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hall. Her frown was replaced with a smile of delight.
    ‘Florian’s here!’ She hurried down one of the broad corridors towards the drawing room but, hearing raised voices, she drew up short.
    The door into the drawing room was ajar and she could see two men inside. Florian Quince, a bespectacled older man, and her cousin Edgar, exquisitely dressed as usual, with a drink in hand (also
as usual). Whatever she thought of his character, Citrine could not deny that Edgar was a handsome chap, with a square jaw, narrow nose and elegant brow. His dark hair was always in place and his
eyes were an unusually attractive hazel. But there was an ever-present thin-lipped sneer on his face. Edgar had many admirers among the young girls of Degringolade – undoubtedly his wealth
added to his attractiveness – but Citrine knew that he was too selfish to pay attention to any of them for long. Apart from himself, Edgar’s greatest love was for money.
    Edgar was talking stridently, in fact disrespectfully, to Florian. ‘Listen here, Quince, you’re just the company solicitor. I own Capodel Chemicals now and I run the
Manufactory.’
    ‘True,’ continued Florian evenly, ‘but there are rumours in the city that you are gambling heavily, associating with undesirables and drinking. Your uncle would not have
approved.’
    Citrine saw Edgar’s familiar shrug. ‘Rumours! They prove nanything. I have a dozen friends who would say they aren’t true. Besides, my private life is nothing to do with the
business,’ he said. ‘And I’ll thank you not to come round here and start an argument you can’t win. Your time would be better spent sorting out Uncle Hubert’s will and
handing over my share. Just declare him officially dead and let me claim my rightful inheritance at last.’
    Florian smiled knowingly. ‘Ah, I wondered when you would come to that.’
    So did I, thought Citrine from her hiding place. It’s all you’ve been talking about for the last month.
    ‘Edgar,’ said Florian, ‘you recall when you promised your uncle to give up gambling and drinking?’
    Edgar stopped mid-sip. ‘Yes, what of it?’
    ‘Well, I have proof, Depictions in fact, that you were inebriated at the card table in the Bonchance Club only last week.’
    Edgar’s face darkened. ‘Depictions? You mean images of me captured by one of those newfangled machines? Citrine has one. What’s it called again?’
    ‘A Klepteffigium.’
    ‘Yes, that’s it. Have you two been spying on me?’
    ‘Not I, but a reputable source. And I have been told that all is not well at the Manufactory.’
    Edgar snorted. ‘Oh, so you believe the word of a disloyal worker and a couple of Depictions over me? I am the rightful heir to the Capodel fortune, including the Manufactory, and I shall
do with it as I wish.’
    ‘You forget the condition.’
    Edgar stiffened. ‘What condition?’
    ‘The condition in Hubert’s will that if you gamble, or drink to excess, you will forfeit your inheritance rights for five years. Citrine, naturally, will still inherit her
share.’
    Edgar paled, visibly shocked.
    ‘Now, as you have reminded me so often, Hubert has been gone the requisite number of days to be declared legally dead. I will submit the papers to the Degringolade Office of Records
tomorrow, and then we can meet to read the will.’
    ‘About time.’ Edgar took a large draught of his drink and it seemed to calm him somewhat, but Citrine could see that his hand was shaking. He shot a menacing look at Florian.
‘Hubert never said that condition was in the will. Domne! You sly old devil. You drew up the will. Did you tell him to do this?’
    Florian tapped the side of his nose and smiled. ‘Hubert knew his own mind. Of course, I will have to appoint someone to replace you at the Manufactory.’
    Edgar’s mouth dropped open. ‘No! You can’t!’
    Florian smiled. ‘I can and I will. It’s only for five years, Edgar. After that we can review the situation.