She touched the floor with a toe. Cold.
Movement below. Footsteps, hundreds of them, unmistakable.
But no voices.
She stepped out into the passage.
38
3:00 a.m.
Winnie surveyed the courtyard. It was still filled with water, the abandoned rafts bobbing worriedly on the surface of the Nile. The garden was alive with activity, and she could hear a racket building in the mews: coaches and wheelbarrows and pony traps and boys with panniers over their shoulders. Cart after cart after cart was rattling away from Park Lane, out of sight of Hyde Park, taking the side streets and mews lanes and alleys of Mayfair. Enormous motors stood at the gates, spiriting the angels and triptychs and diptychs into the night. Winnie saw their agents observing proceedings from the gate. The whole underworld was out tonight.
She came back to the hall. The Janes appeared, limping.
“How much more time do you need?”
“Five minutes.”
Winnie tried to be calm. “Five more?” She had hoped they could be away by three. It had seemed very nearly impossible that they would keep the crowd in the park for even ninety minutes, even with their pyramid and their vans carefully blocking the junctions. “Give Alice the word. Let’s get Madam downstairs.”
“We haven’t seen Alice for hours.”
“Then find her. We need her to go and fetch—”
An out-of-breath, a voice above them: “Ah.”
Winnie turned, looked upward, and there stood Miss de Vries, motionless above them.
Miss de Vries had descended through her house the way she always did, passing the ballroom and the saloon, absorbing the great sweep of the grand escalier.
She looked down at the front hall. She didn’t gasp. Later she was glad she didn’t show that sign of weakness. But, really, it was because the air was sucked from her lungs. The silence, the vastness, the emptiness, took her breath away.
The light was too bright, the white marble too brilliant. The height of the hall seemed almost obscene, cathedral like, glistening. Ropes hanging from the roof. Sweat on the air.
She understood. Everything had been stolen from her.
It is extraordinary what the human brain can comprehend, what new realities it can absorb. It had always been unlikely, she thought, that she would be allowed to control this place, whether she loved it or not. This life had been fleeting, transitory. Only half-real, all along. She remembered how angry she had been, a few hours earlier, when that awful woman stole Papa’s old watch. A watch: a tiny thing. Nothing. She felt the urge to laugh: a hollow, dreadful sensation.
Then it burned away. She went all the way down the stairs, slowly.
Footsteps. A figure among many more, winking and glinting, beneath her.
Isis, painted, sequined, clambering on top of a box. A huge crate, at the foot of the grand escalier. “I told you,” the figure said to Miss de Vries, “that I would deliver you to your death.”
Miss de Vries had rung the bell when she’d awoken. Not the usual bell, the one that sounded in the servants’ hall. The emergency bell, the brass button in her father’s bedroom, the one that rang in Mr. Shepherd’s room.
But nobody had come. The house was empty.
“I will call for the constable,” she said, because she had to say something; she had to test her voice. It had risen; it very nearly wavered. “I will call for him at once!”
But Mrs. Bone had the constable. Three of her biggest men had him pinned to the ground, ignoring his grunts and moans. She stroked his hair, whispering, “And one silver muffineer, all noted, all recorded. So if you must run and get help, you’ll run awfully slowly, won’t you?”
Winnie watched Miss de Vries treading toward her, slow as a lioness, tongue running over her teeth.
Delay her, thought Winnie. Before she kills me.
“We would like to propose an arrangement,” Winnie said.
Silence.
Then, that voice. Low, careful. “‘We’？”
Winnie said nothing more.
Miss de Vries said, heavier, “What arrangement?”
Winnie stood up straight. “The property in this house has disappeared. It’s done and cannot be undone. It can never be recovered, at least not by you.”
Miss de Vries stared up at her, face masklike. Her eyes were like a cat’s, opaque and glassy.
“We have not touched your room. Although we have monitored most carefully what is contained within it. If you comply with our wishes, we will permit you to keep the contents of your trousseau, and we will preserve confidentiality over the circumstances of your—defenestration.”
“What are your wishes?”
Winnie shifted. She had expected more resistance from Miss de Vries.
“First: demolish this house.”
Silence.
Then: “Why?”
“It causes pain. It is a blight on you. It has harmed many others. I think you sense this.” Winnie paused. Then said, making her voice stronger: “Take it down. It must not burden anyone again.”
“What else?” The same cold voice, the same expression.
“We expect your complete withdrawal from society. You understand why. We cannot take any risks.”
“What risks do you fear?”
Winnie studied her. “A repetition of the crimes committed here.”
She saw that sharp and whittled mind working hard. A flash of fear, avoiding something. It vanished as quickly as it appeared.
“Anything else?” said Miss de Vries.
Winnie shook her head. “No.”
“What do I need to do?”
“Keep your guests at bay. We’ll finish up here.” Winnie folded her hands.
Risks were everything, in games. That’s what Mrs. King said. It wasn’t like rolling a dice or flipping a coin. These odds were many-sided: they could land any number of ways. Winnie hadn’t liked that one bit. She’d reasoned with Mrs. King, argued with her: She’ll call the constable, she’ll call for the footmen, she’ll have us arrested, she’ll never permit it…
Winnie remembered that Mrs. King had shaken her head. “She will permit it,” she’d said. “She’ll look at her options. She’ll consider them all.” She added, with a grim smile, “I can predict exactly what she’ll do.”
Winnie had been nearly despairing. But she saw those lights dancing in Mrs. King’s eyes. She didn’t argue.
Miss de Vries’s silence indicated that she was conducting internal deliberations. If she recognized Winnie’s voice, if it triggered a memory, or understanding, then she didn’t show it. She showed nothing at all.
“I have a personal fund,” she said, at last. “Emergency reserves, which sit outside the household accounts.” She paused. “I will need to keep that money.”
Winnie hadn’t bargained for this. Mrs. King had not discussed it with her. How much money could there be? she wondered. Enough to form a dowry, or a new household? Enough to make a deal with the devil?
“Keep my things,” said Miss de Vries, “but give me my independence.”
It stirred Winnie, to hear those words. She couldn’t help it. “Very well,” she said. “Do we have your agreement?”
Miss de Vries remained silent. Then she said, “What have you done with my father’s portrait?”