Nick struggled manfully with the latest fashion in neckties, but he invariably produced lumpy mounds of fabric instead of elegant knots. He had always had a difficult time, sartorially speaking, but there was no denying that the situation had worsened after he moved into his own lodgings, because his mother was no longer able to keep an eye on him.

The unkempt appearance concealed a razor-sharp psychical gift for unraveling the secrets of dead languages, codes and other such mysteries. Nick was never happier than when he was deciphering an ancient manuscript, especially one that contained paranormal secrets. It was the nature of his version of the Sweetwater family talent.

Ethel Sweetwater appeared in the doorway, saving Owen from having to come up with an answer to Nick’s question about the word “efficient.”

Ethel was a fine-looking woman, fashionably dressed in a dark red-and-black gown. Like all of the women in the Sweetwater family, she was formidable, a force of nature. The Sweetwater men did not marry weak women. They required women who could handle the talent of the men of the line, women who could keep dark secrets.

“What is this about efficiency?” Ethel asked.

“Good morning, Aunt,” Owen said. “You are looking spectacular today.”

“Do not evade the question,” she said crisply.

Like many of the women who married into the Sweetwater family, Ethel was highly intuitive.

“Have you ever heard of a Dr. Spinner?” Owen asked.

“Yes, of course,” Ethel said. “He has an excellent reputation. Noted for his very modern treatment of female hysteria, I believe.”

“I am told his therapy is highly efficient,” Owen said.

“I wouldn’t know,” Ethel said. “I have never experienced an attack of hysteria in my entire life.”

“But you are aware of his therapy?”

“Certainly. Dr. Spinner is a very fashionable doctor at the moment. He uses a new electrical instrument to achieve excellent results. Why do you ask?”

Owen cleared his throat. “The subject came up in conversation recently.”

Ethel raised her brows. “It must have been a very interesting conversation.”

“Yes,” Owen said. “It was.” He made a valiant effort to change the subject. “Were you able to learn anything from your research into the Hollister family tree?”

“Very little that will be useful, I’m afraid. The line ended with Hollister. There are no surviving close relatives, no uncles, brothers or cousins. It was not a prolific family. I did, however, turn up traces of madness here and there in the family tree. At least one cousin and a grandfather were confined to asylums. I suspect there were others who were mentally unstable, but in earlier times families generally kept their mad relations in the attic.”

“But there is evidence of strong talent in the line?”

“Yes,” Ethel said. “However, from what I could tell, the truly powerful talents in the family were the ones most likely to show indications of instability and insanity.”

The door of the shop opened just as Millicent Bridewell started to wind up the gleaming silver-and-bronze lobster. The latest creation from her workshop was exquisite, complete in every detail, right down to the snapping claws. She had not yet infused energy into the eyes. That was the last step of the process, an added touch that she provided for only her very special customers. There was, of course, an additional charge.

She removed the key and put it into her pocket. The customer who called himself Mr. Newton entered the shop, bringing with him an air of unsettling energy.

“I wish to commission some more curiosities, Mrs. Bridewell,” he announced in a low, raspy voice. “They must be powerful.”

Everything about Mr. Newton, from his fine clothes to his watch fob, screamed money. By rights he should have appeared distinguished, Mrs. Bridewell thought. He ought to have commanded respect. Instead he seemed oddly bland and innocuous, more like a butler than a gentleman. He was rather short, with thinning hair that was a dingy shade of blond. His features were neither handsome nor ugly. In every aspect he was monumentally forgettable, the sort one passed on the street without a second glance.

But Newton had now purchased several of her special curiosities, and she was becoming very uneasy. In general, her customers tended to be desperate wives or impatient heirs. They preferred to rent a clockwork device with the intention of using it only a single time. When the difficult husband or the lingering wealthy relation was out of the way, clients were more than eager to return the toys. The power infused in the devices made most of her customers nervous. Beautiful as they were, the curiosities were not the sort of objects that one put on display in the library, where well-meaning maids, visitors or children might attempt to wind them up.

But Newton was different from her customary clients. He bought the toys outright, and he had not returned any of them, although she had assured him she would refund some of his money if he did so. She did not care to know how Newton was using her lovely creations. She never questioned her customers. What they did with the devices was their business.

What concerned her about Newton was that he was using the toys far too often. If he got careless the police might stumble onto her profitable little sideline. The police, however, did not worry her nearly as much as Arcane’s new psychical investigation agency did. Rumor had it that the firm of Jones & Jones had assumed the responsibility of looking into crimes of a paranormal nature. Not that the agency had any right to interfere in the private business affairs of those who happened to possess a little talent, she thought. Nevertheless, she did not want any trouble from that quarter. The Joneses were a dangerous lot.

“I don’t have any more curiosities prepared, Mr. Newton,” she said. She bustled around behind the counter, instinctively putting some distance and some glass between herself and the client. “I thought I made it clear that my special curiosities are made to order. It takes time to infuse the energy into the glass.”

“Yes, yes, I know. I want you to start work immediately. I am in something of a hurry.”

She cleared her throat discreetly. “May I ask if there was a problem with any of the other curiosities that you purchased? Did they fail to work?”

“No, no, they functioned as you said they would. But I need more power. I have concluded that if I employ several of them at once I will be able to achieve the effect I require.”

She hesitated. The sad truth was that the pursuit of her art took money, a great deal of it. There was never enough. The fine materials and components required to create the curiosities were expensive. Many of her clients had trouble coming up with the rental fee, but Newton never questioned her prices. Clients who did not try to bargain were scarce and, therefore, valuable.

“I suppose I could have some more curiosities ready for you in three days,” she said finally.

“Excellent. Remember, they must be as powerful as you can make them.”

“I will see what I can do,” she said briskly. “But I must have the full amount in advance.”

He was not pleased with that, but he did not argue. “Very well.”

She waved a hand to indicate the several curiosities on display. “You may choose the ones you want me to enhance.”

“Let’s start with the Queen,” Mr. Newton said. “She’ll be quite appropriate for what I have in mind.”

Virginia followed Owen through the iron gate and into the night-shrouded gardens that surrounded the Hollister mansion. She contemplated the darkened house from beneath the hood of her long gray cloak. The windows appeared to be fashioned of obsidian. They glinted, black and opaque, in the moonlight. No gaslight or candles lit the interior of the house. There was no sign of a glowing hearth.