LITMIR.BIZ

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told her about, the gossip about Westwood and her, the bets. How upset she had been by that! Now it hardly seemed to matter. “Not at all,” she said tartly. “Then you would be forced to offer for me.”

      “A dreadful fate.” He caught her close in a swift, hard embrace, pressing a kiss to her brow. “I won’t be gone long.”

      Calliope watched as he dashed back down the gallery and out the door, as fleet as any true Hermes. When he was gone, the silence gathered around her, thick and muffling, like a true London fog. The shadows also seemed to gather closer, creeping around as if they sensed doom, fed off it.

      Calliope wrapped her arms tightly around herself to ward off the cold, to hold Cameron’s embrace close. Some of her stout, Athena-ish courage was ebbing away without him to hold it up, but she knew she had to hold strong. Hold on to her composure. So much depended on it.

      Steeling her nerves, she knelt by the duke and reached for his hand. Swallowing a sudden bitter rush of bile, she loosened his fingers to pull free the strip of telltale silk. His grip tightened, as if reluctant to relinquish his prize, but she tugged it loose. Then she set to gathering the green beads, the scattered snake eyes.

      As she picked up the last one, she noticed the broken wooden base of the statue. Even though it was splintered, it appeared to not be broken so much as split along an opening. Calliope peered closer, and saw that a tiny, torn bit of paper protruded.

      “How odd,” she whispered. A secret compartment? To conceal—what?

      Before she could investigate further, she heard the echo of voices and footsteps coming up the staircase. Gripping the silk and beads, she ducked back behind the sarcophagus, lying on her side. It was even darker, colder back there, the floor hard on her hip. She pressed herself tight against the carved, painted hieroglyphs, holding her breath as she listened to the shouts and exclamations.

      She had never felt more alone in her life.

Chapter Nine

      Calliope crept up the stairs of her own home, her steps weary and slow. The house was quiet; no one expected them back for hours yet, and the servants were tucked away in their own quarters. Her father and Thalia were still at the duke’s, her father to observe all the excitement, and Thalia to look for Clio. Calliope had come home to see if Clio had returned, but she had also come for herself. For the comfort only her own surroundings, her own well-ordered space, could provide.

      After such a long, bizarre night, there was something in her that craved the sight of home.

      “Perhaps I will write my own horrid novel,” she muttered, catching up a warm shawl draped over a chair and wrapping it tightly around her bare shoulders. Wouldn’t Lotty enjoy that?

      She would call it The Duke’s Revenge. Or perhaps Vengeance against the Duke. Yes, that would be more fitting.

      Calliope shuddered. It would be a very long time before she forgot the way Averton looked, so pale except for that crimson gash. The confused clamour when the crowd burst into the gallery and carried him away, while she huddled behind that sarcophagus.

      “Oh, Clio,” she whispered. “What has happened to you?”

      And what had happened between Calliope and Westwood—or Cameron? For those brief moments it seemed they were allies, united in one cause. That was something she never thought to see happen. Never thought to be so affected by. But his humour, his kindness, the quick, cool way he dealt with the duke…

      No. She couldn’t think about that right now. It was too baffling, too dizzying. And she had to find her sister. Find out what had happened in that gallery.

      There was a thin line of light beneath Clio’s bedchamber door, flickering and shifting like flames. Calliope didn’t even knock, just gently eased that door open, holding her breath as she paused on the threshold.

      And Clio was there. After all the searching through the labyrinth of the duke’s house, she was in her own chamber. The room was in darkness except for the blazing fire in the grate. Clio knelt beside the flames, wrapped in a white dressing gown, her auburn hair loose down her back. The red-orange glow reflected on her spectacles as she fed scraps of green silk into the fire. Her face was utterly expressionless.

      “Clio,” Calliope called softly.

      Clio jumped, spinning around on her heels, crouched for battle. “Calliope!” she cried. “Don’t creep up on me like that. I nearly had apoplexy.”

      “I’m sorry. I wasn’t even sure you were here or just a mirage.” Calliope slowly moved to Clio’s side, hands held out as if in surrender. She knelt beside her sister, studying the torn remains of the Medusa costume.

      “What happened tonight, Clio?” she said. She reached out to touch the ragged edge of a gold sleeve. It was stiff with smeared blood.

      Clio stared straight ahead into the flames. “What do you mean?”

      “Lord Westwood and I found him. The duke. He held a scrap of this very silk in his hand.”

      “Was he—dead?”

      “No, not yet.”

      “And what did he say?”

      “He was unconscious. Lord Westwood went for help, and when they carried the duke away I came home. To find you.” Calliope couldn’t hold herself back any longer. She seized Clio, drawing her into a fierce hug. “Oh, Clio, I was so frightened!”

      Clio held herself stiff for a second, then she gave a great shudder and fell against Calliope’s shoulder, clutching at her. “Cal! It was—was horrible.”

      “My dear, you’re safe now. We’re all safe, I promise,” Calliope said, struggling to convince herself as much as Clio. “Why were you alone with him?”

      “I was a fool.” Clio drew away, wiping her cheeks with her dressing gown sleeve. “I wanted to see the Alabaster Goddess without all the gawking crowds. I got one of the footmen to tell me where she was, and I slipped away for a peek. But he must have been watching me. He followed me to that gallery, and just as I saw the goddess, he…”

      “He what?”

      Clio shook her head fiercely. “I don’t want to say. I swear he did not get very far, though, Cal. He just kissed me. Artemis saved me.”

      Calliope gave her a gentle smile. “You mean she leaped off her pedestal and coshed him on the head?”

      Clio laughed. It was a strained, choked sound, but very welcome none the less. “Well, she did need a bit of mortal help. I grabbed her by that wooden base and swung it towards him. I just wanted to scare him, make him back away. I thought for a moment he was dead, and I didn’t mean to kill him! I wouldn’t mind if he was dead, but I don’t want his blood on my hands.” She held out one trembling hand, palm up. “Of course, it’s there anyway.”

      “No!” Calliope took that hand, holding it tightly. “He is alive, and will probably recover, more is the pity. Hopefully his wits will be scrambled enough, though, that he won’t hurt anyone else.”

      “And so he won’t talk of this to anyone?”

      “Why would he? Being known as an attacker of women—and being so weak a woman could attack him and bring him low—could hardly be what he wants.”

      “For a normal man, perhaps. I don’t have any idea what a man like the duke could want.”

      They sat there for a long moment, clinging together, the only sound the snap of the fire. Outside the window the sky was beginning to lighten, a lark twittering in the trees. London coming to life again for one more day.

      “There is something I want to show you, Cal,” Clio said. She rose unsteadily to her feet and crossed the room to her bed. From under the mattress she drew a folded, rumpled sheet of paper, covered with a spidery black hand.

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