Paul looked up as I approached, and the expression of dawning surprise on his face would have delighted me in other circumstances. He looked me up and down and whistled softly.

"Those are some fine threads, Monroe. Didn't know the portrait business had become so lucrative."

"I've an interest in some pieces on offer tonight," I said, ignoring his poisoned compliment. "If they go to a private collector, this may be the only chance I'll have to view them in my lifetime. Mr. Deschamps was kind enough to sponsor me."

Henri performed his signature hinted bow in Paul's direction, acknowledging my claim.

Paul's smile slid closer to a sneer. "Is that so? And are you enjoying yourself so far?"

"Yes, very much so," I replied, even as I caught Henri's eye.

"Well. You certainly look the part," Paul said. "The clothes make the man, as they say."

His voice carried the veiled disdain of an adult addressing a child in costume. I had never picked up a stray thought from Paul before — he was the opposite of Durham, in that way.

Which made me wonder.

I focused on Paul as his attention shifted to Henri. This was like tuning my 'radio' to a specific station, and took far more energy than passive listening.

I waited with bated breath, but nothing came through.

My focus dissolved. Relief and fresh fears mingled with the growing headache I had given myself, and I blinked to stave off a spell of dizziness.

Paul's money might shield him from some things, but like me, he had secrets he held so close that even his mind was guarded. While glad the murderous thought had not been his, that left an entire room of possibilities.

"I've come by several more promising pieces," Paul said. "I hoped you might examine them for me. I've a strong sense they will prove authentic."

"What period?" Henri asked, though he watched me instead.

"Early Renaissance," Paul said, warming to his topic. "They aren't signed, but I believe—"

"I will be happy to oblige," Henri interrupted. "Some time next week, perhaps." He turned to me. "Monroe, may we speak a moment? I would like your opinion on something."

He drew me aside and into another of the anterooms, leaving a stunned Paul behind. I don't believe he had ever been dismissed so casually before. I would have laughed if it hadn't frightened me.

The room in which we found ourselves held some of the oldest relics on offer, though the least interesting to the present crowd, and we were almost alone except for a few of the museum men.

"You've got something, I can see," Henri murmured, as we stood before a medieval tapestry stretched upon a frame.

My eyes strayed to a detail of a lion attacking a stag, claws and teeth latched to bleeding flesh, and I shivered. "Who were you speaking to before Paul?" I asked.

Henri frowned. "The same as you left me with: Mr. Durham, Miss Durham, and Lucy Bowman. Mrs Bowman's husband joined us, shortly, as did two others whom I know less well — Miss Lancaster and Mr. Valentino, whom I met the night of the séance."

"What did they discuss?" I angled my head towards him as he leaned to speak nearer my ear.

"Nothing of consequence," he murmured. "The ladies spoke of the debut season, the men of placing bets."

"And you?"

Henri sniffed. "I had little to contribute on such topics and excused myself. Barrington approached me; you followed moments after. Tell me, what is it you heard?"

In a whisper, I relayed the intercepted threat.

"Curious," Henri mused. "From what you have described, I think it must have occurred just as I began speaking with Barrington. Someone else involved with him, perhaps. You did not recognize the voice?"

I shook my head. "No. I often don't. The mental voice isn't the same as the material one, and identifying it is more a matter of rhythm and word choice than of sound."

"Interesting."

"You don't seem alarmed," I said.

He raised an eyebrow. "Thoughts are not actions. Surely a stray desire to extinguish annoyances cannot be so rare."

"I wouldn't know." I frowned. "I don't use my gift if I can help it."

I had learned that lesson long ago. Aside from the way it exhausted me, learning what others really thought was rarely pleasant. Hope endured in ambiguity.

Henri rested his hand on my back. "Do you wish to continue? You are rather pale."

I brushed aside his concerns. "I'll be fine. I know my limits."

He nodded and withdrew his touch. "Very well. We shall carry on then. Perhaps we should separate for dinner. Barrington and his compatriots may speak more openly without my presence."

"Alright."

We completed our appraisal in silence and returned to the main room.

The banquet hall had filled, and many people already occupied the circular tables that crowded the space.

Henri approached a table where some of the museum men sat, introduced himself, and took a seat. Lacking his social currency, I was adrift, uncertain where to direct myself, when Rachel rescued me.

"Alec!" She waved from her seat and pointed to an empty chair at her side. "Will you join us?"

I approached and accepted with gratitude. Paul sat to her left, followed counterclockwise by Lucy and Harold Bowman, Mr. Durham, Perry Valentino, and Margaret Lancaster, who completed the circle on my right.

Servers wheeled out carts laden with covered trays, and dinner began with shrimp salad on a bed of greens. Conversation remained light — the latest fashions, how Miss Lancaster hoped to decorate a room, Rachel's hope that we all might stroll the zoological gardens once the weather warmed. I lowered my barriers once more, listening for scraps of thought, but soon found the effort in vain. There were too many people in the room, and their mingled thoughts became a sort of static buzz.

It made my head hurt, and I soon gave up and concentrated on the lamb and new potatoes, which had followed the shrimp.

"Oh dear. It's rather bloody."

"It's a bit undercooked," I agreed, glancing up at my neighbor.

Rachel stared at me. "Why, I was just thinking the very thing!"

On her other side, Paul's icy gaze locked with mine.

He pointed his fork at me. "Where did you get that suit, anyway, Monroe? It's very fine."

I looked down at myself. "Oh. It is only rented."

The lie slipped forth before I could stop it.

"No, it's not," Paul countered. "Rented suits don't fit like gloves. That's been tailored."

"What does it matter where he got it, Paul?" Rachel chided softly. "It looks splendid."

"Yes, it does," Paul agreed, and cut into his lamb, which leaked red juice across his plate.

Suddenly nauseous, I set down my cutlery, placed my napkin on the table and stood. "Please excuse me. I must find the powder room."

My eyes sought Henri, but he was absorbed in conversation at his table, and did not notice me.

At the door, I asked the concierge for direction, and found the men's washroom at the other end of the hall. To my great relief, I had it to myself, and breathed easier as I splashed water on my face. As I dried myself with a clean cotton towel, the door opened, and footsteps clacked on the polished floor. In the mirror, Paul's reflection stood at my back.

I turned to face him.

"So, that's how it is then, is it?" he asked, hands in his pockets.

"I don't know what you mean."

He scoffed. "Don't play innocent with me. So, what — he buys you pretty things and whispers sweet French words in your ears, and you bend over for him?"

"Paul!" I glanced past him at the door, but we remained alone.

He watched me coldly. "You're working for him, aren't you? I ask you to help me, but you fall under his spell instead. You have no idea what dangerous games you play."

"I won't listen to this." I tried to push past him.

He blocked my path, raised his hand to my throat, and pushed me back against the wall. "I made you, Monroe," he grated through his teeth. "I own you. Maybe I ought to remind you of that. Get on your knees."

There was a time I might have done as he demanded; times I had before. But this was different. There was no mischief in it; no affection. There was only a will to hurt.

I could barely stand anyway, and might have complied by accident, but something else held me up.

Illusions weren't all Eddie had taught me. I'd never had an interest in boxing, but boys were cruel, and I'd been small and weak, and before I left for boarding school, he'd insisted that I learn to defend myself, at least.

I struck Paul a short, sharp blow beneath the ribs. It wasn't even very hard, but it caught him so much by surprise that he gasped and let me go at once. I stumbled past him and escaped into the hall.

At the other end, Henri walked towards me, his expression of concern shifting to alarm as Paul burst through the washroom door, red-faced with rage.

"So, you choose him, then?" He spat. "You will regret it."

"I choose no one," I gasped, breathless and terrified lest Paul make a greater scene. "I'm only leaving."

Henri bowed, as imperturbable as ever. "And I am leaving with him," he said, slipping an arm around my back as he helped me to the elevator.

Paul took a step forward, but dinner had drawn to a close, and several people emerged from the banquet hall. He straightened his clothes and assumed a stony mask, shooting me one final, pointed glare. The elevator doors slid shut, and I allowed Henri to support me as it carried us downward.

Half of me rejoiced; there would be no returning to Paul now. The other half wondered what I had done.