her." He paused. "In fact, it's possible I can save you some work in searching."

Constance pulled back from the broken window after watching Mary, Joe, and Binky disappear into the shrubbery, apparently unseen. She slipped into the main kitchen, then paused in the dim light, listening. She could hear voices, running footsteps, a door slamming—the house was now on full alert. Aloysius was being kept on an upper floor—almost certainly in an attic room under the eaves that on an early reconnaissance she'd seen being converted into an iron room with bars. But the upper floors were a very dangerous place to roam. Above the first floor, there were few hollow walls or secret passageways—and that meant sneaking around in unfrequented halls and rooms, hoping to avoid discovery.

Slinging the rifle over her shoulder, keeping the stiletto in hand and the revolver tucked in the waistband of her dress, she went to the kitchen door and listened. The activity, though extensive, sounded for the most part distant. She eased open the door, slipped through, and closed it. Beyond, a broad archway led across a main hall to the salon, and she could see the gas there was turned on brightly. As she waited, an armed figure passed by—one of the Milk Drinkers. That was no way to go.

She returned to the kitchen, pondering how to get to the higher floors. The stairs to the servants' quarters, next to the pantry, were a possibility. She flitted across the kitchen and through the pantry to a closed door that led to the back stairway. She pressed her ear to the panel and listened. Silence. She turned the knob and opened the door. The narrow, unpainted, claustrophobic stairway was dark. Shutting the door, she crept up, one hand on the beadboard wall. The wooden stairs creaked and groaned with every footfall. She paused to listen after one particularly loud creak. This part of the mansion still seemed quiet, with most of the activity taking place in the front of the house and, no doubt, in the basement and even deeper.

The stairs came to a landing with two doors, right and left, both closed. One went to the cook's bedroom and sitting room, the other to the scullery maid's chamber. The latter was a dead end. The cook's rooms, on the other hand, led to a door that opened onto a rarely used second-floor hallway. From there, the hallway led to a large room and, beyond, a staircase to the third and fourth floors—and it was on the fourth floor, under the eaves, that the iron room had been built.

She could see a faint light under the doorsill of the cook's bedroom. Again, she pressed her ear to the door. Was the cook in there? It was impossible to tell. He might have retreated to his room to get away from all the excitement—or he and his assistants might have been enlisted in the search. There was only one way forward, and it was through those rooms. Constance flung open the door, stiletto in hand, and rushed in.

The room was empty, the gas turned low.

With a sigh of relief, she moved through the bedchamber and sitting room, to the door leading into the side hall. Beyond, she could hear running and intermittent shouts, growing fainter even as she listened. She used this moment of relative calm to map out in her mind the route to the iron room. She would have to traverse the hall and large room beyond in order to reach the staircase to the fourth floor.

Making sure all remained quiet, she opened the door from the cook's chambers and darted down the hall. The light remained dim. The door at the end of the hall led into a private entertainment room, which in her own present day was used as a gym by Proctor. Back in 1881… she tried to remember… it had been a billiards room, with a leather seating area and cocktail tables for smoking and drinking. The windows were usually drawn with heavy drapes. Beyond the room was the service stairway leading up to the third floor and then to the attic areas.

No sound could be heard in the space beyond, and the sill was dark. It was empty, the gas off: not surprising, since no one would be playing snooker at a time like this. She opened the door and stepped into the darkness beyond. There was no light at all. But nevertheless, she was aware of shapes, moving quickly—

A gaslight flared up, illuminating a half dozen Milk Drinkers, including Decla. They had been lying in wait and were heavily armed, all guns pointed at her. She shrank back toward the door, pulling the revolver as she did so, but a shot rang out and a blow to her left shoulder spun her around, the gun flying out of her hand. As she struggled to lower the rifle, she was rushed, seized, and thrown to the ground.

Struggling and twisting, she tried to escape, but four brawny men pinioned her, and all she could do was writhe. The shot had merely nicked the upper part of her left arm; the wound didn't seem serious, but one of the men, seeing a bloodstain, ground his knee into it anyway.

Decla sauntered over, hands in her pockets, and stood over Constance.

"I'll slit you open like a Christmas goose," Constance said, struggling.

"What a wildcat you are," Decla replied. She bent over Constance and methodically searched her clothing, extracting the stiletto, a second knife, matches, a tiny pair of opera glasses, a phial of white powder, and a one-shot ladies' derringer with a pearl handle.

"Heading off to a fancy-dress ball, are we?" Decla said, inspecting the derringer and putting it in her pocket. "Such pretty little toys." She held up the white phial. "Don't tell me you smoke the Shangri-la tobacco, too?" She turned to one of her gang. "Go tell the doctor we caught her just where he suspected."

The man left, and Decla turned back to Constance, this time playing with the stiletto. "You're all mine now, love," she said, rotating the glittering, razor-sharp blade. "This is the beauty you cut my hand with, isn't it?"

"Too bad I didn't cut your throat."

"Oh, it hasn't seen its end of throat cutting, I'd wager," said Decla.

Constance struggled but was firmly pinned down. "Is this your idea of a fair fight? Let me up—then I can kill you one at a time."

With a tight smile, Decla merely bent more closely over Constance, the stiletto point gleaming in the gaslight. "Such shiny thick hair you have," she said. "In my trade, I can always use another wig—or a merkin, for that matter."

Carefully placing the edge of the blade at the line of Constance's scalp, she let the tip slowly sink in.