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in their sconces.
    It was proper grand, no question, but that wasn’t the only thing Thomas was looking at.
    There were doorways there, and there, and there. If he could lose himself in the crowd after the performance, he could slip away, find someone of whom to ask his questions. Him. The bearded man in the topper who had just stepped out onto the tiny lip of stage before the curtains. He might know about the boy in the grave and why Thomas had been left a note and the tickets to come here. His appearance spoke of a man who knew things, though from this distance, Thomas could make out no more than the beard, the suit, the silver-handled walking stick, and the hat, of course.
    And the man opening his mouth. The theater fell silent as if a spell had been placed upon it.
    â€œWelcome,” he boomed into the utter quiet. “Welcome,esteemed and invited guests. Such a pleasure to see you for this magnificent occasion.”
    Loud applause rang out. He waited for it to cease, a wide smile on his face. “Thank you. You are too kind. Now, many of you who have visited my Society know that things are done a bit differently there, but tonight, well, tonight is a time for a proper show, don’t you think? So, let us begin.”
    â€œYes, Mordecai, let’s,” muttered the man, Jensen, beside Thomas. “Let’s see what tricks you’ve got in store.”
    He did not sound happy. Thomas spared him a glance, noted his creased brow, but Thomas’s attention was drawn back to the stage as the curtains began to part. The audience gasped, though to Thomas’s eye, there was nothing much to see, just a huge, polished table. It was empty, hung around the edges with more curtains of the same mustard yellow.
    â€œWho,” thundered Mordecai, “shall we invite to sit at our table? Shakespeare? A king? Cleopatra or Caesar?”
    â€œHow do we know he won’t just make the whole lot up?” whispered Charley. “Even if it is possible, he could just be pretending.”
    They were much too far from Mordecai for him to have heard Charley, but it was as if he had.
    â€œPerhaps,” Mordecai said, “we shall start with a bitof proof. You, there, in the second row. What an elegant dress, madam. I’m quite partial to that shade of green. Is there someone with whom you wish to speak?”
    â€œY-yes,” said the woman. Thomas squinted, but he couldn’t make her out. “M-my husband.”
    The dark thing squirmed in Thomas again. A tingle ran up his spine.
    â€œRest his soul,” said Mordecai, voice dripping with sympathy. “What is his name? What is yours? And is there something, some secret the two of you share that I would have no chance of knowing?”
    Whispers rippled through the theater. Thomas couldn’t hear the answers she gave, but Mordecai did.
    â€œMr. William Harkness, late, beloved husband to Ella. Come forward, please, through the doorway that divides our worlds, and tell us how she signed her letters to you during those sad months you were forced to be apart.”
    Thomas’s head began to ache and his teeth to chatter. Suddenly, he did not want to hear whatever endearment it was.
    A voice came, from nowhere and everywhere, filling the theater. “Ella, my darling,” it said, but Thomas could think of nothing but the hundreds of graves he and Silas had dug up over the years, each one containing a person who had once lived.
    And who could, apparently, still speak.
    So many, whose sleep he and Silas had disturbed, as they were being disturbed now.
    A hot swath of nausea coursed through Thomas. His eyes rolled back in his head.
    And he heard and saw nothing more.

CHAPTER FOUR
    Gifts

    B ENEATH THE TABLE, BEHIND THE mustard curtains, Deadnettle writhed in pain. He was not alone.
    Twenty-six others—all that were left—were crowded into the cage with him, locked inside as Mordecai strode free around the stage, calling out