“Where is she now?”
“I left her at Frye’s.”
“Frye’s trustworthy. No matter what you think of me.”
“Trustworthy but not there,” returned Helen. “Frye was going to try to find some of those women and win them to the cause. Jane’s all alone in the house. And she said—she said about the warehouse that things were patchy—going in and out. What if her mind’s gone again? What if she was just temporarily sane this morning, and not all the way better? And then, with no one watching her … anyone could just waltz in and take her away.”
Rook nodded, watching her come to the inevitable conclusion.
“I have to hide her where no one knows where she is,” Helen said. “I have to bring her here.”
“You can trust the dwarvven,” he said. “We might be grouchy, but we’re forthright. We always pay our debts, and we’ll always tell you when we hate you.”
Helen managed a weak smile. “Good to know.”
Heart in throat, Helen rang the bell at Frye’s for ten minutes before Jane finally answered the door, apparently all alone. Frye must have lent her clothes, too, for Jane now wore a bulky royal purple cardigan over her grey evening dress. Helen’s heart sank as she saw the vague expression on Jane’s face, just as she had been in the warehouse.
“Oh, Jane,” said Helen helplessly. “What took you so long to come to the door?”
“I was dancing,” said Jane.
“With whom? Who’s here?”
Jane shrugged. “I used to dance with Edward. And sometimes with Dorie. La, la…”
“Oh goodness, Mr. Rochart,” said Helen. “What if he’s finally arrived in the city and sent over a note?”
“Are we going somewhere?” said Jane.
“To safety,” said Helen. “Before someone comes and takes you away and you just let them.”
“My bag,” said Jane. “I need my bag.”
“Really?” said Helen. “You’ve managed just fine without it.”
“My bag,” repeated Jane. “My bag, my bag.”
“Ugh,” said Helen. She looked at the clock. “If we go all the way out to Alistair’s, we’re going to be late getting back to Rook. I told him an hour. And that new curfew’s at dusk, you know.”
Jane turned wide green eyes on Helen, stared at her as if this information had no possible meaning.
“On the other hand, maybe your fiancé has sent a note, and then maybe he’ll have an idea of what’s going on with you. He’s had a lot more experience with fey problems than any of us.”
“Fey problems?”
“Fine,” said Helen. She dragged Jane out of Frye’s and through the streets, eyes peeled for a cab. She swore several times. “This is no time to be taking the trolley,” she said. “Where are those damn cabs?”
Jane merely followed, eyes wide and lost in some other world of her own. She looked ethereal, otherworldly, wafting along behind Helen. But at last they made it to the theatre district, which, even with the new curfew, was busy enough to have cabs. Helen hailed one of them and bustled Jane into it. Through the window she could see the glut of frantic actors milling around and commiserating with one another.
Helen gave the driver the address and they hurried through the cold night till they reached the ugly row house on the good street that belonged to Alistair. That was when it occurred to Helen that, even though she had “fixed” Alistair, it might not be enough to withstand the sight of seeing Jane, who apparently he thought should be held for murder.
“I am not going to waste time yelling at myself,” muttered Helen.
“What’s that, lady?” said the driver.
“Look, drive around the street a couple times. I’ll be right back and we’ll go somewhere else.”
“It’s your coin,” he said.
“And don’t let her out,” said Helen, pointing to the pale figure in the back. Jane was pressed against the glass, long fingers moving slowly over it, tracing the lines of blue that covered the street.
“Look, lady, I don’t go in for restraining loonies.”
“If you lose my sister, I’m not paying you one penny,” said Helen, and she slammed the door before he could argue one more word.
She hurried inside, dashed up the steps to her room. There was the carpetbag. Grabbed it. Dumped out a little jar of dried lavender on her vanity until she found the notes stashed at the bottom. Hopefully it would be enough for the fare.Helen turned to run and then thought, suddenly, He said there would be a dance.
It seemed ridiculous to go to a dance in the middle of a war. It was ridiculous.
And yet.
If she was going to be there anyway, keeping Jane safe, figuring out exactly what had happened to her, exactly what Rook knew …
Couldn’t one as easily do that on the dance floor?
Just a waltz. Just a turn. Just …
Helen turned to her wardrobe and, knowing she only had a second, refused to let herself linger. She could try on outfits all day to find the perfect representation of what you wore to an unknown dance in a dwarvven slum when you didn’t want to look as though you were impressing anybody but still wanted to slay all of them (all of them? Yes, all of them) with your beauty.
But there was no time. She had a go-to dress, an apple green ruffled voile that could withstand being shoved in a carpetbag, and she grabbed it and started for her bedroom door, colliding into a pale, troubled-looking Mary. “Mary,” Helen said, seizing her hands. “Did any messages come for me? And am I in trouble for not coming home?”
Mary glanced behind her, down the open hallway. “I’m not sure he noticed exactly,” she began, but Helen forestalled that.
“Wait, messages first.”
“Yes,” said Mary, “That fiancé of your sister. You only missed him by an hour. He said he’d be back and that you should tell me where to find you.”
“Thank goodness he’s in town,” said Helen. Lowering her voice, she said, “Look, can you memorize the address to tell him? Copperhead mustn’t know who’s been helping us.” Mary nodded, and came all the way into the bedroom, silently closing the door behind her. Helen gave her Frye’s address, adding, “She’ll know how to get ahold of us.” She shook her head. “He must be terribly worried. Tell him we’ve found Jane if you see him first. Did he look all right?”
“A little wild-looking,” Mary said. “Hair on end. But more despairing-like than spoiling for a fight. I don’t think he wanted any trouble, but Mr. Morse came through the foyer just then and tried to pick a fight with Mr. Rochart, even with his crippled hand, and then he would have flattened him—flattened Mr. Rochart, I mean—but Mr. Hattersley came out and pulled them apart. The master didn’t seem to notice.”
“Oh no,” said Helen. “Poor Edward.”
In a hushed voice Mary added, “They were terrible, ma’am. They haven’t been this bad since before you came.”
“They used to be worse?”
“Well, after that terrible motorcar accident with Mr. Grimsby’s wife, you know,” said Mary. “They all got better for a little bit.”
Helen shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said. Except Alistair saying … “A dwarvven was at fault for his first wife’s death?”