MISS TEMPLE marched through Harschmort at a rapid pace, determined to find the Trapping children and extricate them from the glass woman's clutches. She swept into a suite of offices—thick with filing cabinets and bookcases and work desks—and looked down to see her feet kicking through loose papers as if they were autumn leaves. The cabinets and desks had been pulled open and ransacked without care. Then through a large doorway she heard a crash and raised voices. Miss Temple threw back her shoulders and deliberately walked toward the noise, the knife in one hand and the case in the other.

Robert Vandaariff's private office was full of soldiers. Red-coated dragoons—with their brass helmets and clanking sabers, half like machines themselves—were tearing through every expensively appointed inch as uncaringly as a thresher pounding grain. Hovering ineffectually around them were Lord Vandaariff's own people, doing their vain best to preserve his files from destruction.

Miss Temple darted back from view.

“I do not care, sir!” bellowed a harsh voice. “We will find it! We will find him!”

“But we have told you, we have told you all, we do not—”

“Pig swill! Barrows, have a look through these, from his own desk!”

There followed a whump, as another column of paper was dropped without ceremony onto a table. The second voice yelped in protest.

“Colonel! I cannot allow you—”

“Foster!”

“Sir!”

Aspiche, for it was none other, ignored Vandaariff's secretary, barking to Foster, “Where is Phelps?”

“With Mr. Fochtmann, sir.”

“Tackham?”

“The Captain is with the… ah… children, sir.”

“What word from Lieutenant Thorpe?”

“None yet, sir. If they searched as far as the canal—”

“I am well aware of it! Carry on.”

“Sir!”

This last was echoed by a snapping click of Foster's boot heels, and the renewed protests of Vandaariff's man. Miss Temple risked another look. She caught the Colonel's receding form, tall and fierce, stalking to the far end of the wide office… Robert Vandaariff's own office, being ransacked like a Byzantine jewel house for clues as to where he had vanished. Miss Temple darted across the open doorway, paused for any corresponding cry of alarm, and then crept on to the next open door.

Before she reached it, a man stepped through, stopping abruptly at the sight of her.

“Mr. Harcourt,” she said, and bobbed her knees, for it was the same young Ministry official from the upstairs hallway. “Miss Stearne. We met with Captain Tackham.”

“I am aware of it. Why are you still at Harschmort? I am sure you have no one's permission.”

“My good friend Lydia Vandaariff—”

“Lydia Vandaariff is not here!”

Mr. Harcourt looked past her to Lord Vandaariff's office. He would call for soldiers. She would be seen by Aspiche.

“What of Lord Vandaariff?” she asked quickly.

“Lord Vandaariff is gone.”

“You do not know where he is?”

Harcourt gestured angrily toward the sound of the ransacking soldiers. “Of course not!”

“Goodness.” She smiled brightly. “Would such information be worthwhile?”

As she hoped, Harcourt hustled her back where he had emerged, the better to make her capture his own. It was another office, its furniture covered with dust cloths. His grip remained hard on the arm that held the case, and he shook her when he spoke.

“Where is he? Tell me! Lord Vandaariff has five estates within two days' travel. Soldiers have searched each one!”

Miss Temple chuckled and shook her head. “Mr. Harcourt, I am not a girl to take the efforts of the Queen's own army lightly! Believe me when I say, with sober respect—”

Harcourt shook her arm again. She looked down at his hand and her voice became cold.

“It is merely a matter of logic—”

“Logic? Are you just guessing? If you think to mock me—”

“Mr. Harcourt, contain yourself! If Lord Robert Vandaariff is not here at Harschmort, then two things have unquestionably taken place.”

“What things?”

“First, someone has lost him. And second, someone else… has taken him.”

Harcourt sputtered with exasperation. Her knife-hand was still tucked behind her back.

“You said you knew where he was!”

“I said I was looking for Captain Tackham.”

“I am right here,” called Tackham from the inner door.

Miss Temple and Mr. Harcourt both spun toward the officer. He smirked at their expressions, then pushed himself toward a tall piece of furniture from which the white cloth had been pulled, a sideboard stocked with bottles. The Captain sorted amongst the brandy as Harcourt sputtered.

“Are they finished? Why did no one call?”

“Where are the children?” asked Miss Temple.

Tackham pulled the cork from a squat square bottle and poured an inch of amber liquid into a glass. “What is she doing here?” he asked.

Harcourt's reply was stopped by a cry from the inner room, the high-pitched voice of a child. Miss Temple took a step toward the door. Tackham quite casually reached back and pulled it tight with a click.

“What is being done to them?” she cried.

Harcourt called past her to Tackham. “She claims to know how to find Lord Vandaariff.”

“What is being done?”

“Does she really?” asked Tackham with amusement.

“But now she will not say!”

“I say she knows as much as my boot.”

“Any idiot knows,” sneered Miss Temple.

Tackham cocked his head with some amusement, but she saw the shift of weight between his legs, and the snifter slip easily into his left hand, leaving his empty right hand ready to catch her arm.

“Call me idiot, then,” he said. “I've no damned idea.”

“You are a swearing rogue,” she spat.

Captain Tackham extravagantly drained his glass. Recognizing the gesture for a distraction, Miss Temple wheeled, to find Harcourt had crept up behind her.

“She has something in her hand,” called Tackham sharply, but Miss Temple had already slashed the little blade at Harcourt, ripping a two-inch line across his coat sleeve. Harcourt stumbled clear and stared at her in shock, pulling at the sleeve and its dangling button to make sure he was unhurt.

Captain Tackham chuckled. Miss Temple turned back to him with contempt.

“You are a beast. I will be happy to see your skin melt off with each rise in rank.”

Tackham's face hardened and she knew he was about to come for her. Miss Temple gripped the knife tightly, but the conversation was interrupted yet again.

“What is this?” croaked a peevish voice from the corridor.

“It is Miss Stearne!” called Harcourt. “She knows the location of Lord Vandaariff but will not say.” He raised his sleeve. “And she has cut my coat!”

Andrew Rawsbarthe entered unsteadily, drawing a noticeably more gelid gaze across Harcourt, Miss Temple, and the blade in her hand, before settling it on Captain Tackham.

“Captain?”

“The lady insists upon seeing the children.”

“What children? It surprises me to hear you speak of children in Harschmort House.”

Tackham shifted uncomfortably. “She encountered them in the upstairs hallway.”

“I see,” said Rawsbarthe, gravely. “You first failed in your assignment, compromising your orders—and then you said nothing about this breach, to protect yourself!”

“She's only a feather-headed nothing of Lydia Vandaariff—”

“I did not know you made these decisions, Captain. I was not aware you were in command!”

Tackham pursed his lips, angry but silent. Harcourt cleared his throat and gestured to the door.

“If you would like me to inform the Colonel—”

“I would like nothing of the kind!” Rawsbarthe's fatigue showed through his anger like bones protruding in an old man's hand. “I will be obliged, sir, if you would shut the door to the corridor and then sit on that chair.”