The gun was in her free left hand, but Mallory had no memory of pulling it from the holster. She had been that intent on the sound of footsteps on the staircase.

The red material was pulled to one side.

Malakhai.

He was looking down at the arrow pinning her leg to the target. He glanced at the open trapdoor and stepped on the floor pedal in front of it. „The lazy tongs work in slow gear. They’ll go down in another minute.“ He ignored the gun in her hand and pointed at the floor pedal. „You’re supposed to step on that before you put on the cuffs and leg irons. Timing is everything, Mallory.“ He was mildly distracted by the rising muzzle of her gun. It was harder to miss, now that she was aiming at his face.

„Point taken,“ he said. „I’m forgetting my manners. Good evening. You’re looking well.“

„You missed me by an inch.“

He glanced down at the arrow in the denim material. „I’d say it was closer than that. You probably jarred the pedestal gears when you cocked the crossbow.“ He reached into the breast pocket of his coat and extracted a pack of cigarettes, acting as if this were perfectly normal, holding a casual conversation with a chained woman. „You did cock the bow. Am I right, Mallory?“

„Am I supposed to believe this was another accident?“

His slow smile implied that this might be the more charitable view – an accident instead of a stupid mistake. „I told you not to walk in front of a loaded crossbow.“

Had the weapon been loaded when she cocked it? She could not recall checking the magazine for an unfired arrow from her test round. Was she going to own up to an oversight like that?

Well, no.

She pulled on the handcuff bracelet that bound her wrist – a not too subtle suggestion for him to unlock it, and right now.

Malakhai lit a cigarette. „The pedestals are as delicate as Swiss timepieces. In fact, the gears are Swiss.“ He exhaled a slow stream of smoke – portrait of a man at leisure. „It takes some finesse to do this illusion.“

She yanked the chain, but he did not get the hint.

Malakhai looked down at the revolver as she extended it toward his chest. „I gather you dislike criticism.“ Ignoring the gun, he reached down and pulled the arrow from the target. „You remind me of an old proverb. The girl who can’t dance always blames it on the band.“

And now he was holding a sharp arrow in one hand and standing much too close. Her finger rested lightly on the trigger.

There were so many fractured parts to her emotions. Malakhai showed no fear of the gun. That was enough to make her angry. And she wanted this to be his fault, not hers. But now he was looking down at the keys lying on the floor. This was more evidence of her own errors, and she hated him for that. She stared at the arrow in his hand. Did he mean to do some damage? Or was this a sick game he was playing?

Her body went rigid. Every muscle flooded with adrenaline for the fight, as if it would take any force to squeeze a trigger. And darker chemicals were released into her brain as a response to rage, magnifying it to obliterate reason.

In the last untainted part of her mind, she heard herself speaking calm, icy words, „Let go of the arrow. Let it fall and step back.“

A drop of sweat rolled down the side of her face. The trembling in her gun hand was nearly imperceptible. It was a muscle spasm of tight control – to prevent her revolver from firing into his chest.

Mallory pulled down on the manacle until the metal bit into her wrist. Pain was a focus, a trick of her own to clear her mind of violence. But she could still feel the anger massing, building toward a single convulsive act. If she could not stop it, she was going to kill him. She strained at the bracelet, pulling it down harder to bring on more pain, but it was not enough.

„Drop it!“ she yelled.

At the moment Malakhai turned away from her to send the arrow flying off the stage, her manacled hand shot straight out with more force than she possessed in a normal state of mind.

The crack was loud, and for an instant, she believed her gun had gone off.

Malakhai turned around, surprised to see her metal bracelet freed from the post. Dangling from the other end of her handcuff chain, the iron ring was attached to a splintered piece of wood.

„Are you bleeding?“

„No.“ She bowed her head over the red abrasion on her wrist, not wanting him to see that she had also been startled. The breakage was unintentional. She had only wanted the pain. „So you just happened to be passing by? Is that your story?“

He took her metal bracelet in both his hands. She never saw him work a key. The handcuff simply opened and released her wrist. He held up the manacles and the splintered section of wood. „I can fix this. But don’t break anything else, all right? Perhaps if you kept your hands in your pockets?“

He knelt down to open the leg irons, and Mallory pushed him away. Then she reluctantly holstered her gun and undid the catches that bound her ankles. The anger was not receding, but it was under control as she stepped to one side of the target.

„Nasty tear in those jeans, Mallory. Lucky it wasn’t your skin. Maybe next time it’ll be a vital organ – like poor Oliver.“

„Is that a threat?“

„That’s a fact. I guess you’ll have to wear something else to dinner. We have reservations for eight o’clock. No time for you to go home and change. Did you like the roses?“

„How did you know my address?“

He pointed down toward the wardrobe trunk, just visible over the top of the dragon screen. „I suggest the green silk.“

Mallory was dressed for a different season in 1942. Walking away from the cab, she felt the wind whistle around her feet. The gold dancing shoes were not made for the month of November. Though they fit well, she felt crippled by the slender straps and delicate heels. Near the front door of the restaurant, they paused by a mirror, and Malakhai drew her attention to the gleaming material of the suit. „Louisa says the silk has faded a bit. Once it was green enough to match your eyes.“

The Greenwich Village restaurant catered to Europeans. The single long room was filled with accents of other languages. Near a window overlooking West Fourth Street, a small table was laid with three place settings.

Three people sat down – if one counted Louisa, and Mallory did. As Dr. Slope would say at every poker game, I came to play.

Malakhai pulled out a package of cigarettes.

„They won’t let you smoke in here,“ said Mallory. „That’s the law.“

„Ah, the new draconian regime.“ Malakhai took a cigarette from the pack. „But you can’t possibly believe this restaurant enforces the mayor’s petty little fits?“ He pointed to the name of the cafe emblazoned on the menu. „These people are French, are they not? What were you thinking?“

Mallory no longer wanted to kill him.

Other women in the restaurant were looking their way – his way. And the men were also stealing glances at him. Though the table was next to the street window, Malakhai was the gravitational center of this room.

His eyes were dark attracters. She was alternately leaning toward him and pulling back. „Did you plan to search the basement? Or did you just show up to scare me?“

„Does anything scare you?“ There was no sarcasm in his voice. „The pedestal mechanism is old. Who knows what else is broken – besides the post.“

„Your ashtray, sir.“ A young waiter in a red dinner jacket had materialized by the table. It was not an ashtray he set before Malakhai, but a plain saucer. „If anyone should make a scene – “

„I know, Jean. You’ll be shocked to see me smoking in your establishment – and very loud when you tell me to put out my cigarette. I promise to be contrite.“ After the waiter had left them to consult their menus, Malakhai rolled the unlit cigarette between his fingers. „You see that woman over there? The indignant one in the purple dress?“