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Quinn rubbed the smeared glass with her cuff. The house needed a good spring clean. She'd given up the housekeeper months ago; even a scullery maid was too great an expense now. Glancing through the rear window, she caught her usual view of the neighborhood—rags flapping on distant lines, air hazed with smoke. The houses opposite winked back at her, all nets and blinds, their disjointed gardens tangled and wild. She fastened the shutters, checking the bolts.

Silk was waiting by the front door. "Ready?" He was wearing a bulky waistcoat, his cravat ruffled right up to his chin. His bald head shone in the weak light.

Quinn studied him, amused. "What have you stuffed yourself with?"

"Strips of steel, if you must know."

"In your jacket?"

"Yes."

"For what reason?"

"My own protection. What else?"

Quinn raised a brow. "You're developing a complex."

"We're living in a violent age, Le Blanc. A terribly violent age." Silk was forever clipping newspaper articles about foreign agitators, bombs being left in fruit baskets on station platforms.

"Stay close to me, then," Quinn said, hauling open the front door, squinting in the light.

Net curtains twitched across the road. This was a quiet anonymous street, and the location of the Château was a closely guarded secret, even among their kind. But the neighbors kept their eyes on the Château. Nobody questioned its true ownership: the deeds had been adulterated too many times, sliced out of all official registers. In the 1790s, it was inhabited by an elusive Mrs. B—(real name unknown). Some said she'd been a disgraced bluestocking, or an actress, or perhaps a Frenchwoman on the run—a noble comtesse in disguise! She caught the neighborhood's imagination; they refashioned her in their minds. B—became "Blank," which in time became "Le Blanc." Her house was nicknamed le Château. Smoke rose from the chimneys; queer characters came and went; the lights burned at all hours.

Some said Madame Le Blanc had started a school. Others claimed it was a brothel.

In fact, it was neither.

It was something much cleverer.

The Queen of Fives. They breathed the title with reverence on the docks, down the coastline. A lady with a hundred faces, a thousand voices, a million lives. She might spin into yours if you didn't watch out... She played a glittering game: lifting a man's fortune with five moves, in five days, before disappearing without a trace.

The sun was inching higher, turning the sky a hard mazarine blue. "Nice day for it," Quinn said, squeezing Silk's arm.

Silk peered upward. "I think not." He'd checked his barometer before breakfast. "There's a storm coming."

Quinn could feel it, the rippling pleasure down her spine. "Better and better," she replied. "Now, come along."

* * *

They made an unassuming pair when they were out in public. An older gentleman in a dark and bulky overcoat, with a very sleek top hat. A youngish woman in dyed green furs, with a high collar and a sharp-tilted toque. He with his eyes down, minding his step. She with her face veiled, gloves gripped round an elegant cane. Always listening, watching, rolling dice in their minds.

Silk and Quinn had a single clear objective for the day. Audacious, impossible, outrageous—but clear. He showed her his appointment book: Three p.m.—Arrive in ballroom, Buckingham Palace, en déguisé.

"In disguise? Doesn't that go without saying?"

"You tell me. Has your costume been delivered?"

"Not yet. But we have a more serious impediment."

"Oh?" he asked her.

"I've still not received my invitation card to the palace."