I paused, smiled and adjusted my hat before knocking.

“Who’s there?” shouted Mama.

“The Regent sends his greetings, Madam Hog,” I intoned, in my best Lord of the Realm baritone. “Would you perhaps grant us an audience?”

Mama opened her door.

Darla stood beside Mama. Her eyes went wide. I doffed my new hat, made a bow that made my back pop.

“My lady.”

Darla stepped outside, extended her hand. I took it. Her eyes twinkled in the dying sun.

“Damn, boy,” said Mama, trundling out beside Darla. “What happened? You rob a haberdasher?”

I sighed. Darla laughed again. The spell was broken, and my feet began to ache.

“Not exactly.” Darla let go of my hand. “I’m glad you came to see me. But it’s late. You’ll never get home before Curfew.”

“Maybe I won’t go home at all,” she replied. She stepped so close I could smell bubble bath in her hair. “Maybe I’ll stay.” She let a pause linger. “With Mother Hog, of course.”

Mama snorted. “Don’t do that to him no more. Look at them ears. He’s about to blow a seam.”

Darla winked. “Hooga has the night off. He’s bringing his wagon around to collect me shortly. I’ll wrap myself up in a blanket and even the Watch will think I’m Hooga’s wife or his daughter.” She slipped her arm through mine, turned us toward my office, said goodbye to Mama Hog.

I walked.

“Come now, Markhat,” she said, as we neared my door. “You’ve kept me waiting all day. The least you can do is offer me a chair and some company.”

I fumbled for my key. The wind rustled her skirts, and she reached into my bag and pulled out last year’s grey hat.

“This one suits you better.” I turned the key as she took my new hat from my head, replaced it with the grey one, and eyed me critically. “The black makes you look like an undertaker.” She put the black hat on her own head, adopted a somber expression. “See?”

Mama Hog laughed and slammed her door. I opened mine, ushered Darla in, winced when the slanting light streaming past cast the breadcrumbs on my desk into sudden high relief.

Darla swept past, still wearing my black hat. She spun once, taking in my office, swirling her skirt up nearly to her knees.

I closed the door. “I see I need to fire another butler. Looks like Earles left me a mess.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Darla. “It’s not so bad.” She hung my black hat carefully up on my leaning coat rack, and then nodded toward the door at the back of my office. “Is that where you sleep?”

I put down my bag, hung up my coat and put the grey hat next to the black. “When I sleep, that’s where I sleep.”

“I see.” She gave me a grin. “Time for the tour later.” Then she looked down and past me, toward the floor next to the door I’d just closed. “What’s that?”

I turned. An envelope lay on the floor, after having been pushed beneath it from the street. I hadn’t seen it when we’d entered.

I stooped and picked it up. The envelope was brilliant white, more like cloth than paper, and it bore my name and address in a tall plain hand.

Darla glided to stand beside me. She touched the paper gently, made an oohing sound.

“My, what fancy friends you have, Mister Markhat. Aren’t you going to open it?”

She was so close we touched, at hips and shoulders, and again I smelled her hair. Which is probably why I opened the envelope without first letting Mama wave her bones over it to see if the paper was hexed.

It wasn’t. Inside was a single page of fine white paper, folded twice. I could see words on it, not hex signs, so I unfolded it.

Darla stepped suddenly away. “It isn’t polite to read someone else’s mail.” She pulled back my client’s chair and sat. “I’ll wait here until you’re done.”

The paper bore names. A dozen of them, in the same hand as the address, in a neat straight line down the page. The only one I recognized-the last-was Martha Hoobin.

Below the names were the words:

Talk at midnight. Your office. If you choose not to open the door I will of course not come in.

And below that were two characters I took to be initials-E.P.

Darla watched me read. I must have frowned.

“Bad news?”

I crossed to my side of the desk. Before I sat, I handed her the paper. “Probably. Do you know any of these names? Aside from Martha’s?”

She read, shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. They’re all women’s names, though, aren’t they?”

She handed me the letter, and I looked it over again. There was a Kit Ersen and a Banda Rup. Either of those could have been a man’s name or a woman’s. But all the rest were obviously female, all Usulas and Berets and Allies.

Twelve names. Twelve women, probably, with Martha Hoobin at the end of the list.

“Do you know E.P.?” asked Darla.

I shook my head. “Not at the moment,” I replied. “But I guess I will, come midnight.”

The humor went out of Darla’s eyes. “There’s only one kind of person who makes appointments after Curfew. They’re fond of expensive stationery too.”

I folded the list. “Not necessarily. Anyway, trouble usually just shows up. It doesn’t make appointments.”

She shivered. She put her hands in her lap and she tried to hide it, but she shivered.

“I’ve dealt with the Houses before. They don’t bite Markhats. We taste of strong bright sun and good clean living.”

She didn’t laugh. “They scare me,” she said, softly. “They ought to scare you too. Walking around after Curfew-are you trying to get killed?”

I leaned back. “You heard about last night.”

A bit of fire crept back into her voice. “Oh, I heard. Some of the cleaning girls are New People. You’re all they’ve talked about. The bold finder Markhat, whistling down the street. By tomorrow they’ll have you lighting your cigars with flaming vampire corpses and kicking down Troll strongholds with the heels of your dressing slippers.”

I frowned. “Dressing slippers don’t have heels, do they?”

Darla came forward, caught my hand across the desk, pulled it toward her. “Listen to me. I like you. I’d like to spend a year or two getting to know you. I’d like to teach you how to read and trim your hair and knit you a pair of earmuffs for Yule. But I won’t get to do any of that if you make midnight strolls down Arbuckle Avenue part of your exercise regimen.”

I bit back a short reply. There was something in her voice, something making it shake, something tingeing it with fear.

Inspiration dawned.

“You’ve been talking to Mama. She pulled out her cards and turned down the lamps and convinced you she could see my untimely demise unless I mend my wicked ways.” She’d do that, too, I thought. Just her little way of getting things said that she knew I’d not bear coming from her.

Darla gripped my hand harder. “She was reading her cards when I came in. And she wouldn’t tell me what she saw. But I know people, Markhat. She saw something. And whatever it was scared her.” She realized how tight she held me, let loose, leaned back. “We both know what Mama is, most of the time.” She lifted her chin in defiance. “But you sit there and you tell me it’s all fake, all the time. Tell me it’s all put-on. Tell me, and I’ll forget all about it.”

“It’s all fake, all put-on, all the time.”

“Liar.” She found a smile. Not a big one, not a strong one. But maybe she knew she’d pushed too hard. “Just promise me one thing. Will you do that?”

“Ask, and we’ll see.”

“Just be careful. More than usual. Especially after dark. Can you do that, Markhat? Just for a while?”

I sighed. “I promise. And speaking of Curfew breaking-it’s getting pretty dark out there right now, and I’m not the one ten blocks from home.”

“What have I to fear, when the valiant finder Markhat is at my side?” She batted her eyes at me, gave me a sly grin. “You will keep an eye on me, won’t you?”

“I promise. You’re safe with me.”