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had taken their place.
    Although it had long been open for viewing to the general public, I had never been interested in viewing the wealth of the British Monarchy. It was, upon reflection, a childish precept.
    Such treasures were not like to be seen aught else.
    I followed Lady Rutledge into the much cooler interior, my eyes caught on the many and impressive cases that housed the varied treasures. I noted heavy crowns encased in protective glass, scepters laid out, rings and necklaces, circlets and tiaras and no end of other such adornments. The royal pall was not in obvious attendance, though the treasury seemed to fill farther than I could see. There were five jewel-encrusted swords and scabbards, and each had its own name and necessity of use for a monarch’s coronation.
    The Ampulla used to anoint Her Majesty gleamed beside its Anointing Spoon, which—if I recalled correctly—was thought to be the oldest of the regalia.
    Treasures of priceless value surrounded me, esteemed as much for their sentimentality to the monarchy as for the noble metals and gems that made them.
    Lady Rutledge swept through all of this as though it were nothing at all, leaving me dazzled by the sparkle and shine in her wake.
    Sentries in the distinctive livery of the Yeomen Warders waited at rigid attention on either side of the door. As Mr. Darlington ushered us forward, a tall, exceptionally thin man unfolded from somewhere beyond the lights to take up nervous position by the imposing woman.
    “Now, then,” said Lady Rutledge, waving at the man. “This is Mr. Jodfrey, a representative of Garrard’s.”
    Some four decades past, Garrard & Co. had been named Crown Jewelers by Her Majesty’s appointment. It was their purview to maintain the regalia, polish and care for all of the treasures, and to make whatever bits of jewelry the Royal Family requested.
    I inclined my head to his uneasy bow. “A pleasure,” I said dutifully.
    He said nothing, spindly fingers nervously tapping. Beside him, gems sparkled and shone from pillows of red and gorgeously appointed violet.
    I frowned at the lady. “This is all very lovely,” I said when she watched me in silence. “But might I ask why I am here?”
    Zylphia bent over a case, studying the interior with eyes gone to narrowed slits.
    “First and foremost,” said the lady, gesturing to the sweating man I’d only just met, “I must inform you that as of now, you and your companion are held to the highest silence.” Mr. Jodfrey withdrew several leaves of parchment from a dossier held clamped in one hand. “You do not,” she added bluntly, “have the right to refuse.”
    “So I am bound,” I replied with some wryness to the tone. “I shall refrain from asking why me and ask instead what Her Majesty would have of me?”
    There were any number of reasons why I should be asked to help Her Majesty. They ranged from the innocent—my current role as pariah might afford this affair with some semblance of discretion—to the outright insidious—my role as a collector had become known to them what had the need for the sort.
    Given the events of the year past, it would not surprise me if certain intellectually minded members of Her Majesty’s agencies had come to know more of me than any knew of them.
    The smile that raised Lady Rutledge’s fleshy cheeks crinkled her eyes. It told me nothing of her own loyalties. “You waste no time on ridiculous questions. Lovely girl. Don’t tip your head,” she added firmly, and I straightened my posture by rote. “Sometime between eleven of the evening and three o’clock this morning, Wakefield Tower earned the dubious distinction of playing brief host to an uninvited guest.”
    “Impossible,” Zylphia said behind me. She did not say so in the tones of one who was skeptical, but as a statement of fact. I had little doubt that she had already taken notice of the various accoutrements in place—not the least of which being soldiers—to make this feat