Up Jane-one went, a reverse dive, landing perfectly on the ledge just underneath the dome. She couldn’t have had more than two inches to land on. Didn’t pause. Lifted a frame from the wall. Didn’t turn. Leaped backward into the air, gilt gleaming as she fell. Jane-two swung out from the other side, caught her by the feet. Together they swung toward the French doors. Out went the painting, a straight throw, to the nets and waiting hands beyond.
Back to their perches. And this time Jane-two was off.
It’s happening, Winnie thought. She felt an extraordinary sense of rightness, of purpose. Perhaps it was hubris.
“Can they go any faster?” she asked Mrs. Bone.
Did the girls hear? Jane-two was lifting a diptych from the wall. Its hinges creaked as she did so. Its illuminated boards must have swung open as she lifted off, affecting her balance, breaking her dive. Winnie gasped as she slipped from her swing.
A cry, piercing the silence. Jane-one, already launching off from her swing. A shriek from Jane-two as the diptych and gravity pulled her toward the marble floor.
Winnie couldn’t help it. She closed her eyes.
“Aah…” grunted Mrs. Bone, rigid beside her.
Winnie opened her eyes.
Jane-one had latched her ankles to the second swing. She had swung out to grab Jane-two. The girls were dangling together, the diptych hovering—safely—above the floor.
“Faster, my arse,” said Mrs. Bone, clutching Winnie’s arm.
Out in the garden, Mrs. King shook William’s hand away. Mrs. Bone’s men circled them, eyes dark.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Mrs. King gasped.
He stood back. “You think I don’t know that?” His eyes flashed. “I’ve been watching your lot all night. You think I don’t know what it means when half a dozen packing crates go up in the lift for no reason? When half the guests keep sending me off for more wine and then tip it straight out of the window? When someone comes down shouting ‘Fire!’ because she’s having a fag?”
The men drew closer.
“For heaven’s sake, Dinah,” William said. “What do you need?”
Her heart tilted. It was gratitude. It ran right through her.
“Well?”
“Give us a hand,” she said, letting out her breath. “I need to find my sister.”
She turned and ran.
Alice had raced to the park.
She crossed Rotten Row, her boots leaving footprints in the sand. She didn’t bother to scuff them over. Who cared if she left tracks now? She could hear the crowd of guests gathered outside the house, on the wide stretch of grass opposite Stanhope Gate. She wasn’t going anywhere near it.
She remembered Winnie’s instructions. There were only four exits from the house. Front door. Tradesman’s. Mews gate. Garden door. She picked the mews gate.
She was followed, of course. As she knew she would be. She sensed it first, the tingling in her skin. A twig cracking underfoot.
That voice.
“You got it?” The debt collector, dry and hoarse, as if he was longing for a drink, as if he’d lost the last remnants of his patience.
Ten feet away, said her mind.
“I said, Have you got it?”
She turned. A plane tree soared above him, boughs reaching for the heavens. He must have taken a great arching loop across the park to intercept her.
She approached him slowly. “How much do I owe?” she asked.
She unbuttoned her apron. Her uniform made her look so useless, so small. She didn’t feel special; she didn’t feel like a soldier anymore. She rifled in her pocket.
He named the sum. It almost made her laugh in despair. The price for her salvation. The cost of betrayal. Was that it? Would her fear simply vanish when she’d paid her debt? She held the money in her apron.
When she’d left Madam’s bed she’d opened the bureau. Rummaged as silently as she could, among the silk stockings and envelopes containing banknotes and cash. She knew which drawer to open: she’d seen it opened many times before. She knew exactly where Miss de Vries kept her personal funds.
Behind her, a figure moved between the trees. “Don’t go anywhere near her.”
The man whirled round. So did Alice. In that moment Alice’s shame bloomed: the night opened up around her, all-seeing.
“Dinah,” she breathed, agonized.
For there was Mrs. King: panting, gloves off, hat tilted at a vicious angle. Clearly, she’d come running, tracking Alice across the park.
“I mean it,” Mrs. King said. “Get away from her.” She was holding a knife.
The man studied the knife. He looked at Alice. “Who’s this?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.
Alice shook her head, raised her hands. “Dinah, don’t. It’s nothing—it’s fine.”
Mrs. King’s eyes flashed in the gloom. “It’s not fine,” she said. Her voice sounded throttled, scared. She didn’t sound herself at all. She turned to the debt collector. “Who are you?”
“I’ll do you the courtesy of telling you to clear off,” the man said. “And I’ll only say it once.”
Alice had never seen her sister do it. She’d only heard about it. The neighbors said that Dinah could be violent. That she could make grown men weep. Alice had never been able to credit it. And yet now, as Mrs. King stepped quickly toward the debt collector, she understood. It was like watching a demon, a soft-footed sort of devil. Mrs. King sheathed her knife and came at him without a hint of fear. She drove into him, white gloves balled into fists.
“Ah—” said the man. He flailed, righting himself, reaching into his pocket. Alice saw the dull gleam of silver, the black eye facing her.
A pistol.
The park swayed, a gust of wind roaring through the trees. Mrs. King staggered.
Calmly, breathing fast, the man centered himself. His arm was steady.
“You shouldn’t have done that,” he said.
He lifted his pistol.
“I’ve got the money!” Alice’s voice was strangled. She drew out a fistful of banknotes from her apron, keeping her eyes only on the gun. “Here, here. See? You can count it. Take what I owe.”
Slowly, he came to her. He smelled ripe, as if he needed to bathe, but his overcoat still carried the faintest whiff of gardenias. “Show me.”
He kept the pistol on Mrs. King and Alice unfolded banknotes with shaking hands. He sniffed, held out his hand. Folded it all away in the lining of his coat.
“This was a bad business,” he said, staring her in the eye. “You’re lucky.”
He swiveled the pistol away. Tipped a finger to Mrs. King. “Good day to you.”
Alice didn’t watch him trudging away through the trees. She felt no relief. She closed her eyes. The plane trees were whispering, worrying, overhead.
She heard Mrs. King’s voice, tight, and from a distance. “Alice,” she said. “Are you safe?”
“Dinah,” she said. “I’ve been in trouble.”
At last, Miss de Vries got out of bed. It was a sound that did it. An echo of something, crystalline and pure, at the outermost edges of her consciousness.
A cry.
She ran a hand across the rippled surface of her sheets, instincts stirring.
When she rolled the bedroom doors back, the air around her felt as if it had been hollowed out, immeasurably expanded. The lights were burning, same as always, in the passage. But she saw the wrongness at once. The floor: glossy black paint, obsidian smooth. It made her dizzy. Someone had taken up her splendid carpets. They’d left only the bare, stained boards underneath.