Now they did.

“Fidus et audax,” she said, Latin for “faithful and bold.”

And this time, when she opened the door of the wardrobe, she was in Wintervale’s house in London.

Iolanthe stepped down. The dark-blue wallpaper and the rich Oriental carpet both looked unfamiliar—she’d remembered very little of the decor. The space behind the wardrobe, where the prince had shoved her when Wintervale came at his mother’s summons, was tiny. She and the prince must have been pressed together like a pair of shirts going through a clothes wringer.

But the window and its deep ledge looked exactly right—except she’d thought it faced the street, when in fact it overlooked a small garden in the rear of the house.

The corridor outside was thickly carpeted, the walls covered in a pale-gold silk. There were several other bedrooms on the floor, but they were all empty.

“Lee, is that you?” came a feminine voice behind her. “What is the matter? Why are you home?”

The madwoman. Wintervale kept insisting she was only sometimes mad. Iolanthe prayed that today was one of her more lucid days.

She slowly turned around, her hands held up, palms out. Wintervale’s mother was in another tightly cinched English dress. And for all that she’d spent the spring in a spa town, she did not appear rejuvenated: her eyes were sunken, her cheeks hollow, her skin as thin and fragile as eggshells.

The moment she realized it was not her son standing before her, however, her gaze turned feral. She pointed her wand at Iolanthe. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

“I am the one you swore a blood oath to protect, from the moment you saw me” Iolanthe pushed the words past her rapidly closing throat. “Last time I was here, you tried to kill me. This time, you will help me.”

The corner of the madwoman’s eye twitched. “I said I was asked to swear a blood oath.” She laughed softly, the sound of nightmares. “I never said I did.”

Titus prayed.

He had meant for her to flee, and judging by what Cooper said, she had run for it. But had she gone far enough? He wanted her halfway around the world by the time the Inquisitor broke him.

The Inquisitor would break him. For all her days in a coma, she seemed to be haler than ever. Her eyes were sharp, her complexion glowing, her attention as focused as a beam of light that had passed through a magnifying glass.

Mrs. Hancock arrived with the staff from Mrs. Dawlish’s house: cooks, maids, laundresses, and charwomen. Much to the complaints of those standing in the queue, they leapfrogged to the head of the line.

The Inquisitor leaned forward with anticipation.

Of course a girl living in Mrs. Dawlish’s house was going to be subject to more suspicion than a boy. And several of the maids and laundresses were about the right age.

It so happened that a kitchen maid had the day off to visit a sick sister in London. The Inquisitor was displeased. “We asked for all the members of the staff to be accounted for.”

“They were as of last evening, Madam Inquisitor,” said Mrs. Hancock calmly. “But the girl received a telegram early this morning, and Mrs. Dawlish, my superior, gave her leave without first consulting me. Rest assured she will return in good time.”

Mrs. Hancock herded Mrs. Dawlish’s staff away. Cooper shouted, “There he comes, our Fairfax, fresh from the powder room, as promised.”

What? Titus felt as if he had been whipped. Why?

From the edge of the crowd, Fairfax made her jaunty way toward him, head held high, hat set at a dashing angle, whistling.

Whistling. Had she lost her mind? Run, you fool. And do not look back.

Guilt overwhelmed him: she had come because of the blood oath. There could be no other explanation. He prayed again—desperate, jumbled prayers—for the multitudes to close ranks and keep her out. Instead, she sliced effortlessly through the horde, like a clipper on an open ocean.

You are the stupidest girl in the world.

Mrs. Oakbluff stared at her. Haywood stared at her. The Inquisitor stared at them. The least twitch of recognition . . .

She continued to advance, prettier than all the silk-clad sisters. It was a wonder she had managed to pass herself off as a boy for so long; she would not fool them another minute.

Perhaps she did not intend to. Perhaps she meant to pit her powers against the Inquisitor’s here and now. She would not stand a chance. Among the Inquisitor’s minions were battle-hardened elemental mages with far greater experience than she.

She only stopped when she reached Greencomb the secretary. A second later Greencomb announced, “Mr. Archer Fairfax.”

Fairfax stepped before her greatest enemies and bowed.

Titus’s disbelief reached an excruciating peak. How was it possible that she had not yet been yanked away? What was going on? Yet he dared not glance at either Oakbluff or Haywood, for fear of giving himself away.

“I understand you are His Highness’s faithful companion, Mr. Fairfax,” said Lady Callista.

She had already smiled long and hard this day. Her expression had become stiff, and tinged with fatigue.

“I am a frequent beneficiary of His Highness’s largesse,” said Fairfax. “It seems only fitting that when he requires companionship, I am there to provide it.”

Lady Callista’s eyes widened ever so slightly at Fairfax’s neutral statement on their friendship.

Fairfax bowed again and prepared to yield her place to the next person in line.

“Who are your parents?” asked the Inquisitor, who had not spoken to any of the boys presented so far.

“Mr. and Mrs. Roland Fairfax of Bechuanaland, ma’am.”

“Where in Bechuanaland, precisely?”

“A hundred twenty miles outside Kuruman. Have you been to Bechuanaland, ma’am?”

“No,” said the Inquisitor. “But should the opportunity arise, I will be sure to call on your parents.”

Titus felt as if a giant spider was crawling down his spine. If the Inquisitor were to mount a personal investigation, then Titus’s thin veil of deception would not stand a chance.

Fairfax’s sangfroid did not falter. “They will be honored to receive you, ma’am.”

“We shall see,” said the Inquisitor.

Fairfax bowed one more time and walked away.

Safe for now.

As Iolanthe left, she dared a glance in Master Haywood’s direction. He looked dazed and exhausted, and it took everything in her not to throw the scene into chaos and make away with him.

Mrs. Dawlish’s house was deserted. But Wintervale’s mother was in his room, standing before his desk, writing something.

It had been a frozen moment of horror in Wintervale’s house as Iolanthe realized her mistake. Then Wintervale’s mother had said, I won’t try to murder you again. What help do you need?

Iolanthe had been stunned. But there had been no time to ask questions. She’d hurriedly explained her needs, brought Wintervale’s mother to Mrs. Dawlish’s house, and sent her off with a description of the two mages at whom she should aim a barrage of invalidating spells, so that as Iolanthe stood before Master Haywood and Mrs. Nettle, they would neither be able to access old memories, nor gain new ones while under the spell.

She knocked very softly. Wintervale’s mother turned around. “It’s you.”

“Thank you for helping me,” Iolanthe said. And please don’t lose your sanity now.

“I had better go,” said the not-quite-so-mad woman. “Forgive me. And please do not mind what I said earlier—his choices are not your fault.”

“Whose choices?”

But Wintervale’s mother was already stepping into the wardrobe, a piece of paper in hand. When Iolanthe opened the wardrobe again, it was empty except for a note on the inside of the door.

Dear Lee, I am blocking this portal for now, until I find a more secure means for you to access the house. Love, Mother.