Mr. Roseingrave held out the papers, as Sophie struggled on. But the weight of attention had shifted now, to the drama playing out in the front row.
Mr. Giles snatched the pages from the piano maker’s hand and peered at them, shuffling through them slowly and then faster and faster. Maddie knew what he saw there: every page bearing the same three letters, tall and bold and mocking:
IOU
Maddie watched realization dawn on his face and turn it a pale and sickly green.
Concert utterly forgotten, Mr. Giles leaped up from his seat and raced down the aisle. Mr. Roseingrave hurried after him. Listeners cried out as the figures blocked their view, and a few voices called out objections.
The spell that had held the audience rapt was finally shattered. Sophie’s waltz broke off entirely.
She twisted on the piano bench, her face horrified as the murmur of the audience grew more urgent. People were standing up, turning to face the back of the hall, craning their necks to see what all the fuss was about.
The sudden break in the music left a gap—something had to fill it.
Maddie stood from her chair and began making her way toward the exit.
Mr. Giles reached the back and looked wildly around. Finally, his gaze lighted on Alice. where Alice stood guarding donations like a dragon guarding its hoard. “Where is she?” he demanded, anger making his voice heedlessly loud.
The audience all swiveled to see.
Alice—fair, slight Alice, who looked so fragile and meek, and who was anything but—could only shake her head.
Mr. Giles cursed.
The murmurs of the crowd acquired a disapproving color. Maddie saw one gentleman she knew to be a trustee of the Carrisford Bank of Savings come up to take Mr. Giles gently by the elbow, whispering something softly in his ear.
“No!” Mr. Giles shook him off, his eyes wide and white, the red coming and going from his cheeks as he grappled with this disaster. He demanded again, turning wildly toward all corners of the room. “Where is Mrs. Money?”
Heads shook, shoulders shrugged.
By the door, Maddie pulled in a breath. “She went this way!” she cried.
And turned to run.
They found her easy enough to follow, thanks to all those silver spangles on her dress. By the time Maddie reached the street, there were a handful of people running alongside her: Mr. Giles sprinting with all his panic and power, Mr. Roseingrave with his long legs eating up the ground, quick and lithe Alice. They slowed a little as they poured out the doorway, searching for signs of the older woman’s flight.
“There!” Alice cried, pointing. A green-clad figure at the end of the street, running left to right. Gold rosettes stood out against the green bodice, and the hem bristled with flounces.
Judith Wegg—not Mrs. Money—but not even Maddie could tell from so far away.
With Maddie in the lead, the crowd took off in pursuit.
Another corner, another dress—impossibly far ahead. “How could such an old bitch move so fast?” Mr. Giles hissed, panting. Maddie didn’t spare the breath to reply; she was busy trying to keep at the head of the hunt.
They passed by the Mulberry Tree, blazing like a beacon in the night. A few gentlemen several sheets to the wind stopped to holler in outrage as the crowd roared around and past them.
“To the left!” Maddie panted, pointing to where a green-clad woman sprinted toward St. Severus.
Mary Fisin, Maddie thought as she wheezed for breath, had a surprising turn of speed.
They followed for another two turns before the figure vanished once more. They were close to the castle now, and the crowd was flagging. Mr. Roseingrave dropped out and was replaced by a young man who looked like a consumptive clerk but who ran like the wind. Alice was now at the head of a tangle of older boys baying with delight like a group of hounds let loose on the tail of a fox. “She’s heading for the river!” one of the boys cried, as the figure in the green gown dashed across the top of the old ramparts.
It was Mrs. Money in truth this time—the twists and turns Maddie had taken had given the older woman plenty of time to get here ahead of her pursuers.
The crowd burst out of the streets and onto the rampart just in time to see their prey hasten down the river stairs toward the rushing water. A small boat was tied to a dock there—the woman scrabbled into it, the skiff bobbing and bucking in the current. She reached for the metal cleat where the boat was tied and began yanking at the ropes.
The ramparts were high enough above that everyone could see what happened next.
