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“I was dancing!” Sharp protested every step of the way. “I don’t want your muddy paws on me! Let go!”

As Rue pushed into the room at the end of the hall they met two women coming the other way. Both of them appeared to be orderlies, wearing a similar uniform to the man who had opened the front door with his face. The room itself was a lounge of sorts. A score of stained armchairs were scattered across a floor thick with rugs, as if abandoned by some giant child who’d been in the act of playing house. Half a dozen were occupied by old women, several of them asleep in their outmoded finery, brooches and feathers, silver chains and poorly applied rouge, all signs of futile attempts to cling to the glamorous lives that had abandoned them.

“Senna really did bring me to an old bird’s nest,” Rue muttered. “Or a nest of old birds.”

One of the two orderlies planted herself in their way. She opened her mouth to speak.

“You!” Rue stole the woman’s thunder, replacing any questioning with her own demand for an explanation. “What’s going on here?” She had meant to ask a better question but found when the time came to make the words that she had nothing more useful to say.

Perhaps it was only that the light was better inside and that the two orderlies could properly read the warnings written over every inch of Rue, the ones their colleague in the doorway had had the misfortune to miss. Or perhaps they were better judges of character. Either way, despite the fact that both clearly wanted to have their muddy intruder swiftly ejected, they made as nice as they could. The younger, blunt-faced woman, whose bristling hair reminded Rue of a hedgehog, closed the door behind them, while the older one addressed Sharp with apparent concern.

“Lady Mahalla, are you all right?”

“Maria!” Sharp put her hands dramatically over her heart. “I’m so hungry! What has Anton prepared for lunch?”

For a moment the woman seemed too astonished to reply. “Maria left us some years ago, Lady Mahalla. I’m Cheva. And Anton is making stew for dinner.”

“Stew?” Sharp’s face fell. She noticed Rue beside her and blinked in surprise before rallying herself. “Do you like stew…Muddy? It is Muddy, isn’t it?”

“Molly,” Rue said.

“Gulla, take Lady Mahalla to her chair, please.” As Rue reluctantly released Sharp into the care of the chunky young orderly, Cheva looked her up and down with a disapproving eye. “I don’t know who you are, and I do know you’re not supposed to be here, but you seem to have had a remarkable effect on Lady Mahalla.”

“I make her worse?”

“Worse?” The woman’s brows lifted. “She hadn’t spoken for a year. Catatonia of the old, our doctor called it. Then a couple of days ago she said something that upset the other ladies, and she got up out of that chair she’s been sat in most every day since she arrived here, and…”

“And what?”

“She started dancing. Didn’t say anything else. Just dancing. All the time in the ballroom. Didn’t need no music. And now she’s talking about dinner…” Cheva shook her head in amazement. “Who are you?”

“What was it that she said?” Over Cheva’s shoulder Gulla seemed to be having problems sitting Sharp in her chair.

Cheva hesitated, making the sign of Ordon, father of the eastern gods. “The darkness is coming. That was it. Just that. We had to give Madam Robin her powders, and Juna wouldn’t work anymore that day.”

“Well, she wasn’t wrong—” Rue broke off, raising her voice. “You keep pushing her if you want to get stabbed, dear. Just a friendly warning. Not me. Don’t look at me like that. Sharp’s the one who’ll stab you.”

Cheva rallied herself. “We can’t have talk like that at Marriot House. If you’re not family I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” She gestured hopefully towards the doors behind Rue.

Rue shrugged. “If she does, she does. I guess she hasn’t…” She was going to say stabbed anyone since she’s been here, but she knew that to be untrue. “So, tell me…” She circled her hand for the woman’s name. “So, tell me, Heva—”

“Cheva.”

“Tell me who pays for ‘Lady’ Mahalla here. Looks like it’s an expensive place to stable folk who’ve outstayed their welcome.”

“I can’t tell you that. Privacy is—”

“Privacy is all well and good, Heva, but I’ve killed one, possibly two, men since I got here, both times for disagreeing with me. So best not to be disagreeable, eh?” Rue gave the woman, probably twenty years her junior, her gap-toothed smile. “Who pays?”

The blood drained from the woman’s face. “A factor from Benith Town. But I heard he works for Minor Remon.”

“Minor Demon?”

“Remon.”

“Who the hell’s that?”

Despite her fear, Cheva couldn’t hide her surprise at Rue’s ignorance. “Part of Baron Mancer’s personal staff. Highly placed.”