Copperhead

in the warehouse.

“Oh, Jane,” said Helen helplessly. “What took you so long to come to the door?”

“I was dancing,” said Jane.

“With whom? Who’s here?”

Jane shrugged. “I used to dance with Edward. And sometimes with Dorie. La, la…”

“Oh goodness, Mr. Rochart,” said Helen. “What if he’s finally arrived in the city and sent over a note?”

“Are we going somewhere?” said Jane.

“To safety,” said Helen. “Before someone comes and takes you away and you just let them.”

“My bag,” said Jane. “I need my bag.”

“Really?” said Helen. “You’ve managed just fine without it.”

“My bag,” repeated Jane. “My bag, my bag.”

“Ugh,” said Helen. She looked at the clock. “If we go all the way out to Alistair’s, we’re going to be late getting back to Rook. I told him an hour. And that new curfew’s at dusk, you know.”

Jane turned wide green eyes on Helen, stared at her as if this information had no possible meaning.

“On the other hand, maybe your fiance has sent a note, and then maybe he’ll have an idea of what’s going on with you. He’s had a lot more experience with fey problems than any of us.”

“Fey problems?”

“Fine,” said Helen. She dragged Jane out of Frye’s and through the streets, eyes peeled for a cab. She swore several times. “This is no time to be taking the trolley,” she said. “Where are those damn cabs?”

Jane merely followed, eyes wide and lost in some other world of her own. She looked ethereal, otherworldly, wafting along behind Helen. But at last they made it to the theatre district, which, even with the new curfew, was busy enough to have cabs. Helen hailed one of them and bustled Jane into it. Through the window she could see the glut of frantic actors milling around and commiserating with one another.

Helen gave the driver the address and they hurried through the cold night till they reached the ugly row house on the good street that belonged to Alistair. That was when it occurred to Helen that, even though she had “fixed” Alistair, it might not be enough to withstand the sight of seeing Jane, who apparently he thought should be held for murder.

“I am not going to waste time yelling at myself,” muttered Helen.

“What’s that, lady?” said the driver.

“Look, drive around the street a couple times. I’ll be right back and we’ll go somewhere else.”

“It’s your coin,” he said.

“And don’t let her out,” said Helen, pointing to the pale figure in the back. Jane was pressed against the glass, long fingers moving slowly over it, tracing the lines of blue that covered the street.

“Look, lady, I don’t go in for restraining loonies.”

“If you lose my sister, I’m not paying you one penny,” said Helen, and she slammed the door before he could argue one more word.

She hurried inside, dashed up the steps to her room. There was the carpetbag. Grabbed it. Dumped out a little jar of dried lavender on her vanity until she found the notes stashed at the bottom. Hopefully it would be enough for the fare.Helen turned to run and then thought, suddenly, He said there would be a dance.

It seemed ridiculous to go to a dance in the middle of a war. It was ridiculous.

And yet.

If she was going to be there anyway, keeping Jane safe, figuring out exactly what had happened to her, exactly what Rook knew …

Couldn’t one as easily do that on the dance floor?

Just a waltz. Just a turn. Just …

Helen turned to her wardrobe and, knowing she only had a second, refused to let herself linger. She could try on outfits all day to find the perfect representation of what you wore to an unknown dance in a dwarvven slum when you didn’t want to look as though you were impressing anybody but still wanted to slay all of them (all of them? Yes, all of them) with your beauty.

But there was no time. She had a go-to dress, an apple green ruffled voile that could withstand being shoved in a carpetbag, and she grabbed it and started for her bedroom door, colliding into a pale, troubled-looking Mary. “Mary,” Helen said, seizing her hands. “Did any messages come for me? And am I in trouble for not coming home?”

Mary glanced behind her, down the open hallway. “I’m not sure he noticed exactly,” she began, but Helen forestalled that.

“Wait, messages first.”

“Yes,” said Mary, “That fiance of your sister. You only missed him by an hour. He said he’d be back and that you should tell me where to find you.”

“Thank goodness he’s in town,” said Helen. Lowering her voice, she said, “Look, can you memorize the address to tell him? Copperhead mustn’t know who’s been helping us.” Mary nodded, and came all the way into the bedroom, silently closing the door behind her. Helen gave her Frye’s address, adding, “She’ll know how to get ahold of us.” She shook her head. “He must be terribly worried. Tell him we’ve found Jane if you see him first. Did he look all right?”

“A little wild-looking,” Mary said. “Hair on end. But more despairing-like than spoiling for a fight. I don’t think he wanted any trouble, but Mr. Morse came through the foyer just then and tried to pick a fight with Mr. Rochart, even with his crippled hand, and then he would have flattened him—flattened Mr. Rochart, I mean—but Mr. Hattersley came out and pulled them apart. The master didn’t seem to notice.”

“Oh no,” said Helen. “Poor Edward.”

In a hushed voice Mary added, “They were terrible, ma’am. They haven’t been this bad since before you came.”

“They used to be worse?”

“Well, after that terrible motorcar accident with Mr. Grimsby’s wife, you know,” said Mary. “They all got better for a little bit.”

Helen shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said. Except Alistair saying … “A dwarvven was at fault for his first wife’s death?”

Mary snorted. “Begging the master’s pardon, ma’am, but, no. You know them. They had been drinking all night, of course—and Mr. Grimsby was quite wild in those days. And the first Mrs. Grimsby was here, pleading with him to come home. He told her he wouldn’t be ordered about—of course they all cheered him on—and then he said he was fit to take them on a nice pleasure drive and they’d go where he wanted and so on. But of course he wasn’t in any kind of state to do that. They hit another car—the other driver was a dwarvven, you see, that’s where that comes in. Mrs. Grimsby was killed instantly. Mr. Grimsby went through the windshield. That’s when he got into all the Copperhead stuff about One People One Race and started warping all of them to it, even though the dwarvven driver didn’t do nothing. People go mad from guilt you know.”

“Yes, they do,” Helen said softly.

Mary shook her head. “I hate to say it, ma’am, but I don’t know if I can stay in this position much longer. I hate to leave you with them, but…”

“I know,” said Helen. “I’ll write you a recommendation. I will.”

She opened the door, and Mary added, “I really don’t think you want to go down there, ma’am. It’s not decent.”

Voices drifted down the hall from the games room and Helen remembered, with a shocking start, that Tam must be down there with them. Of course, she had laid the geis on Alistair to behave, but … “You go to bed, Mary,” she said. “Tell the housekeeper I said you could have the night off. George can go in if they need something.”

Helen strode past Mary and went firmly down the hall. The male voices were louder, raucous. On top of them a female laugh drifted out and Helen felt her bones freeze. They had women over, too? She opened the door to the games room and took it in. Men, slouched in chairs, muddy feet on tables. Musky cologne, lavender soap, cheap floral perfume. A woman perched on the arm of Boarham’s chair, another in Morse’s lap. And a small figure