"I was afraid they would send you back to France," I said as Henri wrapped me in his arms. "I thought I might never see you again."

His lips brushed mine. "I told you not to worry."

"How could I not? The law is seldom kind."

"It was more on my side than you know," he said, tightening his hold on me a little. "But if they had sent me home, I would have taken you with me."

I leaned away from him far enough to meet his eyes. "To France?"

"Mais oui. Why not?" He tilted his head. "Besides, when my work here is done, I will return, regardless. I hope not to travel alone."

"I..." Arguments rose and fell in my mind. I seized upon one. "My family is here."

"Family?"

Even to me, it made poor sense, but I persisted. "This house is all I have."

"Ah." Henri's expressive features shifted from confusion to compassion, which landed too close to pity for my pride. "You tend your memories like a grave. In France, we could share a life."

I took a step back, breaking free of his grasp. "I have a life, Henri. It may not seem like much to you, but it is mine."

Surprise, and then frustration crossed his face. I almost flinched; he saw it anyway and softened his stance.

"I did not mean to suggest otherwise," he said. "I spoke clumsily. Of course it is not an easy decision, nor one I demand that you make. Forgive me."

This startled a laugh out of me.

Henri blinked. "What is funny?"

I shook my head. "I'm not used to apologies. I can't remember a disagreement with Paul that ended well."

He frowned. "I do not think we disagree. But it is a matter for another time. I am sure you've been busy. Fill me in."

The shift from lovers' quarrel to strategy was not unwelcome. I assented and led him to my studio, happy to demonstrate my plan. It helped that he did not withhold his admiration.

"This is a spark of genius," he said as he examined the paintings I'd made.

"We can only hope that Harold believes in ghosts," I said. "And that fear will make him show his hand."

"With what you have discovered already, we won't need to see his cards. A tell would be enough." He smiled at my quizzical look. "I have not been sitting idly in jail."

"You let me worry for nothing?" I asked, only half-teasing.

"No, not for nothing. I have been busy with my own stratagems. Fortunately, Barrington was unaware that I am operating within a web of international cooperation. A call to the French consulate, via my lawyer, and from there a telegram to France, was enough to straighten things out. The rest was paperwork."

He reached into his pocket and withdrew a slim envelope, which I recognized, having received one myself.

"You're invited to Rachel's party?"

He chuckled. "No, not at all. But I know a dealer who was, and convinced him to let me take his place."

"Paul won't be happy to see you," I remarked.

"I should hope not," he said, amused. His smile turned mischievous. "Now, we've a whole day before the curtain rises on our little play. How shall we spend the time?"

I made a show of checking the clock. "I've been working all day, and I'm rather tired."

He rested his hands on my hips and drew me towards him. "Then, shall we go to bed?"

"Mais oui. Why not?" I said, and took him there.

***

I would have liked to lounge in the sheets with Henri (though mine were plain cotton and not nearly as fine as his) until at least noon, but neither nerves nor propriety allowed it. Henri slipped from my door before seven, returning home to make his own preparations, while I went through a last rehearsal.

There were knowns and unknowns in every performance, and as Eddie had told me, the greatest of these was how an audience would react. It was the one for which I could not prepare, and on which my entire success hinged.

At six, I dressed — not in one of the fine suits Henri had ordered for me, but one of the old ones I'd inherited from Eddie, packed up my artillery with care and set out for battle.

A cab dropped me at Rittenhouse Square. Paul's townhouse glowed, every window ablaze with light. A dark house was a poor house, as Paul had once opined, and his own advertised a man with the means to throw his bride-to-be a proper birthday bash.

I approached the door and found my path blocked by an unfamiliar footman, perhaps hired for the event.

He looked me up and down, noted my battered valise, and raised his hand. "Service entry's 'round the side," he said.

I handed him my invitation. He took it and read it carefully, as if checking a banknote for signs of forgery, before dropping it onto a tray which held a dozen others already.

"Apologies, sir," he said gruffly, and stepped aside.

I passed through the foyer and found the party already in full swing.

Ribbons festooned the bannisters, glittering confetti littered the floor, and flowers erupted from opulent bouquets. A jazz orchestra played a lively tune, mixed with voices and laughter, as people mingled and sipped champagne. Three servers in crisp uniforms circulated with trays of various hors d'oeuvres.

I stood awkwardly, valise in hand, uncertain how to proceed. I recognized a few faces, but none belonged to anyone I would have called a friend. Rachel stood surrounded by the largest group, the center of a circle into which I dared not intrude.

Doubt and regret crept upon me as I watched her, golden light glinting on her hair and from the sequins on her dress. If I had not revealed her father's stray thought, she might never have become entangled with Paul. Whatever embarrassment she suffered as a result would be partly my fault.

Paul appeared, dapperly dressed and flashing a dazzling smile at each guest. His expression changed when he spotted me. He approached, a barely suppressed smirk on his lips, and drew me into a side hall.

"All in order?" he asked.

"Yes, I'm prepared to be convincing," I said, gripping my bag.

He glanced left and right to be sure we were unwatched, then hooked his finger in the collar of my shirt and pulled me closer. "It's good to have you back where you belong," he said, his breath ghosting against my cheek. "I took care of our little problem, by the way. He's probably halfway back to France by now."

I nearly choked and disguised it as a noise of relief. "Where will the séance be held? I should set up my things," I said, careful not to resist him.

"The drawing room. You've a larger audience this time." He leaned closer still, pressing me against the wall. My heart thudded so hard I wondered if he felt it against his chest. "Pull this off for me, and you'll be richly rewarded. I'll take you away somewhere. Just the two of us for a weekend. Martha's Vineyard, maybe."

I shuddered with revulsion. Not very long ago, this promise would have appealed to me. Now I suspected that anywhere I went alone with Paul would be a one-way trip.

A burst of female laughter sounded from the main room. Paul let me go and stepped back. "On you go then," he said, nodding towards the end of the corridor and the narrow back stairs. "Be quick about it and join us for dinner. Rachel was glad to know you'd attend."

With a nod of acknowledgement, and another twinge of secret guilt, I left him and made my way upstairs.

***

My preparations were more elaborate this time. I had worried I wouldn't be able to do it alone, but with Henri acting secretly as my assistant, I felt more confident than I had since Eddie let me help him pull parlor tricks.

There were strings, and bits of phosphorous, hidden bells, and a bag of air. Odd bits and bobs on their own, but together, the weavings of my greatest, and likely final, act.

Once I'd finished, I returned downstairs and did my best to appear more like a bored guest than a guilty criminal.

Rachel spotted me before long and absorbed me into her circle, which spared me some awkwardness but forced me to endure Miss Lancaster's overtures of flirtation. My nerves were so flayed I nearly jumped out of my skin when she reached up to brush some imaginary fleck from the back of my collar. Fortunately, she only laughed at me, and my reaction inspired neither suspicion nor offense. I weathered the rest of the small talk well enough, and sagged with relief when a chime announced that we should move into the dining room for supper.

It was on my way there that I caught Paul's look from across the room. It was not directed at me, but the cold fury in his eyes kindled old fears. I turned and saw the cause: having just arrived with his walking stick in hand, stood Henri.

Paul plastered on a grin, more wolflike than friendly, and stalked across the room to intercept him. The pair exchanged 'pleasantries,'‌ and Henri presented his letter and secondhand invitation.

Mr. Shirley, of Shirley & Sons Art Gallery, regretted to inform Mr. Barrington that he would be unable to attend. However, as he had a keen interest in the works to be shown, he presented Mr. Deschamps, as an expert and mutual acquaintance, to stand in his place.

On the assumption that Henri would be unaware that Paul had pulled strings to have him arrested, Paul had no choice but to play along. It wasn't kind, but I did enjoy watching him seethe beneath his smooth veneer, his rage betrayed by little signs I'd learned to spot too well: the twitch of his left fingers, and the way his posture went rigidly straight.

As we went into the dining room and found our places at tables, Paul sidled up behind me and whispered in my ear.

"Seems the mutt has slipped his leash," he muttered. "I hope you've planned a good show. He's not fooled easily."

He had no idea.

I took my seat. The tables were long and rectangular this time, with gentlemen on one side and ladies on the other. I sat between Paul and one of the art dealers — a young, bespectacled fellow who spoke excitedly of a woman artist named Georgia O'Keeffe, the descriptions of whose works made me blush.

Henri sat several seats further down, too far to converse, but near enough for me to hear when he deftly steered the conversation to spirits and experiences of the unknown. Paul had done a good job selecting this bunch, I thought, as the reception proved enthusiastic. It would make easy work of conjuring belief.

Meanwhile, my nerves frayed thread by thread as the meal progressed. I engaged in conversation while hardly knowing what I said, and forced myself to eat through three courses of leek soup, crab cakes with asparagus, and filet mignon, despite the food tasting like ash on my tongue and sticking in my throat.

At last, after a dessert of strawberry shortcake with whipped cream, dinner came to an end.

Then, as Paul rose, took Rachel by the hand, and moved to the dance floor, I groaned internally.

It was her birthday, and as the guest of honor she couldn't simply vanish for an hour to a secluded room, leaving the rest of the party behind.

Miss Lancaster blinked coquettishly and extended her hand. I considered pleading my weak heart to get out of dancing with her, but Henri caught my eye and gave me the slow, amused wink of a sleepy cat.

Imagine me in her place.

Whether this thought was mine or his, I couldn't tell, for it did not feel like an intrusion. I'd kept my mind carefully guarded, too, saving my strength for the seance, but the more tired I became, the easier it was for thoughts to break through.

I danced several songs with her, until I could excuse myself without seeming rude.

The hour hand approached ten before Paul began a game of Chinese whispers, whereby to alert the invited group that the séance would soon begin. By that time, the wolves of exhaustion prowled at the edges of my mind, and as I rose to join them stray thoughts and impressions slipped past my guard.

...Had too much already, but what's one more glass?...

...Fat oaf stepped on my toes. Smells like pickles...

...Nice legs. Like to get between 'em...

...Lying cheat...

...Handsome chap...

...Filthy whore...

...Kill him...

I gritted my teeth and caught myself on a table. The overheard scraps cost me little, but I would need my full reserve for the task ahead. As I took a steadying breath and regained my composure, a light touch landed on my arm.

"Alec?" Rachel hooked her elbow with mine. "Are you unwell?"

"I'm fine." I waved her off. "A mild headache."

"I've heard that mediums often suffer from migraines," she observed knowingly as she led me towards the stairs.

Ahead of us, Henri paused and looked back at me before continuing on.

"I thought Paul had that Frenchie in hand. But if you want something done right..."

I stopped in my tracks. Rachel blinked up at me. "Is something wrong?"

She clearly had not spoken aloud, and yet, as when I had overheard her at the auction, I was certain the voice was hers.

"I... Beg pardon. I thought you said something."

She laughed and nodded towards the stairs. "Not at all. Shall we head up?"

I sought Henri, but he was deep in conversation with the other dealers, and as we climbed after them, my heart sank with each step.

How far did Paul's web extend, I wondered, and which spider waited at the center?