"Melichka, really. This is a dangerous situation already," said Baba Anya, though she managed as always to look perfectly unflappable. "The more nervous you are, the more he will suspect."

"I don't care if he suspects anything, I just don't want to put him off!" She turned around, surveying the little tea room. The samovar was glowing hot, the little pot atop it full of the dark, potent concentrate that made a proper Russian tea. A side table had been brought in, and it was groaning with the weight of every little delicacy she could come by or conceive of in Paris–rolled herring in a variety of sauces, savory chicken livers wrapped with bacon, pickles of every variety she could find, vegetable caviars, salty Baltic cheeses, tangy black bread, crisp toast rounds, and in a silver bowl with a very ancient mother-of-pearl spoon, there glistened a little mound of real beluga caviar. A covered platter beside it held blini ready for topping with sour cream and the precious gray-black delicacy. Baba Anya had indeed surrendered one of her own supply for this very important visitor. Besides the savories, there were tea-cakes buried in powdered sugar, crescent cookies filled with sweet nut paste, and vareniki filled with preserves with sweet cream to top them. Melisande put her hands on her hips, looking for something to criticize, but everything seemed as perfect as they could possibly make it in Paris instead of Petersburg.

"That is your worry?" Baba Anya sounded oddly constrained, far more careful than she normally was. "That you will scare him away, not that he will suspect your motives?"

"He has no reason to suspect my motives." She meant that professionally, truly she did, she told herself yet again. "Ardsley sees a girl who adores him and wants to impress him, and it's no more than he deserves. But the last week or so, he's seemed very strange. Not withdrawn, though with the English that's so hard to tell, but . . . worried. Sad." She paused. "It's as if he's waiting for something he doesn't want to come."

"You have not been yourself either, goddaughter." Baba Anya so rarely used the title, it brought Melisande up short. "Child . . . remember what I have told you–real feelings are a danger in these cases."

"I'm not a child," though that came out far more petulant than she'd meant it. "And you've been talking to Katia."

"I have been observing," Baba Anya countered. "I am responsible for all of you and your missions, and you have been spending far more time at this one than it really should have taken. This is our best chance yet of placing a double agent in England. Failing that, you gain what knowledge you can and leave him none the wiser. If necessary–"

"Don't say it. Don't even think it." She knew what her godmother had been about to say and she knew her orders and she knew, at heart, that one she could not obey.

"Then succeed. Any other ending would be . . . unfortunate. And if it is necessary, I promise it will not be any easier to kill him if you truly care for him. Do not make it necessary." She paused. "You are still not lovers yet?" There was a note of disapproval to the question.

"I wish you'd make up your mind. First it was too soon, now I can't spread my legs for him fast enough." It was crude, but she wasn't really in the mood to be polite on the subject. "No. There were . . . moments, but somehow it's never been the right moment." An interrupting passer-by, one of the Serpents' patrols strolling past as they'd tried for an intimate moment after a late evening, ruining the mood . . . it was as if the entire city was conspiring against her, and the frustrations had long ceased to be professional in nature. Increasingly lingering kisses, bodies pressed close–so much promise with so little chance to act on it was enough to drive her out of her skin with frustration. "Soon, though, or I'll go mad."

Baba Anya didn't look entirely pleased. "Remember, this is a matter of duty."

"I am perfectly in control of my feelings," Melisande said, "and speaking of responsibility, I could do without interference from Katia and Vanya. Don't they have something else they could be doing?"

"Katia's position, given the situation with her intended target, is being reassessed. As for Vanya, he is being kept until there is a use for him. I have asked they not interfere with your mission. Have they disobeyed?"

"Not recently." Though Katia had, since that first week, still turned up on Gil Holzfäller's arm once or twice that Melisande had observed. "Vanya is not working on anything for us?" That part, given how he increasingly vanished and on his reappearance left a stink of must and dank water in his wake, made no sense at all.

"Nothing I'm aware of." Now the concern in Baba Anya's eyes wasn't for Melisande. "Why?"

Before she could speak, there was a gentle tap at the curtained wall of the alcove. "Madame?" One of the serving girls peeked around the half-drawn curtain. "The young English gentleman is here."

Melisande took a deep breath and smoothed the dark-blue skirts of her best dress. "Do I look all right? Do you think we have enough food?"

"You look perfectly lovely, and we have enough food to feed a brigade of Jaegers just back from action." Baba Anya remained seated, serene, at the table. "Show him in, Olga."

The girl bobbed a quick curtsey and vanished. Melisande smoothed her skirts again, and sat in one of the other chairs. Then she realized that would definitely wrinkle her skirts and stood up again. She thought she heard a rustling that might have been Baba Anya about to say something, and a quick sharp look cut that off. Then the curtain drew back again, and Olga stepped aside to allow Ardsley Wooster to enter. Melisande saw at a glance he'd done his best to dress up, too, in what were probably the best waistcoat and trousers he owned, and he'd obviously had his greatcoat cleaned and pressed. The expression on his face seemed wary, and she noted how he took in all the details of the room quickly before turning on that, as far as she could see, genuine smile when he looked at her. "Melisande," and then he looked to the figure at the table, "Madame," and the bow was not deep, but elegant.

"Ardsley!" The relief she heard in her own voice was real, though whether it was that he'd decided to come, or that his arrival ended the awkward questions from Baba Anya, she didn't know. Taking both his hands, she stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek-not the quick, two or three (whatever the fashion was nowadays) pecks in the air, but just long enough to be intimate and just short enough Baba Anya didn't have time to object. He tilted his head just a bit and tightened his grip on her hands, holding the contact just a bit longer. "I'm so glad you came."

"I could hardly refuse," and he stepped back, though without taking his eyes off her, and

she noticed he spoke Russian as a matter of course. Melisande wished the sound of it with his English accent didn't make her insides turn to liquid. That just added to the guilt. "Meeting someone so important to you is an honor. Would you make the introductions?"

"Of course." She turned, and Baba Anya had already risen and was looking her most regal. "Baba Anya, may I present Ardsley Wooster? Ardsley, my godmother, the Countess Anastasia Leonova Dragomirov."

"Countess." Poor-student cover story or not, he had learned a courtly bow somewhere. "I'm honored to make your acquaintance."

"And I'm pleased to finally make yours." Baba Anya extended her hand gracefully for him to bow over. "Your Russian is excellent," she said, and then, switching to English, "but I think we can speak your language, as you'll be subjected to our food. A fair trade, yes?"

"I see where Melisande learned such excellent English, Countess." There was a faint undertone of relief at the linguistic switch. "And I'm sure the food will be excellent. I haven't much experience of Russian cuisine, but Melisande's assured me I'm going to love it."

"I hope you are, because there's plenty of it." Melisande gestured to the table, and was pleased to see his jaw drop at the array of foods. "See? We know how to care for guests."

"I can see that. How many guests were you planning to feed?" Ardsley looked overwhelmed, and Melisande slipped her arm through his and guided him to the table.

"This? This is just a simple spread." Baba Anya sniffed, but Melisande knew when her godmother was acting. Of course, when it came to food, she'd have been the same with any guest, spy or not. Understandably so; by Russian standards this was an embarrassingly paltry spread. "It's so hard to find the better things here, though we've managed to put together a little something. The caviar is Russian, of course, the French have never figured out how to manage that."

"Some tea first, though?" Melisande patted his arm reassuringly. "I even made sure we had cream and sugar." She wrinkled her nose. "If you insist."

"I do appreciate it," and she saw something strangely happy in his eyes, as if by thinking first of his wants she'd done something people rarely bothered to do. "I'm more than happy to try your food, but my dear, an Englishman's tea is sacred."

"You will have to drink it out of our glasses, I'm afraid." Baba Anya had moved back by her chair, so Melisande went to the samovar. She had to turn her back, but she could feel Ardsley's eyes follow her. She poured just enough of the dark concentrate so when she filled the glass from the hot-water urn, it made a tea the strength he preferred, with room for two lumps of sugar and just a splash of cream. She took it back to the table before filling her own glass. "Here you are, just the way you take it, though I don't know how."

"You don't know what you're missing." He took a sip, and smiled. "Perfect."

"See? I do pay attention, even if I don't see how you stomach it." Her hand trembled a bit and the kettle rattled as she poured a much darker mix for Baba Anya and finally a glass for herself, with a lump of sugar instead of jam (though she couldn't quite bring herself to contaminate it with cream.) "Now, of course, if this were a proper party we'd have vodka, but Baba Anya didn't think it would be ladylike for me to drink in front of you."

"Melisande Petrovna, that was also not ladylike." Baba Anya sipped her tea delicately.

"Perhaps not, but it was honest, and you must admit that's a refreshing quality in Paris." Ardsley might have missed his calling in the diplomatic corps, if that response was anything to go by. "Especially when one spends too much time around Sparks. They can be honest, certainly, but frequently not in good ways."

"You mean in the 'I'm sure those restraints will work perfectly next time, but you have to admit that was exciting' sense of honesty." Melisande took a sip–the sugar gave it a pleasant sweetness, but it lacked the depth that a good preserve had. "I don't have much occasion to work with the Gifted, but really, from everything you've said I don't feel too sorry."

"It's not so bad sometimes." He smiled, with just that little tinge of self-deprecation she'd gotten used to seeing, and then looked to Baba Anya. "I'm minion material, as I've been reminded often enough, but I've accepted that. In fact I'd have to say it's probably preferable to having the Gift. I'm not likely to go mad and decide to take over the city using an army of giant clanks made from antique laundry tubs and sausage-making implements."

Baba Anya smiled. "A relief. I do remember when Baron Balkabash, the Mad Moldovian, tried to march on Vienna with an army made from old flax-spinning wheels and sheep shears. I will admit, it was a very colorful army. Not effective, but decorative. It made for an attractive siege, at least."

"I never know when she's being serious," Melisande murmured, though she was fairly sure Baba Anya rarely made things like that up.

"Before your time, my dear, and yours, Mr. Wooster." Baba Anya smiled a bit. "Before quite a lot of things, actually." She set down her tea. "Now, please, help yourself to the food. We can talk once we've eaten." With a gracious wave, she gestured to the table. "Please."

"I hardly know where to start," Ardsley said, and Melisande covered an amused smile with her hand. "Do you feed every guest this much?"

"Only the special ones," Melisande said, hoping her voice was too low for Baba Anya to hear. "Start with the caviar," she said, in a louder voice. "Take a blini, and a bit of the sour cream, then put a little spoonful of the caviar on that. Trust me, it's wonderful."

"Fish eggs? I don't know . . . ." He followed her directions, though, and put the blini on his plate, along with other delicacies she pointed out. She kept her own plate light, partially out of manners and partially because her nerves wouldn't have let her eat much, anyway. Baba Anya barely took anything, but Melisande never saw her eat much as it was. Another skill she would hopefully someday pass along.

At table, she took a nibble of her own blini. "Go on, try it. I'm surprised, I'd think someone from a country so . . . connected to the sea wouldn't mind fish."

"Fish, yes," Ardsley said, "who doesn't like a kipper for breakfast, but this is . . . proto-fish. Still, they do say it's a delicacy . . . ." He took a bite, and raised his eyebrows. "I can see why."

Baba Anya smiled indulgently. "I find most men of culture appreciate Russian caviar. Something I learned long ago, and why I always keep a supply for special occasions. You may find this hard to believe, Mr. Wooster, but I once was as young and charming as Melisande here."

"I don't find that hard to believe at all, ma'am," Ardsley said. "Though, with all due respect, I find it hard to imagine anyone being quite as pretty."

Melisande wished she didn't blush so easily. "You're very charming, but such flattery."

"It's not flattery, just a statement of fact," he replied. "And having to tag along after Gil, believe me, I've acquired an ample frame of reference."

"Gil?" Baba Anya sounded perfectly polite and innocent, as if she hadn't read the name in reports and heard it from Melisande a dozen times or more.

Ardsley blinked, and Melisande saw that slight flicker when he's said something he apparently regretted. "My friend. I tutor him in the courses he's not inclined to take seriously otherwise, he tutors me in how those with vastly more disposable income than I possess spend it in wine, women and song. He's utterly at a loss that I've been devoting so much time to just one girl, but then he's only met your goddaughter once or twice."

"I'm hardly the sort to hold the attention of a Spark," Melisande said sincerely, "and I'm grateful for it," even more sincerely. "Besides, Katia's much more his type."

"Really." Baba Anya raised an eyebrow. "She hasn't mentioned that."

"Is she your goddaughter as well?" Ardsley said it innocently and after politely swallowing a bite of one of the stuffed eggs.

"Not officially, but I do know her father." Baba Anya didn't bat an eyelash. Melisande envied her cool. "I hadn't realized she'd found herself another gentleman friend."

"If it's any reassurance, my friend has a rather short attention span where women are concerned, and he's usually a gentleman." He took a polite sip of tea.

Melisande couldn't help herself. "Perhaps his manners will rub off on my cousin." Before Baba Anya could chide her again, she went on, "Has your friend said where he's going when he finishes at the University?"

Ardsley took a sip of tea before replying, as if that was exactly what he'd intended to do. Melisande, though, saw how his eyes lowered briefly, and knew that now as a tell–he was buying himself time. "He hasn't said anything yet. Gil doesn't speak much about his past, but he did grow up on Castle Wulfenbach, and between that and his never appearing to run short I gather whoever his people are, he's well cared for. He's made a few trips since he came to Paris–I went with him to Arabia, actually. That was an interesting time, to say the least. Such a strange, arid country. The desert's rather like the ocean, in a way. Empty, and always shifting. I'm more comfortable on an airship or in a boat than on a camel. Gil of course spent half the time thinking up more efficient meanss of crossing the desert, when he wasn't devising ways to sneak into harems." He blinked. "I do apologize, Countess, that was hardly appropriate."

"Quite all right," Baba Anya said. "I was young myself once, and familiar with young men. Even young Englishmen–I met a gentleman once in Vienna, a student much like yourself, and like many young men out looking for a little adventure before settling down, he had some stories to tell. I assume your friend Herr Holzfäller is simply doing the same. As, I presume, are you?"

Melisande coughed delicately, and Ardsley looked bemused for just a moment. Before she could think of something to repair the conversation, or at least minimize the embarrassment, Ardsley said, "If that was a very discrete way of asking whether I'm interested in Melisande simply to have a story about meeting a beautiful foreign girl in Paris and having a whirlwind romance, I assure you, those are not my intentions." He looked over at her and smiled, and she was certain she saw something sad in his expression.

Baba Anya, meanwhile, only narrowed her eyes, but the smile remained in place. "I am very glad to hear that. I'm quite fond of my goddaughter, and I would hate for her to be hurt."

A little niggling voice in the back of Melisande's mind added, She'd hate for me to be hurt, except if duties require it. The thought, and the sheer treason of it, startled her so much she nearly choked on her tea. Taking a quick, scalding sip, she tried to cover for it. "Baba Anya, I'm perfectly capable of looking out for myself. In any case, if I thought Ardsley were the dangerous sort, would I have brought him home to meet you?"

"Point taken." She detected just the faintest . . .discomfiture in her godmother's reply. Beside her, she felt Ardsley shift in his chair just a bit, his leg barely brushing her skirts. It might have been an accident, or an attempt at flirtation, but it felt as if he were straightening, that slight tensing she noticed whenever he was observing something intently. "I did not mean to impugn your honor, Mr. Wooster. I'm sure you understand I'm merely concerned for my goddaughter. You must admit, many young men at university have few scruples about innocent young ladies they might encounter. And those young ladies are not always the most adept judges of characters."

Melisande was surprised they couldn't hear her eyes rolling. Ardsley, though, was as unflappable as always. "I can assure you, Countess, I have nothing but the most honorable intentions where Melisande is concerned. I would never wish to see her hurt, by my own hand– or anyone else's. In fact I'd be very unkindly disposed towards anyone who wanted to harm her. Or tried."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees. Melisande kept her face under control, and she only saw a tiny tightening at the corner of Baba Anya's eyes, but for her that was as good as a numb stare. Ardsley's tone had not changed so much–cool, polite, but there was suddenly an edge, finely honed steel, that hadn't been there before. He wasn't speaking hypothetically–he had someone else in mind, someone specific. Who did he think was a threat? Not just a threat, to her specifically? Or was he fishing?

The very fact she wasn't sure which meant she was in far more trouble than she'd thought.

Baba Anya smiled, very slowly. "Then we have that in common, Mr. Wooster."

"I'm glad to hear it." Pleasant, utterly polite, not a trace of animosity, and still, not at all reassuring.

Melisande kept herself from forcing a laugh. It would only sounds obvious and awkward. "I'm quite fortunate to have so many people concerned for my welfare. Though I'm sure I can't see any cause for concern myself." Ardsley didn't say anything, but his hand casually dropped beneath the level of the table, and then it was pressing hers, where she'd been politely resting it in her lap. The tremor somewhere deep in her stomach became a shiver that ran through her whole body, and she laced her fingers through his. He tightened his grip in response and she felt absurdly reassured, even without knowing what it was he feared.

Baba Anya, once again, did not change her expression, but she did change the topic. "You were raised in the Glass City, Melisande has told me."

Ardsley relaxed, but he didn't release her hand and she was grateful. "Yes, I was raised by my aunt and lived there until I attended Oxford. I thought that was a culture shock until I came to Paris."

"The young Englishman I knew talked a great deal about the Glass City–her Majesty's palace, the clockwork ravens at the Tower, the floating gardens at Kew . . . he tried to describe the transition from the spires down to the lower levels below the water when you arrive by airship, how the light changes going from sky to sea, but I couldn't imagine." Baba Anya sounded so convincingly wistful even Melisande found herself believing her. "It's truly a shame your country is so difficult to enter, Mr. Wooster."

His hand tightened again and Melisande shivered in spite of herself. "Her Undying Majesty is understandably reluctant to allow casual visitors, given what could happen to a city underwater if the wrong . . . person were to visit. But for those with more serious intentions and a proper introduction, it isn't as difficult as one might think."

"Perhaps more difficult to leave, if the stories are true, yes?"

Melisande's whole body tensed in annoyance. She knew exactly what stories her godmother meant, and certainly, they were unnerving, especially to anyone who remembered or had heard stories of mind-controlled revenants shambling across Europe, mindlessly doing the bidding of the Other. "Baba Anya, now you're being nekulturny. Does Ardsley seem like a mindless robot?" Of course, one wouldn't allow a mindless revenant to act as an agent–one of the risks of live assets was the free will required to operate effectively.

Ardsley, meanwhile, had tensed a bit, for once she thought a truly honest, offended, reaction. "I assure you, Countess, we have no less freedom in England than anyone else in Europa, provided, of course, one obeys the law." He paused. "I dare say, more than some. I am told, in the Duchy, most of your large estates are still worked by serfs?"

Melisande had the distinctly odd feeling of being embarrassed by her country. Baba Anya, as well, seemed nonplused. "Many are. The Grand Duke's father was deeply concerned with their welfare, but of course there is always the matter of what becomes of serfs who no longer have an estate to serve."

"Oh, of course," and especially with his accent that was achingly polite. "I only meant being bound to a particular estate for one's entire life by accident of birth doesn't seem any more pleasant than living as regulated a life as we do in England. You have estates that require so many . . . workers. We have such limited land and resources, and such a perilous living situation, law and order simply has to be sacrosanct."

Melisande thought of the engravings she'd seen of the Glass City, the crystal-and-brass domes peeking out over the water, airship mooring posts at the top of spires with spiral stairs leading down into the city proper. Not only in her dossier she'd studied before coming to Paris, but in books from as early an age as she could remember–a lost city like Venice, sunk beneath the waves, but saved by their strange Undying Queen and living halfway between sea and land. "It must be so strange to live there. No forests, no snow in the winter time, no steppes or plains . . . ."

"We do have weather," Ardsley said, something soft and faraway in his voice. "Her Majesty sees to that. But no, nothing like they say you have in the Duchy. Certainly not palaces built of ice for winter fairs. That's something I'd like to see."

"I'm not sure you'd enjoy our winters," Melisande said. "Sometimes it's so cold in Petersburg you think your breath is going to freeze in your lungs, and the snowdrifts are higher than your head. But in the summertime, you can go to the forest, and pick mushrooms and wild strawberries. Uncle Oleg has a dacha that's on a beautiful lake, my family's gone there every summer I can remember. Katia and I used to play in the forest, tracking and hiding, and the one who could hide the best would get a special treat from Uncle. I was always better at hiding than she was, but even then Katia wasn't subtle." Only then did she see the look in Baba Anya's eyes and realize how much detail she had just spilled. Some spiteful urge, alien and unnerving and remarkably appealing, prevented her from stopping. "You might like Uncle Oleg, Ardsley. He's a little stern, but not so bad. And it isn't his fault Katia's spoiled. She just assumes since she's pretty everyone will treat her like a princess, and they usually do."

"I haven't spoken with her enough to make a judgement." He had definitely missed his calling as a diplomat. "But enough to say, if it isn't improper, that you're much the prettier, princess or not."

"Don't let Katia hear you say that," Melisande said, but she pressed his hand, traced her fingertip over his palm, and felt him shiver. "She doesn't take rejection well."

"I'll bear that in mind." He let go of her hand, but then she felt his knee pressing against hers. Utterly indecorous, yet she was grateful.

Baba Anya took the opening to steer the conversation back to safer territory. They chatted about Paris, the Louvre, whether or not the Opera Populaire had been the same since some madboy in the cellars had dropped another chandelier (seemed to be a near-monthly occurrence), whether the Master of Paris was really plotting against Baron Wulfenbach (who wasn't?) and were the rumors true and had Othar Trygvassen (Gentleman Adventurer!) really been seen driving off a horde of mutant mimmoths in the Ninth Arrondissement two weeks ago Sunday with nothing but his wits and a wedge of cheese? Ardsley was every inch the polite, charming young scholar they all knew he wasn't, at least not entirely, Baba Anya the gracious host rather than expert control officer , and Melisande found herself uncertain whether she was the trained seductress she was supposed to be or truly a giddy schoolgirl hoping her suitor made a favorable impression. Of course, the only truly unfavorable one he could make would be that he was so good a field agent he was onto them both and stringing them along for some purposes of his own or his spymasters'. He could have been a slob, a boor, had the cover of a rich idiot with no day job just like his friend Gil, and Baba Anya would have appeared to approve, Melisande would be expected to appear just as giddily in love.

She closed her eyes wearily as he and Baba Anya discussed the relative merits of French as the language of diplomacy considering most Parisians were anything but diplomatic, hoping neither noticed she had dropped out of the conversation. Just her luck, of course, that her target was not boorish or a slob or playing at being the imbecile. He was handsome and gracious and clever without being smug, protective of her and not even afraid to show it to the formidable Countess Dragomirov, meaning Melisande had no trouble at all convincing him she was in love. She was past the point, though, she could pretend to herself that she wasn't.

The cakes had been eaten and the coals under the samovar were turning gray when Ardsley, reluctantly, stood. "I'm afraid I really must go. Your hospitality is wonderful, and I will gladly admit that Melisande was right–a proper Russian tea is the equal of an English spread. Though I'll maintain my preference for English food, I'm afraid. National loyalty and all that."

The Countess rose with that age-belying grace. "We would hardly expect otherwise. Though you will give us another chance to change your mind?"

"I look forward to the invitation." The smile was polite, but as noncommittal as the reply. "Melisande, would it be improper of me to ask you to see me out-and perhaps to the corner?"

"Even if it were, I'd still say yes." She rose a bit more quickly than was proper, he noticed, and he also noticed she didn't seem to care. "Baba Anya, please excuse me."

"Of course." She smiled, but Ardsley still had the uncanny feeling of being scanned. "Thank you for coming, Mr. Wooster. It has been very . . . informative meeting you at last."

"Such an interesting way of putting it," he said. "I hope haven't offended."

"Not in the least. It is only . . . if you'll excuse my familiarity, you have made my goddaughter very happy these last weeks. I was anxious to meet the man who's captivated her, and now I have." Her smile was sweet, polite, and inscrutable.

Ardsley felt a gut-twisting sense of guilt–it might have been indigestion, but he doubted it. "I hope I've made a favorable impression," he said, trying to focus on the Countess and not on Melisande, because if he saw pleasure in her expression he wasn't sure he'd be able to hold his cover. "I know Melisande sets great store by your good opinion."

"Don't fear you've disappointed." She made a gracious, if shallow curtsey, and he bowed back without even thinking. "I hope we'll meet again."

"As do I, Countess." He couldn't avoid any longer and turned to Melisande. The quiet happiness in her eyes and the way she took his arm so quicky nearly undid him. She was either the consummate actress her godmother was, or she was honest, and he wasn't sure which would be more crushing. Countess Dragomirov hadn't given him any hints, but he knew she was a professional. If Melisande didn't, if she wasn't, they were using her . . . but what were the odds of that?

Outside, where he was fairly sure they were free of any listening ears, he stopped. "Melisande–"

"What did you mean?" Her pretty dark eyes were wide and intense, her hands pressed against his chest. "You weren't speaking generally before. You think I'm in some sort of danger. What were you talking about?"

Ardsley searched her face for any sign that she knew, that she was asking to find out how much he knew. Either she was good, or she was innocent. Careful. He had to be careful. "I think your cousin's friend Vanya is into something very dangerous. I know how Sparks are, and I don't want to see you hurt by it."

Something odd crossed her face, a strange expression that might have been indecision. "How do you know?"

He felt a twinge of disappointment (that was not the question he'd have expected from someone who knew nothing) but kept a straight face. "I found some drawings that he left in the optics lab. Some sort of clank, definitely a weapon. It looked like he was planning to use human skeletons as parts. There was also some sort of power-generating system he'd designed, and you have said he's been coming in smelling like the sewers . . . ."

There was something behind her eyes now. He could see her calculating, and then deciding. "I saw notes he did for some kind of generator–I think it's meant to be built underground. I don't . . . I'm not a Spark or any kind of mechanic. Do you think he could use something like that to help build clanks?"

It wasn't entirely what he'd expected, but his instincts said she was being honest. "He could. You don't know what he could be doing?"

Whether she knew it or not, she let the mask slip and he saw the calculation–and that she was genuinely just as lost as he was as far as Vanya's plans. "There's nothing, not that I know of. He barely ever seems to go to classes, so I don't think it's any sort of project for that."

"What I saw looked like weapons. Even here, that's not officially encouraged."

"Then it's something he's come up with for himself, and I don't know why or what it's for." She bit her lip and looked up, and he saw some of that mask again, but part of him (the gullible part?) thought the insecurity in her eyes was real. "But why do you think he'll hurt me?"

Ardsley hesitated. Professionalism warred with his heart, and declared a draw. "He's a Spark. When they get going everyone around them is in danger, intentionally or otherwise. I don't want to see you hurt."

"I thought that was my line." The soft, tender expression was so real, he desperately wanted to keep believing it. "And you spend far more time with Sparks than I do."

So much so, he decided. "Well, I don't want you hurt, either. That was all I meant." That, and a warning, if they were using her . . . . "I wanted to ask–can I see you tomorrow evening? Somewhere we can speak privately."

No one could blush or pale on command, no matter how trained, and her reaction made him wonder yet again as her cheeks turned a bright shade of rose. "Of course. Six o'clock?"

"Meet me outside my flat. There's something I'd like to give you, and I didn't bring it tonight." He thought of the present he (all right, in fairness, and Gil, very much Gil) had made, sitting in the little secretary in his garret, on top the two letters.

"I'll be there." Her lips were slightly parted and he couldn't help looking, knowing she anticipated a kiss, wanting so terribly to give in. And why not, no matter what? Why risk her realizing all wasn't as it had been? Ardsley raised a hand to her cheek, brushing a strand of hair back from her face, and bent down to her. She melted into the embrace, and for a moment he didn't care if it was real or not–it felt wonderful. Still, some part of his mind couldn't help but think about those two letters. One, bearing the winged-tower seal of Castle Wulfenbach, should have been cause for celebration–the pending success of his mission and everything he'd worked for. And, of course, if it was simply a test to draw him out as a spy, quite possibly his death warrant as well.

The other was a short dispatch from the home office, obviously sent in haste. The message inside warned him that Anastasia Leonova Dragomirov, whom he'd informed them he was to meet, was known to be the control officer for the Secret Police of the Duchy of Moscow's Paris bureau, and that her goddaughter, Melisande Petrovna Velyaminova (La Capere was her French father's name and not on her official Russian birth records) was in fact the niece of Oleg Feyodorvich Velyaminov, chief of the State Secret Police. Ekaterina Olegevena Velyaminova, his daughter, was an identified agent and it was likely Melisande was as well, though as yet they had no confirmation from agents within the Duchy, or idea what her mission might be. Lord M_ recommended Ardsley immediately terminate contact, and if he disregarded that instruction to proceed with extreme caution as the situation was almost certainly a trap.

With Melisande's arms around his neck, her body pressed full against him, and her mouth open under his as he pulled her closer, he had the feeling the trap was sprung long ago, and he was not entirely sure he wanted to escape.