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passengers were likely to be about. A warehouse owner, perhaps, checking on something?
    He kept his pace steady as he walked by the man. His gaze drifted quickly over him. He hoped to memorize the villainous, pockmarked face. Nothing but grain sacks were evident through the warehouse door behind the meaty body, though they seemed heaped into odd piles instead of stacked neatly.
    That seemed odd enough to warrant further investigation. He kept walking, past two more rickety buildings, and then moved along the side of one to return on the back side. He hoped to hear women’s voices, crying, pleading, something, as he slowly walked through the wynd. Nothing. But Lady Elizabeth and any other unfortunates could have been loaded onboard while they were checking other buildings.
    Finally, he reached the windowless back of the building where the man was standing. Dougal peered in through a hole left by crumbled mortar, holding up his lantern. Waiting with his breath held for the sake of utter stillness, he scanned the room, glancing over the oddly piled grain sacks. At the very least the owner was careless of his goods. When he didn’t see any movement, he kept walking along the building and was rewarded by finding an ancient wooden door that would open onto the wynd. A padlock kept the hasp in place. He pulled out his picklocks. The simple lock offered up its mysteries in only moments, and he soon had it off the door. Mindful of the man on the opposite side, he put his whistle in his mouth, ready to alert the constables if he needed them, and closed the shutters on his lantern.
    He tensed as he pulled the battered old door open, afraid it would squeak, but the hinges were oiled, suspicious in itself. Silently, he crept in, breathing as shallowly as possible. He saw the man in the doorway through the warehouse. Someone in the street called out to him and he stepped away.
    Dougal took the opportunity to slide open one of his lantern shutters an inch and swept it across the room. He saw a strange, heavy shadow behind one waist-high mound of sacks and crept forward, half his attention on the open front door.
    A faintish hitch of sound met his ears. When his ankle was grabbed, he nearly lost his balance and fell to one knee. He reached for a pistol as the lantern swayed.
    “Lower it!” hissed a female voice next to him.
    He closed the lantern shutter, but not before seeing the slack faces of two sleeping women above the open mouths of the sacks. “Lady Elizabeth?” he whispered.
    “Ooo’s that?” said the voice. “Are you with those slavers?”
    He bent over one of the women he thought was sleeping to make sure he could feel breath. When he put his palm over her mouth, he felt a soft exhalation. “No. I’m looking for Lady Elizabeth Shield.”
    From his left came a strained female voice. “Manfred?”
    “He’s not with me,” Dougal said. “But we need tae leave quickly. I have constables waiting.”
    Immediately, the lump he was closest to started crawling toward the back of the room. He watched the shape tumble as her knees were caught in her skirts, but she righted herself and kept going. Soon, another dark shape detached itself from a pile of sacks, but instead of moving backward it gave a little grunt of pain and collapsed. Why weren’t any more of the shapes moving? Were they exhausted? Drugged? Dead? He could not help them all.
    Dougal holstered his pistol and crawled over. “Are you ill?”
    “My head hurts,” said a cultured voice with a Scots accent. “They hit me terribly hard and I seem to be too dizzy to walk.”
    He set down his lantern. While it wasn’t the accent she’d used as a maid, he was willing to believe Lady Elizabeth capable of endless deception. “I’ll pick you up,” he said, feeling around on the floor.
    The first thing his fingers touched was a lock of hair. He kept reaching until he found her shoulders, then found her knees with his other hand. When he had her slight body against his