Miss Holmes
A Civil Conversation
After an hour digging through the makeup and costume closets at the Lyceum Theater with Miss Stoker, I had a generous cache of disguises. Apparently there was some benefit to having her as a partner. If I'd had to resort to raiding my uncle's stash, I don't believe I would have been as successful, because despite what some people might think, Uncle Sherlock doesn't have a large variety of female clothing or accessories.
Miss Stoker and I took a smooth, silent lift up to the highest streetwalk and made our way back to the Strand. I took my leave in front of Northumberland House after lecturing her about why we couldn't arrive at Witcherell's together without inviting comment. And I reminded her to keep her gloves on at all times tonight, for hands could be very telling about one's identity.
With traffic clogging the throughways at all levels, it took three quarters of an hour to travel home. But that was typically London, even during the later hours of the evening and night. It was impossible to move quickly from one area to another. By the time I walked into my house, it was after four o'clock, which gave me three hours to work in my laboratory before I had to eat dinner and assemble my disguise.
When I had been called to post bail for Dylan, I left my studies analyzing the different characteristics of ladies' powder and creams. Because I hoped that giving my mind a rest from the Society of Sekhmet case might produce some deductions when I returned to it, I was determined to finish the analysis of the imported Danish face powder before leaving my lab today. To that end, I donned a protective apron and strapped on my goggles, then closed the door to my work area.
However, the best-laid plans tend to be wantonly disrupted, and mine were no exception. I'd just set fire to the small dish of geranium-scented powder when there was a knock at the door.
"Yes?" I called, taking no pains to hide my displeasure. The powder was burning more quickly than I'd anticipated, and the floral scent was distinct.
The door opened enough to show Mrs. Raskill's sleek pepper-and-salt hair and small, inquisitive nose. "You've a visitor."
I gave an unladylike huff. Since I wasn't socially active, my visitor was likely her nephew Ben. "I'm quite busy," I said, poking at the now-smoldering ruins of powder.
The geranium scent was still strong in the air, and the powder had turned an interesting shade of honey. I lifted one side of my goggles onto an eyebrow so I could peer through a magnifying glass to determine whether there were any other physical changes to the residue. I had only a handheld glass, not one of the fancy Ocular-Magnifyers I'd seen Grayling use at the museum. This limitation necessitated awkward contortions on my part as I bent, peered, poked, and held the magnifying glass all at one time-while jotting notes.
"He insists on seeing you," Mrs. Raskill said. "I don't think he's going to leave until he does."
"She's quite right, Miss Holmes."
I nearly dropped the magnifying glass at the sound of a familiar voice. Had I somehow conjured him up? "Inspector Grayling, what the devil-I mean, what on earth are you doing here?"
Grayling was standing in the doorway, which was now fully open. At the sight of him, his dark cinnamon-colored hair almost brushing the top of the doorway, his broad shoulders filling the space in a dark blue wool coat with six brass buttons, my insides did a sharp little flip.
"I must speak with you, Miss Holmes," he said, walking uninvited into my laboratory. "What are you doing?"
He'd noticed my awkward position, not to mention the clutter all over my table. And . . . oh drat, the way I had lifted my goggles off kilter, covering only one eye and the other lens raised up to my forehead. I could only imagine how ridiculous I appeared.
"I'm studying the residue left by various articles of the feminine toilette," I told him primly, removing the goggles. I wasn't going to think about the dark red circles that would be around one eye and imprinted on my forehead. "One never knows when one might encounter such a clue at the site of a crime."
"Indeed."
"I'm very busy, Inspector Grayling," I said, raising my magnifying glass again and returning to the task at hand. That, I decided, was a better option than standing there like a silent fool, gawking at him. With random red circles on my face.
"Obviously."
He'd stepped into the laboratory, and Mrs. Raskill made her escape. The latter realization surprised me, for I would have expected curiosity to get the better of the housekeeper.
"I've an Ocular-Magnifyer that straps to the head," he informed me. "And it fits over the eye. I ken it would make your task much easier."
I gave up and set down the glass to give him my full attention. "What is so important that you found it necessary to travel to my home and interrupt your busy day?"
At that, his expression became serious. "I thought it best to bring you the news directly. Lilly Corteville is dead."
I gave a sharp jerk and knocked the magnifying glass to the floor. Even as it shattered at my feet, I was saying, "Dead? No! No! How? When?"
To Grayling's credit, he made no comment about my clumsiness. Instead, he suggested, "Perhaps you'd like to step out for a moment where we can talk."
I was aware of a terrible, heavy feeling in the pit of my stomach. "Lilly's dead?" It didn't seem real. I'd just been there, talking to her in her parlor, only hours ago.
Grayling nodded, his face still grave. "I thought it appropriate that you heard the information from an official representative of the Met instead of through other channels."
By now I'd made my way around the mess of glass, and I followed my visitor out of the laboratory. Conscious of Mrs. Raskill's sharp ears, I said, "There is a small park at the end of the block. Perhaps we could sit and talk there?"
As soon as I made the suggestion, I realized how forward it sounded. My dratted cheeks heated yet again, and I focused on the ground so that I didn't have to meet his eyes and see the surprise or distaste reflected therein. To my relief, he kept any arrogant comment he might have made to himself.
Instead he said, "A seat in the park would be most welcome. I've been inside all day with this business."
And that was how we came to be walking down the street together. He offered me his arm, which was proper and meant nothing but that he did have some habits of a gentleman. I took it, because there was always the chance that one might have to dodge a pile of something unpleasant while walking along the edge of the street, and being in heavy full skirts with hourglass-heeled shoes could make that difficult.
I didn't want a repeat of my tripping incident at the ball.
He seemed willing to be candid with me, and as we approached the park, he said, "Word came to Scotland Yard at one o'clock today. Miss Corteville was found in her bedchamber at approximately noon, no longer breathing. She couldn't be roused, and there was a bluish cast around her mouth and nose."
"Poison or asphyxiation," I said immediately, then cast a covert glance at him.
"It appears to be poison," he said in a mild tone as we approached the park. "Evidence suggests that's the case, but we haven't finished the investigation."
The park was hardly more than a mechanized bench beneath a large tree with a neat garden of flowers planted around it. I'd occasionally seen a child or two playing ball on the small plot of grass, but they'd been toddlers, with a short range and didn't seem to need much space.
"What sort of evidence?" I asked, forcing myself to sound casual as I released his arm. I was still shocked at the unhappy news and cognizant that Grayling had decided I should be informed of it. Was he beginning to accept my involvement in the investigation?
Grayling gestured to the bench, which was currently motionless. But just as I moved to take a seat, he sprang into action, holding up a hand to stop me. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and dusted off the surface, then stepped back as I settled myself and my bustle onto the bench. This was no easy feat on a seat with a back (there's nowhere for the bustle to go, so one is generally required to lean forward). However, I tend to wear smaller, more practical bustles, and as today was no exception, I was able to sit with relative comfort.
"Next to her bed was a small vial, uncapped, and empty. I smelled the essence of bitter almond," he continued as if there'd been no interruption in our conversation.
"Cyanide."
Grayling nodded, then after a brief hesitation, took a seat next to me. There was a good space between us, I at one end, he at the other. But, still, it seemed odd to be sitting on a park bench, speaking casually with Inspector Grayling instead of competing with him.
"Yes, I suspect it was arsenic. There was enough residue left in the vial to test it, so we shall know in short order. There was a note and another item that will likely interest you."
"An Egyptian scarab."
The expression that flashed on his face was gone as quickly as it came, but it was testament to the fact that I had surprised him once again. "Aye, you are correct. There was a scarab with a Sedmet, er, Sethmet-"
"Sekhmet."
"Right," he said. "An image of Sekhmet was visible inside, once the object opened. The scarab was on the bed next to the vial and the note."
"She wrote the note to make it appear as if she took her own life."
"All indications are that she did take her own life," Grayling said. But his voice wasn't argumentative. It was filled with the same suspicion that echoed my own thoughts.
And what about the scarab? Did Lilly have another besides the one that had been found in her room, or had someone-the poisoner?-left another as a warning or as some sort of message? There had been a scarab found with Mayellen Hodgeworth's body too.
All at once, one of those thoughts crystallized, and I actually started. Lady Cosgrove-Pitt had been there, at Lilly Corteville's house, today.
"What is it, Miss Holmes? You've thought of something, haven't you?"
"I . . ." I realized I couldn't voice my suspicions. Not to him, and certainly not without more proof. But the fact that Lady Cosgrove-Pitt had been there was somehow relevant. It had to be. There were no coincidences.
I was even more determined to go to Witcherell's tonight and see the Ankh. And, if possible, to unmask it.
Her.
"I . . . erm . . . suspect the note said something about not wanting to hurt her mother?"
Grayling fixed his eyes on me. At the moment, they appeared more green than gray, and their steady regard made me feel jittery. "Is that what you suspect?" he said in a mildly derisive voice.
"What did it say?"
"It did say something of that nature, in fact," he said, still watching me. From his inside pocket, he pulled out the journal and the self-inking pen with the bulbous reservoir on top. After flipping through the pages, he stopped at one, paused, and then read, " 'I'm sorry, Mother and Father. I love you. But I can no longer live with this burden. Lilly.' "
I blinked rapidly, feeling the sting of unfamiliar wetness at the inside corner of my eyes. What burden had been so heavy that she couldn't bear it and had chosen death over life?
She made the choice to leave her parents. For whatever reason, she took the poison. She left.
My throat burned and my eyes stung, and I could feel the inside of my nose dampening. Why was I so upset? I hardly knew the girl. Yet, I must have felt something akin to rage-as well as grief-toward the poor wretch. For she'd made the choice to leave her parents. To leave them behind, to leave them wondering what they'd done to deserve being abandoned.
I knew what it felt like, being abandoned. Left behind with no warning, no chance to right whatever was wrong. It was I who'd been left by one of my parents.
In fact, for all intents and purposes, I'd been left by both of them.
Grayling thrust something into my hand, and I looked down to see his handkerchief wadded in my palm. I dabbed sharply at my eyes, mortified that I'd revealed this range of emotion.
"It's been confirmed," I asked, aware that my voice was rough and unsteady, "that the note is in her handwriting?"
"Aye," said Grayling. And even in that simple syllable, I could hear the thickness of his Scots burr. He wasn't as unmoved as he appeared.
I wiped my nose and then, instead of giving him back the soiled handkerchief, I stuffed it inside the hidden pocket of my skirt. Never allow any form of emotion to color your investigation, observation, or deduction. It was that excess of emotion, Uncle Sherlock claimed, that made the female gender unable to make rational decisions and deductions. Which I'd spent my entire seventeen years of life attempting to disprove. At least, in my case.
I forced myself to thrust away any influence of my emotions and review the facts. I knew there were others Grayling either hadn't noticed or hadn't provided, but I could draw three theories:
Lilly Corteville had written the note and taken the poison.
Or she'd been forced to write the note, and then the poison had been forced upon her.
Or she'd written the note under some other circumstances, and it had been used at the scene of her murder in order to imply suicide.
If it truly was a suicide, where had she obtained the poison?
After a long moment of silence, Grayling spoke. "I suspect Miss Corteville obtained the poison from whoever murdered Allison Martindale and Mayellen Hodgeworth."
"I would suspect the same," I agreed, wondering if I should mention the Society of Sekhmet. "In which case, this is likely murder. Or accessory to murder."
"I would concur."
I opened my mouth to tell him what Miss Stoker and I had learned about the Ankh . . . and then closed it. Through Miss Adler's direction, Princess Alexandra had insisted on utter secrecy about our work. She must have her reasons, and I dared not compromise them without permission.
We sat in silence for another stretch of time. It felt surprisingly comfortable, and I realized I was loath to disrupt it. But the clock at St. Bartholomew's struck five, and I knew it was time for me to return home to prepare for my evening excursion.
As if reading my mind, Grayling stood abruptly. He looked down at me and said, "Miss Holmes, I hope you aren't planning to visit Witcherell's tonight."
I was hardly able to control my surprise. Perhaps he knew more than he was telling me. Including about the Society of Sekhmet.
"It wasn't difficult to find out where Miss Corteville was going on the night of April twenty-fifth," he said in answer to my unspoken question. "She didn't lie about taking a cab; she lied about the wheel breaking. The cabdriver left her at Witcherell's and watched her walk inside. He remembered it because it was an unsavory establishment for a young woman of the gentry to be visiting. I suspect you gleaned at least that much from her during your interview, and I am just as certain that you're planning to investigate it yourself."
I felt a little like Uncle Sherlock must have when he realized Irene Adler had been one step ahead of him. "Inspector Grayling," I said, thinking of the variety of accoutrements I borrowed from the Lyceum Theatre, "you might feel it necessary to visit Witcherell's tonight, but I can assure you, Mina Holmes will not be sighted on the premises."
Grayling looked at me long and hard before giving a brief nod. Nevertheless, his expression was filled with suspicion as he offered me his arm for our return to my residence.
When I arrived, I bid him farewell and went inside to find that a message had been delivered in my absence.
Dylan had found what he believed was Sekhmet's diadem.
Now all we had to do was lure the Ankh to the museum so we could capture her.
Smiling to myself, I closed the door to my bedchamber and began the process of eliminating any resemblance to Miss Mina Holmes.
Miss Stoker
Miss Stoker Is Stymied
That evening, I approached Witcherell's Pawnshop on foot. Thanks to the resources Miss Holmes and I had plundered from the Lyceum's costume trunks, no one would recognize me.
Pepper had braided my hair tightly against my head and pinned a bonnet over it. I chose the hat because it was abominably ugly. With five long pheasant feathers sprouting from the back of the crown and miniature brown-speckled blue bird's eggs decorating it, I knew no one would believe it was fashionable Evaline Stoker under that brim. We pinned false red-gold curls underneath. Miss Holmes had suggested I wear clear-glass spectacles, which she claimed would help to disguise the shape of my eyes. I also wore flat shoes to make me appear shorter.
"Merely changing the color of your hair and style of dress isn't enough to hide your true identity," she lectured. "And for heaven's sake, keep your gloves on at all times. One's hands are an excellent means of identification, and most people don't think to disguise them."
Thinking it might be fun to don our disguises together, I suggested we get dressed at Grantworth House. But Miss Holmes gave me a disapproving look. "We can't arrive together, even if we are in disguise. I will be at Witcherell's at nine o'clock."
I'd seen many disreputable storefronts and buildings, but Witcherell's was the dirtiest place I'd ever seen. Located at ground level several blocks from Haymarket, it was on the same street as a dingy pub, a sad-looking bakery, a second pawnshop, and an empty storefront. Just the sort of places a pickpocket or thief would frequent.
The street and walkway were busy. Yet when I glanced up and down the way, there was no sign of Mina Holmes-even in disguise. So I walked into the pawnshop.
The only person inside was the proprietor, a skinny man with protruding eyes and a bald head. His nose was a large triangular blade that made even Miss Holmes's look dainty. He looked at me as I came in. Was I to ask about the Sekhmet Society meeting? Unlike when we attended the Roses Ball, this time Miss Holmes hadn't given me any indication of how she expected to proceed.
And I hadn't thought to ask. Or to plan ahead.
Chafing with impatience, I looked around for inspiration. How on earth did this place stay in business? Every one of its offerings seemed to fall under one of three categories: filthy, broken, or filthy and broken.
A little tinkle of bells drew my attention from behind, and I turned to see a young woman walk through the door. Finally. A young woman would never be in a place like this unless she was planning to attend the Society of Sekhmet meeting.
She glanced around hesitantly, then edged her way toward the counter where the proprietor sat watching both of us like a large, silent toad.
I would have assumed the newcomer was my partner, but it wasn't. Miss Holmes's nose would have given her away immediately. This young woman's nose, although by no means delicate, was shaped differently. Her cheeks and jaw were round and pudgy, and her skin was an unbecoming ruddy color. Her dark hair looked as if it were about to tumble free of its haphazard pins. She obviously didn't have a lady's maid to help her dress, although her clothing seemed well made.
However shyly she moved, this young woman appeared to have a better notion of what to do than I. She walked with small steps up to the counter.
"Oh," she said, pausing to poke her fingers around inside a shallow bowl. There was a soft rattling sound, as if the small objects were being stirred up. Her voice was loud and a little squeaky. "These beetles are just utterly too, too!"
Beetles? I wasted no time edging my way toward the counter.
"If ye be likin' dem, missy, ye mun fin' more o' dem back 'roun' 'ere," said the proprietor. He flipped up a section of the counter and gestured the young woman through.
Despite my impatience, I waited until she disappeared into the back room. Then I approached and looked in the bowl. It was filled with Egyptian scarabs.
"I like these beetles," I said. "May I look at the others in the back?"
The proprietor looked at me balefully. "I ain't got no more dem beet-ulls," he said, and picked up a rag that might once have been white. "Dis 'ere's wot I got." He began to polish a metal cup, ignoring me.
What had I done wrong? Was I supposed to speak some sort of password?
Surely no one chose a password as ridiculous as "utterly too, too" . . . did they?
I stewed about the situation for a moment, wandering the shop. All the while, I watched the skinny toad out of the corner of my eye. Then I came back to the bowl and dragged my fingers through it again, disturbing the disk-like scarabs. "What cunning little things," I said, trying not to sound as ridiculous as I felt. "They're simply, utterly too, too!"
"If y'ain't gerrna buy nuthin' or sell nuthin', then ye can stop wastin' m'time," the shopkeeper snapped, setting the metal cup down with a loud clang.
"I'm looking for more scarabs like those," I said. "You sent that other girl to look at them. Why won't you let me through?"
He remained silent.
What in the blooming fish was wrong with me? I couldn't even get past the owner of a pawnshop. And though I waited, hoping Miss Holmes or some other Sekhmet Society member would arrive, the shop remained empty of anyone but me and the beady-eyed proprietor.
At last I had no choice but to leave. The door slammed behind me as if to punctuate my displeasure. It was nearly half past nine. If I didn't find a way into the back room, Mina Holmes was liable to get herself killed. Aside from that, she'd never let me forget it if she gained access and I didn't. She must have made her way past the obnoxious gatekeeper prior to my arrival. I could only imagine what she was doing in the midst of the Society of Sekhmet.
I should have insisted we meet up ahead of time. This was no place for someone like her to be on her own. For one thing, she'd probably trip and draw the Ankh's attention to her straightaway.
But there was more than one way to skin a cat. And a scrawny little toad wasn't going to keep me from my mission.
As I came out onto the narrow walkway in front of Witcherell's, I peered up at the tall stretch of building. It rose several stories, appearing to merge into the dark sky. High above was a fly-bridge connecting this building to the one across the air-canal. A tiny golden light winked on either end, and there appeared to be a small landing on either side of the fly-bridge.
There.
I hurried across the throughway opposite Witcherell's, and along the stationary walkway until I found a lift. For once, I had a small pouch of coins with me. I slid two farthings onto the money tray and shoved it in place. The brass gate clicked, then opened, and I slipped through onto the lift. The night air was cool and crisp at this height, and the heavy layer of polluted fog dissipated as I rose in the open-air conveyor.
I exited five levels above the pawnshop and at the same location as the fly-bridge. Up here, the buildings were so wide at the top that they were only a short distance across the air-canal. Looking overhead, I saw the air-anchors wafting gently in the breeze, outlined by a drassy moon and stars. Each anchor sported several tiny glowing lights on the balloon as well as on the line attaching it to the building as a warning for airships that might fly through.
I heard a distant clock strike half past nine. I had to move quickly or chance drawing attention to myself entering the meeting after it had already begun.
The fly-bridge shimmied as I hurried across. On the other side, I located the pawnshop down several levels and to my right. Just above, I could see a small ledge that angled around the front of the building to the side-and, hopefully, to the rear. The perfect entrance.
It was simple to descend to the ledge. I climbed down by using a shadowy flight of stairs and then lowering myself from one ledge to another. When I got to the ledge above the pawnshop door, I skirted along its narrow width until I found a dark window. Moments later, I'd pried the glass free and slipped inside. The unlit chamber was filled with trunks, crates, and covered furniture. It was so dusty my eyes watered, and I had to muffle a sneeze in my sleeve. I hoped the toad below didn't hear.
In the dark, I could make out the faint outline of a door. There were no sounds of voices or footsteps, so I pushed . . . but it wouldn't open. Blast. It was locked.
I hesitated. The lock wasn't an issue; I could use the weight of my pistol to smash it. But the noise would be a problem. Fishing out a small burn-stick, I snapped it in half, and a soft green glow from the algae inside gave me a moment of illumination and the opportunity to look at the barrier more closely.
But before I could attempt to pick the lock, someone screamed.
I dug the pistol from my pocket. The scream had been feminine, and it came from above and toward the back of the building. It wasn't repeated.
No longer caring about noise, I slammed the heavy weight of metal down onto the doorknob. It shifted as the wood enclosing it cracked, and I drove the pistol butt down once more with a powerful blow. The knob snapped off and tumbled to the floor with a thud, but I was already pulling at the door.
I found myself in a corridor just as dark and dusty as the chamber I'd left. Despite the urgency, I paused to listen and sense where to go. Chafing at the delay, I drew in a deep breath, feeling, straining my ears. Waiting. Finally, I heard another, softer but no less desperate shriek.
I ran.
The voices drew me-sharp ones, and a high-pitched desperate one, along with some other spine-chilling cry I couldn't identify. I followed the sounds: down the corridor, up dark flights of stairs, and through a hallway, and so on. I went as silently as possible while running pell-mell, my pistol in hand.
At last I came to a long, shadowy hallway that ended at a double set of doors. They were closed, but golden light spilled from beneath and around the edges. I stopped and, putting my ear to the door, I heard movement from the other side. The heavy, cloying smell of something sweet wafted from the cracks. Opium. Voices came from the other side, but they were soft and didn't sound desperate or troubled. Had the scream come from here or not?
I wanted to burst through the doors and take whoever was on the other side by surprise. A rush of excitement had my fingers closing over the knob. But a prim voice in my head suggested that I might not want to be so capricious. It was as if Mina Holmes had somehow invaded my conscience. Capricious. That was definitely a word she'd use.
I tried the doorknob, grasping it carefully to muffle any rattle, and turned it slowly. It wasn't locked, and the door loosened.
Now all I had to do was gently pull it open and peek inside. I had just begun to ease the door open when a hand landed on my shoulder.
Miss Stoker
By the Fog of an Opium Stew
"It would have behooved you to be more expedient and punctual in your arrival."
My fingers still on the knob, I spun around, taking care not to jolt the door open. It was the shy, ruddy-faced girl from the pawnshop who'd charmed the toadly proprietor into letting her into the back room.
"Who the blooming fish are you?" I demanded. Then I looked her in the eye. "Miss Holmes?"
"Who else would it be?" Satisfaction flickered in her expression, then she said, "You weren't going to simply walk in there, were you?"
"No," I lied. And eased my fingers away from the knob.
Her eyes narrowed as she followed the movement of my hand. "Right."
I sniffed. "You smell like opium."
"Brilliant observation, Miss Stoker. It resembles an opium den in there. I find it quite interesting, for, as you might recall, Miss Hodgeworth's hair smelled of opium the night we found her. I suspect we are going to learn the answers to many questions within." She gestured to the double doors, then made another sharp movement. Apparently I was to follow her. "This way. There's a side entrance that's not as visible."
Blast. I'd been in too much of a hurry to notice the heavy black curtains that hung along the corridor, shrouding a side door. "Have you been inside? What are they doing? I heard someone scream."
She led me through the door and into a small alcove. The opium smell was even stronger here. A gaslamp lit the area, and I realized it was a narrow passageway that ran parallel to the room behind the double doors. It was barely wide enough for us to pass through in our voluminous skirts.
"Yes, of course I've been in there." It was odd to hear Miss Holmes's precise tones coming from this young woman. I looked closely and saw the outline of a false nose and the layers of makeup. "I arrived punctually and gained entrance on time. I was only inside the meeting chamber for a short while, and then I came to search for you. I do hope you weren't wasting your time shopping in that filthy store."
"I was examining the exterior of the building," I told her through gritted teeth. "One of us should know whether there is another entrance if we need a quick escape."
She nodded in agreement. "A commendable plan."
"How did you know the password to get in? And why didn't you take me with you? The shopkeeper wouldn't let me pass."
"Password? I employed no password. I suspect," Miss Holmes said archly, "you were denied entrance because you clearly had no idea what you were doing there. I saw the scarabs and made an enthusiastic comment, which identified me as a member of the society. Had you done the same, I'm certain you would have experienced the same positive-"
"Someone screamed," I interrupted her lecture.
"Yes. A female individual had the misfortune of spying a mouse," she said. "It ran over her feet, and then someone else's. Hence the second scream. It was quite chaotic for a moment."
I rolled my eyes and then pointed to the wall which separated us and the double-doored room. "What's happening in there?" For someone so fond of lecturing, Miss Holmes had been surprisingly distracted about this topic. "Have you seen the Ankh?"
"No, I haven't seen it. Her. But the Society of Sekhmet is gathered, and they're . . . well, you must see it to believe it." She stopped and gestured to a small door that led into the chamber. "No one will notice us entering here."
She cracked it open, and light filtered into the passage, along with a gust of sweet opium smoke. I peered around the edge and confirmed that we were entering from the side of the chamber, well placed in the shadows. Lights glowed, but there were none near the door, and it was simple to slip in unnoticed.
My jaw dropped at the sight. This was nothing like the previous Society of Sekhmet meeting we'd encountered.
Lamps, one in each corner, gave off small circles of light. The thick cloud of smoke was heaviest near the ceiling but it made the entire chamber seem muted and foggy. Silky fabric in crimson, garnet, topaz, and rust rippled on the walls. Large cushions and other soft, round furnishings littered the floor. Shallow bowls sat on low tables in front of the seats. They each held glowing coals . . . no, burning opium crystals. The smoldering drug gave off a low light and the narcotic smoke. Mellow music from an unfamiliar string instrument resonated, making the room feel even more exotic.
The scene reminded me of a picture of the thieves' den I'd seen in The Arabian Nights. So where was the massive chest of jewels and gold spilling onto the floor?
A dozen young women were seated or half reclined on the cushions. They were arranged in lounging, unladylike poses. Florence would have fainted at such an improper display: loose hair falling over their shoulders, missing gloves, and stockinged feet. But it was the bare ankles exposed by their bunched up skirts that was the worst offense.
However, the most shocking sight of all was the young men in attendance. There were several who seemed to be serving the young ladies-offering them goblets, plates filled with food, and even long-stemmed pipes.
They were shirtless.
I gaped for a moment, counting a total of seven men wearing nothing but breeches and sleeveless, open vests. I'd never seen a male without a shirt, and I could not tear my eyes away from the sight. They looked so very different than we women do, with their broad, square shoulders and bulging arms. And the muscular ripples on their torsos.
Was the room tilting, or was it the effects of the opium? My brain went soft. I felt warm and tingly everywhere, and my knees weakened. If I sank onto the cushions, would one of those young gentlemen come over and serve me? The thought made my insides flutter.
Someone pinched me on the arm, then jammed something sharp and pungent beneath my nose. It smelled bitter and unpleasant, but it cleared the fogginess away immediately.
Miss Holmes pressed a vial into my hand, and I held it beneath my nose as I looked around again. The double doors through which I had originally meant to enter were at the far right. A guard stood there. He took turns watching the room and checking the door behind him. Another guard stood at a set of double doors across the room from his counterpart.
There was no sign of the Ankh.
"I managed to speak briefly with one of the women here," Miss Holmes said softly. We remained unnoticed in the shadows, pressing flat against the wall. "What she said made little sense, due to the influence of this," she said, waving at the opium fog. Then she took a sniff from her vial. "But it appears that the Inner Circle meets beyond those doors. Presumably with the Ankh." She pointed to the double doors at the opposite end of the chamber.
"Is this what their salons are normally like?" I found it difficult to pull my attention from the shirtless young men. No wonder the ladies wanted to be members. This was more exciting than going to the theater!
"Smoking opium is dangerous and illegal, not to mention addicting," she said in my ear, her breath hot against my false curls.
"Not the opium! The young men. They are very . . . handsome."
"Don't be a fool." Miss Holmes elbowed me, and I grinned in the darkness before my moment of levity faded.
I'd been joking, but it wasn't a laughing matter. Two girls had been killed, one nearly murdered, and those crimes were somehow related to what was happening here and with the Ankh's Inner Circle. I had a feeling smoking opium was the least of the dangers for these young women.
We had to get beyond those double doors without being noticed.
Just then, one of the serving men passed closer to us than any of them had yet. He was carrying a tray of goblets, but didn't pause to offer any to the waiting ladies. Instead, he moved quickly through the room as if heading for a particular destination.
His bare, sleek bicep caught my attention first. He wore a wide band, and I couldn't tell if it was a leather cuff or a tattoo. But as he drew nearer, I happened to drag my attention up from his arm, over his shoulder to his bare throat. When I caught sight of his face, I couldn't control a gasp.
"What is it?" Miss Holmes hissed as Pix met my gaze.
His eyes widened, and his stride faltered. How could he recognize me so easily? I was in disguise! But the hitch in his step indicated he hadn't expected me any more than I'd expected him. Yet he gave no other indication as he passed by.
"Ouch! Stop poking me," I snapped at Miss Holmes. "I'll tell you later." And I slipped away.
Taking another whiff from my vial, I followed Pix. He stopped to deliver a chalice to a young woman. She reached languidly to take the goblet, looking at him with a gaze that made me both ashamed for her wantonness and unaccountably hot at her expression. She beckoned to him to join her on the cushion as some of the other young men had done.
If he dared sit down next to her . . . I kicked him in the heel as I walked past. At least he had some sense, for he straightened up to accompany me.
At the first unoccupied cushion, I sank down in a pool of skirts and turned to glare up at him. Before I could ask what he was doing here, he crouched and grabbed my arm, demanding, "What in the devil are ye doing 'ere?" His expression was flat and angry, without the humor that usually lingered in his eyes.
"I might ask you the same question." My head was swimming, and I was getting warm. I needed another sniff from that vial. His uncovered torso was right there, exposed behind the open vest. He was sleek and taut and dark. . . . I fumbled for the smelling salts and brought the vial to my nose.
"What are ye doin' here, Evaline?" His fingers tightened, giving me a little shake. "I didn' spec ye as a damned opium-eater, ye fool."
I wasn't certain which startled me more: his use of my name or his accusation. "I'm not," I said, yanking my arm away. "Lilly was a member of this society. They're killing young women, and I'm trying to stop them. But you're here, Pix," I said. His eyes were sharp and clear, despite the heavy smoke. "And you-"
"I got mates in 'ere," he said. "M' mate Jemmy's been captured and forced to work for-"
Suddenly, a shadow loomed over us. I looked up to see one of the guards standing there.
"Problem here, miss?" he said, reaching for Pix as his eyes swept over me. "Who the devil are you?"
Was he talking to me or to my companion? Before I had the chance to respond, Pix stood. I wasn't surprised how easily he evaded the man's grasp. He was slick that way.
"No problem 'ere," he said with an ingratiating smile, his hands spread innocently. Then before I could blink, his arm shifted close to his body, then jacked up in a strong, abrupt motion. The other man stiffened, his eyes widening, then slumped.
Pix caught him and eased the guard to the floor next to me.
"Good gad, is he dead?"
"Doubt it," Pix replied, slipping something long and slender into his pocket. "Ye need t'leave," he said, taking my arm again.
I bristled and pulled away. We were still crouched next to the hopefully-not-dead guard, and our faces were very close together. I could smell a hint of Pix's minty scent mixed with wood smoke under the thick layer of opium.
"What do you know about the Ankh?" I had to say something to keep from getting lost in his intense gaze.
"I know nuthin' but 'at there's blokes been disappearin'. She's been takin' 'em, an' I finally tracked 'em down-"
We looked up at the same moment to see my partner standing over us, glowering in the drassy light. "Miss Stoker, what the devil are you doing?"
I yanked her down next to us, then glanced at the other guard. He seemed oblivious to all our activity. Relieved, I turned to Miss Holmes. "I'm certain you have a plan." I saw no need to hide my displeasure. Why couldn't she just make things up as she went? It always worked for me.
"Of course I have a plan. We have to get through those doors there." She pointed to the double doors that led to the Inner Circle. "And we need a distraction. Who are you?" she added.
"Ne'er min' 'at," Pix said, but without his usual charm. "I-"
The double doors opened abruptly, and a bright light spilled into the dim, smoky chamber. A gentleman stood in the entrance, outlined by the light as if he were an image in some holy icon. He was dressed in a long, dark coat, white shirt and shirtwaist, and trousers. He was hatless, with short blond hair gleaming in the light. He had a full, neat beard and mustache of the same color.
He didn't look anything like the Ankh we'd seen only a week ago. But as soon as he spoke, he confirmed his identity.
"Welcome, my darlings," said the leader of the Society of Sekhmet. "I trust you all are enjoying your evening?"
A low murmur rumbled through the chamber. Many of the young women were fully reclined, sleeping or otherwise unconscious. An uncomfortable prickle slid over my skin. Something was very wrong. But what? I sniffed from my vial again.
The Ankh laughed in a genteel, husky manner. "Very well, then, please carry on with your pleasure. I shall have need of only two of you tonight to join the Inner Circle. Who shall be the fortunate ones?"
He stepped into the chamber, using a walking stick for emphasis, and was followed by the two identical women who'd been at his side during the last meeting. My partner's interest tensed through her body as we watched the trio walk through the lumps of cushions, stopping at one not far from ours.
"You," intoned the Ankh, gesturing with the walking stick. "You are worthy."
One of the servants bent and assisted a young woman to her feet. Rather than seeming apprehensive, the girl curtseyed unsteadily.
My companion hissed something under her breath, and the Ankh turned suddenly, looking in our direction. And then, as if pulled by an invisible string, he began to move toward us. One servant led the woman he'd already chosen toward the open doors while the second one accompanied her master.
I tensed as the Ankh came closer. I could leap up and attack. Easy to knock him to the ground and take on the servant at the same time. I glanced at Miss Holmes. She shook her head in a short, sharp movement. No.
What the blooming fish was wrong with her? This was our chance! I gave her a violent glare, tensing and ready to spring. My breathing steadied. I curled my fingers around the small pistol in my pocket as the Ankh came closer.
Then Pix's fingers closed around my arm. "Nay, luv," he breathed in my ear. "Look."
Him too? Bristling, I turned . . . then I saw what caught his attention. The two large men who'd tried to capture us at the last Society of Sekhmet meeting stood just beyond the doorway. One of them held a shiny, evil-looking firearm.
Drat and blast! Even I couldn't compete with a bullet. I settled back onto the cushion, trying to look unobtrusive. As he drew nearer, my pulse sped up again. Could there be a way? If he came close enough? Energy sang in my veins. I knew what to do. I could do this . . .
I cast a quick glance at Miss Holmes. She seemed hypnotized by the commanding person.
When the Ankh did the unthinkable, pausing next to us, I closed my fingers surreptitiously around the pocketed pistol again. Trying not to look directly at him, I readied myself. One . . . two . . . thr-
"You," said the Ankh. "Come with me."
Miss Stoker
Miss Stoker Is Taken Off Guard
I wasn't about to let Miss Holmes be dragged off into whatever danger lurked behind those doors. I began to rise.
But she met my eyes, giving me a mute plea to wait. I stilled, even though every part of my vampire-hunting body wanted to do otherwise.
As she stood, Miss Holmes's expression changed into a slack, uninteresting, drugged one . . . like that of the other young women surrounding us.
It was difficult, but I forced myself to also appear drowsy and incoherent. The best course of action was to remain unnoticed and not to look at the Ankh directly. I didn't want to be recognized. But what had drawn him to Miss Holmes?
Then, as if he read my mind, the Ankh's stare settled heavily on me for a long moment. Every one of my muscles tensed and was ready. My fingers still gripped the pistol, and it was all I could do to keep from bolting up and brandishing it. It was Pix's presence and his unusual caution that kept me from doing so. From the corner of my downcast eyes, I saw Miss Holmes's skirts drag over the floor as she followed the Ankh's servant.
Would I ever see her again?
The Ankh turned and walked back toward the open double doors, nodding to the two large men standing there. I sneaked a whiff from my vial.
As soon as the doors closed behind the Ankh, I lunged to my feet. I reached the hidden side door before I realized Pix had followed me. "Wot do ye think you're doin'?"
"I'm going after her." I meant to go back into the hallway through which Miss Holmes had brought me, hoping there was another door into the room beyond. "I don't know what the Ankh is planning, but it can't be good. We've got to stop it."
"I can't let ye-"
I shook off his grip once again. "You can't stop me. I'm a vampire rozzer, remember?"
"Aye," he said, his eyes dark and serious. They looked like deep wells of ink. "That ye are. Every bit o' ye."
Pix moved toward me, his gaze holding mine. I felt the solid wall pressing against my spine and shoulders. My pulse leapt as he eased closer. I could hardly breathe as heat rushed over me and my knees threatened to buckle. Then his mouth covered mine, soft and firm and warm, sending a shock of pleasure jolting through my body.
His hands, those long-fingered thief's hands, slipped around my jaw, curving to cup the back of my neck as he kissed me. It was a sleek, gentle sweep of lips over lips . . . and it turned into a tender nibble at the corner of my mouth.
Then all at once, he released me and stepped back. My whole body was hot and trembly. My knees shook, and I could do nothing but stare at him for a moment, my lips moist and throbbing, my heart thundering like a runaway horse.
"Aye," he said, his voice deep. "Every bit o' ye, Evaline Stoker."
I swallowed and tried to find my voice. "How-how dare you." He was a thief and a criminal, and he was here in the middle of an opium den. Not at all the type of man who should be kissing a young woman like me.
Not at all the type of man a young woman like me should be allowing to kiss her.
Instead of being put off by my outrage, he grinned crookedly and stepped back. "I'll take care o' that one," he said, gesturing to the original guard, who still stood at the other end of the chamber. The one I'd forgotten about in the last few moments, when Pix had had the audacity to push me up against the wall and kiss me.
He'd kissed me.
I reached up to touch my lips, then froze. But he'd already started off and, thank the blooming fish, didn't see. I needed another sniff from the vial. Head clearer, I slipped the tiny tube into my pocket and let myself through the door back into the hidden side hallway.
In here, the air was cooler and clearer. The last bit of my mottleness faded. I had to find out what was happening with the Inner Circle, but more importantly, I had to drag Miss Holmes out of there before she got herself in trouble. There were times when one couldn't plan for things. I didn't know what Pix was doing here, but he seemed perfectly capable of taking care of himself.
First he kisses my hand, then he kisses me? Who did he think he was?
Right. Forget about him. I had a job to do. I focused on that.
I was correct: the side corridor ran parallel all along the chamber where the Ankh had taken Mina. But drat! The hallway was no longer unoccupied.
The woman and I stared at each other in the same frozen moment, but I recovered more quickly. By the time she opened her mouth to scream, I was flying through the air toward her.
We tumbled to the ground. The unexpected force knocked the breath out of her so that she didn't have the chance to cry out. I shoved her facedown on the ground, my knee pressing between her shoulder blades to hold her immobile. She was unable to draw a deep breath even to speak. I was just about to use the leather trim on my bonnet to tie her wrists together when I had an idea.
She was one of the twin females-either Bastet or Amunet-who'd led Mina and the other girl away. I decided I would take her place. Pleased with my plan, I tore a piece of my petticoat away and tied it over her mouth, then bound her ankles together.
Then I pulled her long, black, shapeless shift up and off and tied her wrists together behind her back. This left her clothed in a plain white chemise and her underthings. She might be a little chilled, but it wasn't completely improper.
It would normally be impossible to undress myself, with all the lacings and buttons that marched up the back of my clothing, as well as the ungainly petticoats. But since I was wearing a costume borrowed from the theater, it was made to be donned and removed more quickly and easily than a normal gown. Why didn't they make all gowns so simple to wear?
For the finishing touch, I placed my hat, with the red curls attached, on my captive's head. With my dark hair still pinned in place, anyone would mistake me for her from a distance for a few moments. I tucked my pistol, knife, stake, and other tools into the handy pockets of the tunic.
I was just about to enter the room where Miss Holmes was when I saw a shadow at the other end of the passage. Pix was back, and he looked satisfied. I took that as an indication that he'd "taken care of" the guard.
"No' bad," he said, gesturing to my prisoner and taking in the sight of me dressed as her.
I was still furious with him for taking liberties, so I glared. "What are you doing here?"
"Ye can't go in there alone," he said, pointing to the chamber.
"I certainly can. And you-if you want to do something useful, you can get all those young women out of here. I'm sure you'll find at least one of them grateful enough to allow you to kiss her."
He flashed a grin, then sobered. "Ye can't go in there alone."
"If you know who I am, then you know I'm made for this, Pix," I told him. "This is what I have to do. I'm not helpless. I'm stronger and more capable than any other man or woman-even you. But those young women back in there? They are helpless. They need help. I don't."
He looked at me for a long moment. Then he gave a short nod. His lips were a flat line. "A'right. I'll take 'em an' Jemmy an' the other boys out o' 'ere."
"What are all those young men doing here, anyway?"
Pix's eyes grew dark. "She-'e-whoever 'tis-lured 'em in t'work fer 'em. F'the Society. But 'twas a bait and switch, an' half o' 'em are opium-eaters now and canna leave. I come t'find Jemmy and bring 'im 'ome."
"That's what you were doing at the museum that night, weren't you? Trying to find him? They were there, weren't they? The Society and the Ankh."
"I 'ear things, luv. I 'ear lots o' things on th' streets and in th' stews. Not all of 'em are good. No' all of 'em 're true. But sometimes . . ." He shrugged.
"I must go. Thank you, Pix," I said, surprised how much I meant it. I couldn't help watching as he slipped off back down the passage. Then I opened the door to the Inner Circle.
No one in the room seemed to notice when I crept inside. I looked around, mentally marking exits, potential weapons, and traps. Unlike the other chamber, this one was well lit. The Arabian thieves' den decor was nonexistent. The walls were beige, and electric sconces lined the space. Part of the roof was open to the night sky, as if it had been folded back like the pleats in a fan. Above, floating like eerie dark clouds, was a trio of sky-anchors. And beyond them, high in the heavens, was a sprinkling of stars and moonlit gray clouds.
Beneath that opening in the roof was a small dais with four wide steps leading to it on each side. A white table stood at the front, and arranged on it was a long, golden scepter, whose knob was the head of a lion, and an object that looked like a long golden loop with three bars running through it. The sistrum of Sekhmet? Next to the altar was the large statue of Sekhmet we'd seen at the previous gathering. Had Mr. Eckhert really traveled back in time using that thing?
The Ankh stood on the stage. In front of him was a large, ancient book on a small podium, its pages held open by a set of metal fingers. To one side was another table containing several items: a gleaming golden bracelet and a crown; candles suspended in intricate brass and bronze holders contained flames that danced in the night breeze; and golden bowls, cups, flasks, and other utensils. Standing behind the table was a device that resembled a crude skeleton made from metal: it had spindly legs and even spindlier arms. Wires protruded from its body.
Two male guards stood to one side. Although they weren't identical in appearance, as the female assistants were, the two men wore similar clothing and resembled each other in stance, height, and the darkness of their hair.
Miss Holmes stood nearby, her eyes darting about the room, obviously taking in every detail. She couldn't see me; I stood far back and to her right. The other young woman who'd been recruited from the opium chamber stood next to her . . . Della Exington, niece of Lord Ramsay. The remaining female attendant stood between the two young women holding a pistol.
The Ankh was reading an incantation, his voice ringing out in a foreign language I assumed was Egyptian. He had his arms spread and looked from the book up to the open night sky and back down again as he chanted.
I eased farther into the room as the Ankh took a pinch of something from one of the smaller bowls and crumbled it into the largest one. He poured a sparkling red liquid from one of the flasks and added another ingredient that looked like small seeds. By then I could smell the pungent scent of something exotic and indefinable. All the while, he chanted, imploring some entity in the sky above.
At last, he stopped singing and lit a tiny twig with one of the candles, then dropped it into the bowl in which he'd been mixing. A soft pop! and then thick, curling red smoke snaked up from the bowl, bringing with it a stronger rush of the exotic scent.
The Ankh took the bowl and walked around the statue of Sekhmet, pausing every two steps. There were small vessels on the ground circling the statue, and he poured some of the smoking contents into each of them. This created many spirals of smoke rising around the goddess like a fragrant red curtain.
Moving to the altar, the Ankh retrieved the scepter and the sistrum and brought them to the Sekhmet statue. He fitted the scepter into the hand of Sekhmet that was positioned to hold it, and then slipped the noose of the sistrum over the other hand, which was raised with its palm facing outward. The sistrum thus hung from the goddess's elbow.
"It is time," said the Ankh, looking at the two young women he had chosen. "The Inner Circle has been prepared, and you must be initiated in order to access the deeper power of Sekhmet."
Della Exington came alive and stepped eagerly onto the dais. "I am grateful and pleased to prove my loyalty to the goddess."
"Felicitations, brave one," the Ankh said, turning to Miss Exington. The beard and mustache obscured much of the Ankh's face, yet I could see the delight in his eyes. His expression was unsettling in its fervor as he told Miss Exington, "You shall bring to Sekhmet her divine cuff, and you will be forever bound with her and her power."
He gestured, and one of the guards stepped onto the stage. Under the Ankh's direction, he helped the young woman into the circle of red smoke and turned her to face Sekhmet. As she looked up at the figure's leonine face, the guard lifted her left hand, fitting her palm, wrist, and arm against Sekhmet's in a mirror-like position. With her other hand, Miss Exington grasped the scepter.
The Ankh brought the cuff and fitted it around Miss Exington's upraised wrist, using it to fasten her to Sekhmet's arm. Fascinated and yet disturbed, I watched as the Ankh used a slender golden thong to bind her other hand to the scepter. All the while, the pungent crimson smoke continued to filter through the open roof.
"You shall join with Sekhmet. You have brought her Sacred Instrument, the golden cuff, to her, and your life force will meld with the goddess."
Miss Exington looked up at the statue as if it were the goddess herself. "I'm ready."
Sharp discomfort prickled over my skin, lifting the hair from the back of my neck and along my arms. What should I do? I curled my fingers around the pistol I'd slipped in my tunic pocket and glanced at Miss Holmes.
She was staring at the scene with the same horror I felt. She also had a pistol barrel pressed into her side by my twin counterpart. The Ankh wasn't taking any chances that his other Inner Circle candidate would have second thoughts.
The guard brought the spindly mechanical figure over and positioned it behind Miss Exington. As I watched in morbid fascination, he lined up the device's "arms" and "legs" to mirror the position of Miss Exington's, and then fastened three wires to the cuff. Three more wires were attached to the scepter, and three to the sistrum. The eerie red smoke curled around them, cloaking girl, statue, and machine in its thick fog.
"What-what are you doing?" the captive asked, her voice quavering as she pulled at her bonds.
"Be still, my dear. Your life force is the greatest gift you can bestow upon Sekhmet."
For the first time since entering the chamber, I moved. I started toward the altar, and the Ankh noticed me immediately.
"Ah, Amunet, you've returned in time," he said, giving me a brief glance.
I had to act . . . but for once, I was hesitant to leap into action. The guards still loomed. And then there was the gun pressing into Miss Holmes's torso.
Miss Exington pulled more violently against the wires that bound her. "I-I don't think I-"
"Be still, my darling," said the Ankh from outside of the circle of red smoke. "You are receiving a great honor from Sekhmet. You will be well rewarded. Hathor," he said, gesturing to the man who'd been assisting him. The man stepped away from the stage.
Miss Exington seemed to acquiesce, and her captor turned to the device.
"So shall it be! Sekhmet, I call to you to return."
Before I could react, the Ankh pulled down on a lever. A brilliant yellow spark snapped audibly, and I could see a hot red sizzle zip along the wires, through the device, and then over to the cuff and scepter. It was almost like electricity . . .
"Stop!" I shouted as Miss Exington jolted and screamed, then went rigid.
The Ankh spun around. "You!" He released the lever and lunged toward the table, snatching up the curved knife. I saw the lever swing back into its starting position. The sizzling sparks ceased, and Miss Exington sagged, struggling weakly against her bonds. She was crying.
I launched myself toward the front of the room, vaulting over a table that stood in the way. The Ankh's arm moved, and something silvery spun through the air toward me.
Someone cried out, and I heard a low shout . . . and then something red-hot tore into my side. Despite the sudden agony, I landed on two feet on the other side of the table just as Hathor sprang to action. Energy flooded my body as I spun into motion. I yanked up the table over which I'd just leapt, holding it with the legs facing the man.
As he rushed toward me, I whipped the heavy piece of furniture through the air. It crashed into him, and he stumbled back and into his companion. They landed in a heap on the floor.
I whirled to see that the Ankh had returned to the lever. His hand closed around it, and his eyes danced. "You're too late."
I pulled out my pistol and looked down at it as I lifted it to aim. And saw blood.
My blood.
I felt as if I'd been plunged into an ice-cold pool of water. Everything stilled and slowed and became murky and mottled.
I couldn't make my lungs work. They were thick and heavy, my vision narrow and hypnotized by the slick red blood . . . everywhere. On my hands, my torso, the gun, the floor.
I tried to fight the images assaulting my mind . . . I was back there again, with Mr. O'Gallegh . . . his throat and chest torn open, the scent of blood everywhere, the burning red eyes of the vampire mocking me as I froze. . . .
I tried to breathe, I thought I heard Mina, but she sounded far away. Too far away.
I had to . . . move . . . I had to . . . stop . . .
I heard someone laugh. Triumphant.
I pulled my face upright, looking at the Ankh.
He was smiling as he pulled the lever.