Henri admired the portrait long enough for me to grow more acutely aware than ever of the fact I was its subject, and that I had painted myself unclothed.

"It isn't very good," I hedged. "I've painted things that are technically better, but nothing more..."

"True," Henri supplied, and shook his head. "A pity it can't be shown."

I hugged my elbows and said nothing more.

We returned downstairs. I hovered by the door.

"I feel rather ridiculous to have called you here," I admitted. "I'm afraid I was a bit dramatic."

"You have nothing to regret," Henri assured me kindly.

I shifted from side to side. "It is only that you don't know Paul as I do. He's relentless once he gets his teeth into a thing."

Henri laid his hand on my arm. Since our first meeting, he'd warmed to me so gradually that it had escaped my notice until that moment, when I did not recoil. "I may not know Barrington," he said, "but I know his type well enough. I understand your fears."

"You don't, though," I argued, moving out of his reach. "Not entirely. I told him I would be your guest at the auction, thinking to allay suspicion, but then..."

"Barrington bit too hard upon the bait, and you feared you endangered me by mere association," he said. "Do you still wish to attend?"

I hesitated; perhaps he wished me to say no, but he'd spent money on me already. "It's a little late to change my mind."

He shook his head. "Let me be clear: I want you there. With your help, I have a better chance of finding what I seek. But I will not coerce you, especially if you are unwell."

"I am always unwell, to some degree," I said, smiling grimly. "But I wish to help."

"Then I will see you there." He bowed, and was gone.

I collapsed upon the couch and sat for a long time, replaying the exchange in my head until I had memorized it too well.

Later, I allowed myself a longer, hotter bath than usual, and lay down for several hours to rest. In the afternoon, I rose and dressed in the fine silk suit and black shoes, dabbed cologne beneath my jaw and on my wrists, and — although I disliked the greasy texture — slicked my hair with pomade.

As I stood before the mirror and straightened the black bowtie at my throat, I assessed my reflection. Though not in danger of sharing Narcissus's fate, I could not deny I cut a trim and well-proportioned figure — all credit to the tailor, of course.

At four, I took a cab to the corner of Broad Street and Walnut, where the grand hotel stood in all its nineteen floors of ornate French Renaissance glory, and joined a small crowd that had gathered before the entryway. I hovered on the sidewalk a moment, unsure whether I ought to enter or wait outside, when another car pulled up and Henri stepped forth.

"Alec." His face lit with unguarded pleasure as he walked to meet me. "You are magnificent."

I laughed, imagining this was some mistranslation on his part. "You're a proper sight as well. Shall we go in?"

"Yes, indeed."

He led the way through the glass doors, past the foyer, and into the opulent lobby. Crystal chandeliers hung from tiled ceilings, and delicate electric light fixtures, designed by Edison himself, bathed every detail in a golden glow.

We crossed a polished floor, past a long marble counter where clerks in hotel livery stood at attention. Henri drew curious stares, but when he showed his invitation a concierge directed him to where a group of guests waited by the elevators. I did not entirely trust "electric lifts," but without one our destination lay beyond my reach.

The doors of the gilded cage slid open, and we joined the others who packed themselves inside — men in suits and women in dresses amid a cloud of perfume and cologne. The conveyance rose sedately, pausing at several levels to let people off and on, until it reached the twelfth floor. We stepped forth, along with several others, into a broad corridor.

Lush carpet spread beneath our feet, and patterned brocade lined the walls. Doors to private rooms sat deep within molded frames. We passed these and went on to the end of the hall, where another concierge guarded a pair of double doors, checking invitations. Henri handed over his slim black card and claimed me as his guest.

Beyond the entrance lay one of the hotel's banquet halls. It could easily hold two hundred people at capacity, and had several anterooms attached.

"We will preview the items first," Henri murmured, nodding to the anterooms, which held the art, "followed by dinner. As we eat, the items will be taken to the auction hall, where we will reconvene for bidding."

"You still haven't told me what we're looking for," I pointed out.

"Purposely so," he said. "I do not want to influence whatever impressions you may receive."

"How will I know if I get anything useful, then?"

"Just listen — carefully, of course. I think you will know if there is something in what you hear."

It was early yet, and we were among the first to arrive. I recognized several of Paul's friends — Harold and Lucy Bowman, Margaret Lancaster, and Rachel with her father, Robert Durham.

Mr. Durham was a large man, tall as well as hefty, and easily filled a room with his rumbling voice and occasional booming laugh. He still wore his whiskers in mutton chops, though they'd gone out of style long ago, but was otherwise well-groomed and well-dressed, as befitted a man of his station.

He was deep in conversation with several others whom I didn't recognize, while the women stood together, sampling canapés and sipping champagne.

I aimed for the latter group, and Henri followed my lead. They looked up as we approached, recognizing us with varying degrees of surprise.

"Alec!" Rachel exclaimed, stepping to meet me and taking both my hands in hers. "Why, you look simply marvelous! Paul didn't tell me he'd invited you."

Her words carried unintended barbs, and I maintained my smile with care. Of course, I had no business being here except as someone's guest.

"He did not. I am here at Mr. Deschamps's invitation," I said.

"Oh!" She turned to him. "What a pleasant surprise. At the séance, I wondered if you were not more likely to become rivals than friends."

Henri bowed. "We are confrères," he said, with delicate coolness.

"Ah! And one needn't love one's colleagues to do business with 'em, eh?" This came from Mr. Durham, who had overheard our conversation and inserted himself into it with the force of a man who has never not belonged. "Robert Durham," he said, extending his hand to Henri.

"Henri Deschamps," said he, taking Durham's hand in the briefest hold with another slight bow.

"You remember Mr. Monroe, Father," Rachel prompted, resting her hand on my arm to signal familiarity.

His grizzled gaze swiveled my way. "Ah, yes. Paul's painterly friend. You did that nice portrait of my girl last spring. Decent work."

Pair of puffs, the both of them.

I winced as I shook Durham's hand. My gift worked rather like a radio antenna, with other people acting as transmitters. Some gave off such powerful signals that I picked them up involuntarily. Durham was one of those people, and I rarely enjoyed what I received.

With another round of light pleasantries, I excused myself, expressing a desire to preview the lots. Henri remained behind, engaged in a conversation on Spiritualism with Rachel and her friends.

I wandered into the first of the anterooms. Tables and glass cases lined the walls, lit by electric lamps that cast a cozy glow over the artifacts but left the rest of the room in an intimate gloom. As I began my perusal, I lowered my mental barriers a little.

Most people's thoughts were not as loud as Durham's and required more active listening to overhear. It was akin to switching on the radio and spinning the dial, not caring what came through. Like treading water, I could sustain this level of effort for some time without great cost.

Other attendees browsed alongside me, some with companions and some alone. Several appeared to be professional dealers or museum representatives, with magnifying lenses and printed lists against which to compare, but most seemed to be private buyers of Paul's financial sphere.

Their thoughts and impressions came to me in glimpses.

"...pretty, but no real value..."

A hint of despair; of longing.

"...she's got a nice arse, but her face..."

Humor. Something blue.

"...mid seventeenth-century and not a decade older..."

"...worthless..."

A flash of irritation.

"...fucking meddlesome Frenchie. Ought to snuff him out myself..."

I gasped audibly, drawing the attention of those nearby, and made a show of examining the very mundane set of cutlery over which I had paused to cover my reaction.

I glanced around me, wondering from which of my fellow guests this vile thought had come, but none stood out as suspects. The museum men were absorbed in close examination; the rest were bored. I continued my circuit at a quickened pace and emerged once more into the banquet hall.

On the other side, looking like a magazine cutout and deep in conversation with Henri, stood Paul Barrington. Hoping I was wrong, I crossed the room and approached.