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He turned to the window, back to the room, and read it again, because the first reading gave him the words and the second gave him the address, and the address sat in his chest like a coal taking hold.

He folded the letter along its creases and put it in his coat pocket. Then, he turned.

Eloise was watching him from across the room. She held the rabbit with both hands at her sternum. The Runners were still standing exactly where they were. And Daniel, who had stood by the far wall since the door opened, was very quiet in a way that was entirely unlike him. He had no doubt noticed the tension in Adam’s shoulders.

“Daniel,” Adam called then.

Daniel came forward without being asked twice, and the easy manner was gone. He understood, from the moment Griffiths stepped aside in the doorway, that something was wrong. He stopped beside Eloise and held out his hand.

Eloise looked at it, then looked at her father once before she placed her hand in his.

“Right,” Daniel said, “I have it on excellent authority that Mrs. Priscilla has been holding a tray of shortbread since three o’clock for reasons she has not yet explained to anyone. Shall we go and get to the bottom of it?”

Eloise looked at Adam. Her chin was at the angle she held it when she was keeping her face from doing something she did not want it to do.

He crossed the room and crouched in front of her. He put one hand on her cheek; the cold skin, the loose curls at her temple, the mark at her wrist he had already checked and checked again. He looked at her until he had her properly fixed in him.

“Come back soon,” she said. It was not a question, and it was not quite a command. It was what it was—what she needed him to do.

“Yes,” he said. “I will, and I will bring… Mama back.”

Eloise gave a single short nod, the kind she gave when she had accepted a term and considered it settled. She turned to Honeysett. “You said shortbread.”

“I said I had it on excellent authority,” Daniel said, his tone bright despite the tension still thrumming underneath the surface around them. “Subtly different.” He met Adam’s eyes over the top of her head for a second, and nothing in his face required words.

Adam stood, straightened his coat, and looked at the two Runners with him, both of whom had their hats already in hand. “Let us go,” he said, and went through the door without looking back, because he had learned, six years ago in the gray light by a lake, that sometimes there was only one direction you could afford to face.

Today was one of the days when that was certainly true for him.

Outside, the street was cold and wet and the evening light was going. He went down the front steps at a pace that was nearly running, and the Runners fell into step behind him without instruction.

He had the address. He had the distance. He had nothing else in him but the arithmetic of both.

“No one is coming,” Penhurst said with the type of glee that sent a shiver of disgust and fear down Juliet’s spine.

He came away from the locked door slowly, his hands clasped behind his back. He moved as though he had budgeted the full afternoon for this room. “You did not tell your husband where you were going. You did not alert the Runners. You walked into this house alone and gave your name to no one on this street.” He crossed toward the sideboard. “I find that rather convenient.”

Juliet did not move backward. Backward was the wall, and the wall was the end of it. She stayed in the center of the room, kept her chin level and her eyes on his face, and did not look at the side table to her left. You did not look at the thing you intended to use until the moment you used it.

“What do you intend?” she said.

He tilted his head. “I believe I have made that fairly clear.”

“You made clear that you wanted me here,” she said. “You were less clear about what comes after tonight.” She watched him lift the decanter and pour without haste. “A man who arranged what you arranged today does not act without a plan for the morning.”

He turned with the glass, his eyes narrowed. “You are trying to keep me talking.”

“I am asking a reasonable question,” Juliet argued, though the pulse at the base of her neck was beating too fast.

He almost smiled. Penhurst moved away from the sideboard, crossing the floor in a long, unhurried arc that put the writing table between them.

“Your husband,” he said, “will find you gone. When he finds the child returned to him, unharmed, he will no doubt assume that you left of your own accord. By the time any other explanation occurs to him, the situation will have been resolved.” He drank. “He is a thorough man, I grant him that, but thoroughness requires a trail, and I told you not to leave one.”

At those words, Juliet could not help the slow curving of her lips. “Oh, but you are wrong,” she said, watching with relish as Penhurst’s withered face wrinkled further in confusion.

“What? What do you mean by that?” he demanded angrily.

“He has the address,” she said, and Penhurst slowly lowered the glass.