"Where are we going?" I asked as Henri led me back down the stairs. I could not imagine he would leave the house without a jacket and tie.

"The basement," he said, and stopped to unlock a plain white door at the end of the hall.

It opened to reveal another set of stairs, leading into darkness. He reached for a switch on the wall, and an electric lamp flickered to life, bathing the L-shaped stairway in a yellow glow. We descended into cold, stale air, and I saw what looked very much like the storeroom of a museum.

Tables occupied the middle space, covered with arrays of artworks and historical relics: sculptures, weapons, jewelry, instruments, and everyday items such as ink-pots and candlesticks. Stacks of paintings leaned against one another, some wrapped in paper, others bare. Bookshelves lined the walls, packed with leather-bound volumes and curiosities of natural history. Antiquity spiced the air.

"What is all this?" I asked, staring about me in wonder as I slowly traversed the narrow, crooked path between tables and shelves.

Henri remained at the base of the stairs, watching me. "My collection," he said. "These are the artifacts I have recovered. Some were stolen, some looted; others traded hands by more legitimate means. My work is to repatriate them: to return them to their rightful owners or, if that is impossible, to a worthy caretaker, such as a reputable museum."

I looked up in surprise. "You found all these here? In Philadelphia?"

He shook his head. "No. I began in New York, but I received most of these from other..." he waved a hand, "...agents, if you will, from farther afield. My role is to establish proof of authenticity and provenance. Only when I am certain, when I have clear evidence, do I send an item on to its final home. My other duty is to stop those who feed the demand for such artifacts, and who trade in stolen or fraudulent goods."

"Paul said he met you in the auction circuit," I stated, beginning to piece things together.

"Yes. He'd asked me to help him verify the authenticity of a piece in his possession, which he thought to be the work of a Renaissance master. Almost anyone would have been fooled. It was the most brilliant forgery I had ever seen. He was not pleased, but was happy enough to let me take it off his hands."

Henri moved to a stack of canvases and looked through them, pulling one from the middle and setting it at the front. He gestured for me to approach and have a look.

I bent close, examining the brushwork and colors. It depicted a classical scene — the swan upon Leda — and might have been a lost Titian or Botticelli, but for the slight betrayals I only recognized for having seen them before.

"That little mark!" I pointed to it in the bottom-left corner. "Why, this is one of Thomas's!"

"So I suspected," Henri said mildly. "It is masterful. Not only is the style a perfect match for the period it imitates, but it has been aged artificially, showing signs of damage and of careful restoration, an entire invented history."

"What gave it away?" I asked.

"Thomas himself. That was the first time I received his impression: a feeling of intense distress, which drew my eye to that little mark you noted. Upon close inspection, with the help of a mirror and a magnifying glass, I deciphered it as his name, written almost microscopically and backwards."

I couldn't help but smile. "I helped him come up with that. But Paul knew it, too. He would have known this was a fake. And this style..."

I studied the painting again. The pieces all seemed vaguely familiar — the swan, the woman, the lily pond in the background, and the little cherubs with varied expressions of amusement and dismay — but together they were something new.

"You said Thomas did not create originals, but it seems he did something close," Henri said. "The elements are all taken from other pieces, but he's combined them into a new whole: something no one can claim to have seen before."

"But Thomas would never have wished to profit from deception," I said, frowning. "Just as Eddie and I revealed illusions by performing trickery, Thomas never pretended his paintings were anything but copies. That's what drew us together in the first place — honest frauds, he called us. That's why he signed it with his mark, so there was always something to give it away."

"Does Paul have other of Thomas's works?"

"Yes, several. There was one hanging in the sitting room where I gave the séance."

Henri nodded thoughtfully. He stood close enough that I could feel his warmth through the sleeve of my shirt. "That is where I sensed him the second time: sensed his fear for you, and thus discerned your connection to him. Given your profession and your performance at the séance, you must forgive me for suspecting your involvement in the business of forgery, as well."

Unexpectedly hurt, I stepped away from him. "That's why you've brought me here? To accuse me?"

He raised his eyes to mine. "No. Merely to discover if my suspicions had any grounds."

"Do they?"

"I think not. And yet..." He tilted his head. "Tell me how Thomas came to be involved with Barrington."

I could say nothing without betraying Paul, and slowly shook my head. "I can't."

Henri sighed. "Let me tell you what I think, then, and you can tell me if I am wrong. You said you met Thomas at the Academy. You began an affair, but Barrington has some claim of his own upon you, and came between you in some way. This, I would guess, happened in the year before Thomas's death, when you and he had 'drifted apart,' as you put it."

I went to the stairs. If he thought I meant to leave, he didn't stop me, but all I wanted was to sit down. I did so on the bottom step, and rested my head in my hands.

"Thomas and I were 'lovers' in only the barest sense," I said, my throat dry and my hands cold with nervous sweat. "He resented his nature and viewed desire as a sin. He believed he was damned for it."

"And you don't?" Henri's tone remained neutral.

I shook my head. "No. But if there is a God, and He is cruel enough to damn me for loving another of His creations, then so be it."

"And Paul?"

A laugh escaped me. "If Paul believes in a power higher than money, he's given me no sign of it."

Henri joined me on the step, lowering himself to sit at my side. He said nothing, asked no more questions, yet drew forth my confession nonetheless.

"I wanted too much," I whispered. "A life together. I fantasized about a ranch or a homestead out west, somewhere we could pass ourselves off as bachelor brothers, and live out our lives in peace. Thomas only wanted... to stop wanting me."

My eyes stung, and I waited for the ache in my throat to ease before I spoke again.

"Paul wants neither of those things. He views desire the same as hunger or thirst — something to be sated, nothing more. He doesn't blame himself for his indulgences, and laughs at the thought of love, at least between the likes of us."

Henri rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

"So, Barrington drew Thomas into his orbit, and you remained a more distant satellite, though still, I gather, caught in his gravitational pull."

"You could say so." I rubbed my hands together. With my poor circulation, they were often cold.

Henri noticed. "Let us return upstairs, where it is warmer. We've seen all we needed to down here."

He rose, but I remained where I was, colder inside than out, as thoughts swirled and settled in my brain. I did not like how they landed.

"Alec?" Henri paused on the stair.

"Thomas would have hated it," I murmured, my eyes fixed on the stack of paintings across the room. "He wouldn't have engaged in fraud willingly, which means Paul must have forced him into it. Thomas would have felt doubly damned — irredeemable. He would have felt..."

I raised my hand to my mouth and covered it.

Henri returned to my side. He remained standing, but rested a hand on my shoulder in gentle solidarity.

I glanced up at him. His skin appeared a shade darker in the dim light, his eyes somehow still catching it, as if lit from within. He reminded me of some angel — Uriel, maybe, who guards the sun.

"Paul sent me to spy on you," I whispered.

He nodded. "I know. I will give you something to bring back to him, so he is satisfied."

I looked away as shame and reawakened grief overcame me. Henri waited silently until I had composed myself, then led me back upstairs.

We emerged from the cold, windowless basement filled with the relics of history into the bright upper levels of his house. In his living room, I sat dazed, and stared blankly at the wall.

"I can tell you one more thing," Henri said. He stood by the window, facing away from me, allowing me my dignity. "He may never have admitted it in life, even to himself, but Thomas loved you. At least, that is the impression I received."

I breathed shallowly, waiting for the pain in my chest to lessen. At least it wasn't my material heart that hurt this time.

"Where does your gift come from?" I asked, both curious and desperate to change the topic.

"The same place as yours," he said. "That is my theory, anyway. Have you heard of necromancy?"

"Only in Penny Dreadfuls," I replied.

"Indeed. It is not magic of which I speak, but more a kind of energy. The energy of death. I think the whispers you hear, and the impressions I receive, both have their origins in this."

"You're saying you are a necromancer?" I let my incredulity bleed into my tone.

He turned to face me, a sardonic lift to his brow. "Only as much as you are, my friend, and a modern one. Would you like a drink?" he asked.

I considered and decided that I would. "Brandy with water, please. More water than brandy."

He fetched it for me, returning with a glass for himself as well.

"My purpose in inviting you here was not merely to extract information," he said, settling opposite me and crossing one long leg over the other.

"Not merely." I laughed and threw back half my glass.

His expression remained solemn. "I want to ask you for something more."

I locked eyes with him and swallowed with renewed nerves. "Oh? And what might that be?"

"Your help. Paul Barrington is involved in this business, though how deeply, I am uncertain. I think you can help me discover what I seek."

"How?"

"Your gift and mine. Both are weak on their own, but if we unite them, perhaps we shall gain a considerable advantage. There's an auction coming up in two weeks' time. Will you join me there?"

"Where's it to be held?" I asked, stalling for time.

"The Bellevue-Stratford Hotel."

I choked on my watered-down brandy.

Henri frowned. "Is something the matter?"

"At 'the Grand Dame of Broad Street?' It's bound to be black tie."

"And?"

"And..." I blushed. "I haven't the suit for it."

"I will buy you one."

I nearly choked again. "No, no, I couldn't accept."

"This is not charity, Alec. It is a necessity. If you agree to help me, I insist you allow me to furnish you with whatever you need to do so."

His reasoning was fair — fairer than Paul's, anyway. And yet, I hesitated. Was I nothing but a tool in other men's machinations, to be shuffled across the board and shot back again; used, until my usefulness expired?

Collecting myself, I set my drink aside and rose.

"No, I will not help you, Henri," I said.

He rose as well. "I will not force you. I only ask that, as a gentleman, you keep what you have learned here in strictest confidence. I am—"

"I will not help you," I repeated, interrupting him. "But I will do what I can to help Thomas."

Surprise lit his face, which then softened in relief. It was the most open expression I had seen from him yet.

"Excellent. We are united in purpose, then," he said.

He extended his hand to me, and I accepted it.