“I have business elsewhere, gentlemen. I bid you good day.”

He turned on his heel, ignoring cries of protest. To his surprise, Captain Jones positively sprinted after him, catching him by the sleeve at the edge of the shelter.

“You can’t take that!”

Grey glanced at the captain’s hand on his sleeve, keeping his eyes fixed there, until Jones’s grip relaxed.

“I beg your pardon, Major,” Jones said stiffly, standing back. “But you must leave that bit of metal here.”

“Why?” Grey lifted a brow. “The fragments will be melted down, surely?” Such a small bit of brass couldn’t be worth the tenth part of a farthing.

Jones looked taken aback for an instant, but rapidly regained his confidence.

“That bit of metal,” he said in severe tones, “is the property of His Majesty!”

“Of course it is,” Grey agreed cordially. “And when His Majesty likes to ask me for it, I shall be quite happy to give it to him. For the moment, though, I shall keep it safe.”

Taking a deep breath in preparation, he wrapped the edges of his cloak around himself, pulled his hat well down, and dived into the rain. Jones didn’t follow.

He had a decent sense of direction and was used to finding his way through foreign towns and open country alike. Keeping in mind the directions Gormley had given him as they sped through the Warren, he was able to find his way back past the maze of the proving grounds to the foundry, pausing only now and then to take his bearings.

The din in the foundry seemed almost welcoming, a cheerful, self-absorbed racket that was completely uninterested in Major Grey and his experiences on the battlefield at Crefeld. He paused for a moment to watch a moulder beating with an iron rod at a great heap of clay that sat on a bench before him, while an assistant shoveled handsful of horse dung and wool clippings into the mix, counting as he did so.

In the next bay, men were winding rope carefully round a tapered wooden spindle, some ten feet long, that sat in a sort of large trough, suspended in notches at either end—the cannon mould to which the clay would be applied, he supposed.

“Beg pardon, sir.” A young man appeared out of nowhere, pushing him politely aside in order to retrieve a bucket of soft soap, which he then rushed back and began daubing onto the tight-packed grooves of the rope with a large brush.

He would have liked to loiter and watch, but he was clearly in the way; already, men were glancing at him, curiosity mingled with a mild hostility at his unuseful presence.

The rain had at least slackened; he walked out of the main foundry building, his hand curled round the fragment of brass in his pocket, thinking of that missing sliver.

For the most part, he was unaware of it, and often forgot its presence altogether. Now and then, though, some postural shift would send a brief, piercing pain through his chest, freezing him in place. The English surgeon, Dr. Longstreet, had told him that there might remain some harmless irritation of the nerves, but that the spasms would eventually pass.

The German surgeon, evidently unaware of Grey’s fluency in that language, had agreed, but remarked in his own tongue that there was of course a slight possibility of the sliver’s turning suddenly, in which case it might pierce the pericardium, whatever that was.

But no need to think of that,he had concluded cheerfully, as if so, he will be dead almost at once.

He had recalled Gormley’s directions aright; directly ahead was what the young man had called Dial Arch. Beyond that lay Dial Square, and beyond that in turn he should find the exit he sought to Bell Street, where, no doubt, his long-suffering valet was still waiting for him.

He smiled wryly at thought of Tom Byrd. He had insisted that there was no need for his valet to accompany him all the way out to Woolwich—it was ten miles, at least—but Byrd would not hear of his going out alone. Tom, bless him, had scarcely let him go anywhere alone since his return from Germany, fearing—and with some reason, Grey was grudgingly forced to admit—that he might collapse on the street.

He was much better now, though; quite restored, he told himself firmly. Hand still curled round the tiny leopard’s head, he paused under the arch to brush and shake himself into order before facing the critical eye of Tom Byrd, aged eighteen.

A huge stone sundial lay in the center of the square, giving it its name. It was of course not working at the moment, but it did remind Grey of time. He had been engaged to his mother and step-father, General Stanley, for supper, but it was already growing dark; there was no hope of making the long and dangerous carriage ride in time. He’d have to spend the night in Woolwich.

Unpleasant as that prospect was, it carried with it a sense of relief. He’d seen the general since the “unfortunate occurrence,” as Hal so tersely termed it, but only briefly. He hadn’t been looking forward to a long tкte-а-tкte.

A movement on the other side of the sundial made him look up. A man was standing there, regarding him with a faintly puzzled, somewhat offended look, as though considering his appearance exceptionable in some way.

Grey might have been offended in turn, were he not taken aback in his turn by the other’s appearance, which was most certainly exceptionable.

He wore an unfamiliar uniform, old-fashioned in appearance, of a regiment that Grey did not recognize. The hilt of a dress sword showed beneath his coat—this a full-skirted garment, blue with scarlet facings, and two antique pistols were thrust through his belt. Below were breeches of a grossly unfashionable cut, baggy at the knee and so loose through the leg as to swim about his figure, stocky as it was. His wig, though, was the most remarkable thing, this being unpowdered, long, and curled upon his shoulders in a glossy profusion of dark brown. It was a most unmilitary sight, and Grey frowned at the man.

The soldier appeared no more impressed with Grey; he turned upon his heel without a word and walked toward the opening at the other side of the square. Grey opened his mouth to hail the fellow, then stood with it open. The soldier was gone, the archway empty. Or, no—not empty. A young man was there, looking into the square. Another soldier, an artillery officer by his dress—but certainly not the gentleman in the old-fashioned wig.

“Did you see him?” A voice at Grey’s elbow turned him; it was a short, middle-aged man in uniform, faintly familiar. “Did you see him, sir?”

“The strange gentleman in the ancient wig? Yes.” He frowned at the man. “Do I know you?” Memory supplied the answer, even as the soldier knuckled his forehead in salute.

“Aye, sir, though little wonder should you not recognize me. We met—”

“At Crefeld. Yes. You were part of the gun crew serving Tom Pilchard, were you not? You were—yes, you were the rammer.” He was sure of it, though the neat soldier before him bore little resemblance to the black-stained, sweat-soaked wretch whose half-toothless savage grin was the last image he recalled of the battle of Crefeld.

“Aye, sir.” The rammer appeared less interested in picking up the threads of past acquaintance, though, than in the old-fashioned gentleman who had so abruptly departed. “Did you see him, sir?” he repeated, clearly excited. “It was the ghost!”

“The what?”

“The ghost, sir! ’Twas the Arsenal ghost, I’m sure it was!” The rammer—Grey had never known his name—looked at once terrified and thrilled.

“Whatever are you talking about, Private?” Grey asked sharply. His tone brought the rammer up short, and he stood stiff at attention.

“Why, sir, it’s the Arsenal ghost,” he said, and despite his pose, his eyes sought the opposite side of the square, where the apparition—if that’s what it was—had vanished. “Everybody knows about the Arsenal ghost—but damn few has seen it!”