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grabbed the decanter just as he was starting to drop it.
    “Happened, my darling Abigail? Why, I’ve died, that’s all. When one has nothing left to live for, what else can one do?”
    I had hated him before. Now I despised him and how he was making Abigail feel. Died, had he? Well, he could not be buried soon enough to suit me.
    “I’m glad you’re here, Abigail,” Sir Eli said. “I’ve got a mission for you and you alone. No one else will do. It’s dangerous, it may well be deadly, and money is no object.”
    Well, now. Finally the man was starting to be interesting.
    “Tell me everything,” Abigail said, and Hopkins did.
    I shall not burden you with his slurs and stumbling and backtracking and general unpleasantness. In a nutshell, it was this:
    His wife, whom he had loved with a passion that rivaled—I am forced to admit, my own feelings for Abigail—had died. Her death must have driven him quite mad, for he believed the tragic event was directly related to some sort of cursed ancient volume, which he had still in his possession. He had made arrangements to place the book and, I suppose, its destructive power within some sort of containment device. But this device must be taken to a desolate and far-off place to be hidden away.
    The man was without doubt around the bend; I had no doubt of it. But what disturbed me most was Abigail, my darling hardheaded Abigail, seemed to be taking him seriously, nodding and agreeing with everything he said. Had she gone mad too, mad with worry about this “old, dear friend”?
    A door I had not even noticed, since it was covered in shelves just like the walls, opened beside the fireplace. A lean man with a wild shock of hair came out, bearing a brass and crystal box in his hands with as much care as if it contained the crown jewels. He set the box down on a low table and stood back, regarding it with a self-satisfied and complacent gaze.
    Then he looked up and saw Abigail. “Ah, Lady Abigail Moran,” he said, beaming as he walked toward her, hand outstretched. “You have brought me something, I believe?”
    “I have indeed, Herr Tesla,” Abigail said. “And if we do work for you in future, I’d appreciate a bit more explanation about what the things you create can do. My partner was nearly poisoned.”
    Tesla ignored her. She held out a leather bag, and he seized it eagerly.
    Sir Eli had not stopped his mad ramblings, even during this exchange, but now he did; he asked, “Tesla, never mind about those toys. The box—is it done? Finished at last? And will it do the job?”
    Not even an introduction, mind you. Manners are all that separate us from the apes, as I believe Mr. Darwin may well have pointed out, or at least should have done.
    “Indeed, Sir Eli,” said Tesla. “And it will secure the tome with more than the required protection.”
    I studied the man as he carefully placed the bag Abigail had given him on the floor. I was about to question him about the spider thing myself, but another voice from the shadows stopped me. Clearly the people with whom Sir Eli surrounded himself had no idea of the importance of knocking or announcing themselves; rather, they preferred sliding out from the darkness the corners provided.
    “Eli! I see your call for help was answered as promptly as you hoped. You must be the dear Lady Abigail of whom Sir Eli speaks so highly. Allow me to introduce myself: Henri d’Estes.” The man was tall, with dark hair and eyes, and was really quite stylish in his dress. I raised an eyebrow as he bowed and kissed Abigail’s hand. A bloody Frenchman now, in addition to Sir Eli. Yet another beggar to add to my ever-growing list of men to despise on Abigail’s account. “Tesla, old man. You’ve explained the box by now, no doubt?” Monsieur D’Estes yawned and, I could not help but notice, folded himself into the armchair closest to Abigail.
    “I was beginning to, sir.” The lean European gentleman stepped forward and pressed a