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pretty careful with her in mind. Either Lord Ellis Otanius had taste, or he knew somebody who did. Lots of blue stones, sapphire and lapis lazuli, set in rings and earrings. Strings of pearls, varying quality. Some nice amber. And a choker necklace of cabochon rubies that could have fed all Lyonesse for a decad and a half.

    I picked them up. They were real. They were old. I could take a guess at how much they were worth, and it made my mouth go dry. I was willing to bet that these were what Miss Thomson particularly wanted. The rest of it was just window dressing. And I wondered—I couldn't help wondering—what they were doing in a box of her jewelry when you'd have to be blind not to see they flat didn't suit her. And then I thought, He gives 'em to each gal in turn. Every time he takes a new lover, out come the rubies. I was glad Miss Thomson had taken them away from him, no matter what she wanted them for.

    Felix

    Malkar gave me some more of his phoenix-laced wine as soon as he had locked the door of his suite behind us. He thoughtfully left the decanter within reach, and I spent the afternoon lost in phoenix's soft, obscuring fog. It was better than thinking about the stricken look on Sherbourne's face, the contempt and anger in Vida's eyes, the bruise I knew was underneath Shannon's maquillage.

    I longed for the oblivion that excessive consumption of phoenix would bring, the fugue state in which the consciousness could release itself, leaving the body to do as it was told, leaving no memories, no shame, no fear. But, ironically, I was too frightened of Malkar for that surrender; I could not bear to leave him where I could not watch him. It would be too much like turning one's back on a starving, sadistic lion.

    He left me alone for hours; I was grateful. Even through the cloud of phoenix, every muscle in my body knotted when he finally came back and dragged me out of the chair.

    "You're awake," he said; he sounded disappointed.

    I couldn't answer him, numbed and fogged with phoenix as I was.

    He snorted. "Well, at least it means I don't have to carry you. Come on, then."

    "Wh…" I licked my lips, tried again. "Where?"

    "We have work to do, dearest." He put his hand under my elbow and started toward the door.

    It was half formula, half code, and I had not forgotten what it meant, no matter how much I wished I could have. "What are you going to do?"

    "An experiment," Malkar said, with his wide, feral smile.

    I made a noise—a moan, a whimper, the sob of a small animal caught by the predator it most fears—but had neither the courage nor the strength to pull away.

    "Really, darling, pull yourself together." Contempt in his voice, contempt in his face. "Don't make an exhibition of yourself in the halls."

    "Yes, Malkar," I said, by reflex alone.

    He opened the door and led me out into the Mirador.

    Mildmay

    The Spinning Goblin is about halfway between a hotel and a whorehouse. The guy at the desk don't ask what you want the room for, but if you come in too often, he starts wanting a cut of your action. I didn't go there much—not enough for his fingers to get itchy. But the rooms were clean, and I like people who don't ask questions.
    I waited for Miss Thomson outside. Stood in a tenement doorway and watched the traffic on Rue Celadon. The Engmond's Tor Cheaps mostly shut down at sunset, 'least for the perishables, so the road was full of wagons, the drivers keeping to their same slow amble no matter what the hansom and fiacre drivers shouted at them. You want a real feud, just look at the state of affairs between the Wagoners' Guild and the Handsome Men.

    I saw Miss Thomson coming just as the bells started ringing the second hour of the night. The dress she was wearing was nothing like the green number she'd worn yesterday. It was a dull, smoky blue, with the high neck and the little fichu, like bourgeoises wear. When she got closer, I saw she'd pinned her hair in a big coil on the back of her head,