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up the Vitesse and gave her everything she had. Bypassing the Heart of the Star, I ran the cycle full tilt down a nearby alley,through ruts and puddles that splashed their questionable contents over my skirts. My RiPA sputtered with competing incoming messages. Though I was still expecting an answer from Mama, the first to make it through was from Violet.
    HEARD WHAT HAPPENED AT THE FACTORY - STOP - WHERE SHALL I MEET YOU - QUERY MARK
    And the second was from Sebastian Stirling.
    RECEIVED YOUR SOS - STOP - YOU NEED NOT HAVE SENT UP SUCH A LARGE SMOKE SIGNAL - STOP
    Sebastian and Nic had become best of friends the first day of primary school, a union that hadn’t pleased any of their teachers or anyone else forced to endure their countless shenanigans.
    Few people know the secret to answering multiple RiPA messages at once, let alone have the talent to do so when traveling at the Vitesse’s uppermost speed, but I managed it.
    GOING TO GLASSHOUSE - STOP - YOU CAN MEET US THERE - STOP
    Turning onto our street caused a flower of relief to bloom in my chest. Overnight, it seemed, the trees that lined Trinovantes Avenue had burst into flaming color, vivid against the white brick facades and black wrought iron gates. Ahead, Glasshouse beckoned, sunlight glinting off the famous Rose Windows that spanned the upper story. The Artisans’ Omnibus Tour never failed to pointout that series to the occupants of the streetcars, noting the repeating floral patterns in sets of six, three, six.
    “The number of letters in the phrase
Tempus est clavis
,” they trumpeted through bullhorns. “‘Time is key,’ the Farthing family motto.”
    Perhaps realizing I was distracted, the Vitesse’s motor chose that moment to hiccup and die. The contrary conveyance glided to a halt in the gutter, right between the neighboring Twin Spires and Pinkerton Manor.
    “Hold on,” I told Nic. For an answer, my twin toppled off the back of the cycle. Trying to catch him before he hit the ground, I bungled the dismount. A vicious rip emanated from the vicinity of my backside, but just now I had concerns beyond my wardrobe.
    “No need to fuss,” he tried to reassure me from the ground.
    “Sorry, but I’m not buying what you’re selling.” Looping an arm around him, I heaved my brother to his feet and helped him to our stoop. Only when I went to insert my key did I notice that the front door stood ajar.
    At another house, this might be construed as happenstance, the downstairs maid forgetting to close it after sweeping the stairs, perhaps. But not at Glasshouse. Such things would not be tolerated on Miss Evangeline Dreadnaught’s vigilant watch. Above all else, our chatelaine subscribed to the motto “thou shalt not leave any detail unattended,” and that certainly included front doors left open.
    Reaching into my messenger bag, I pulled out my Pixii. Nic invented the personal safety device for me as soon as I was old enough to take the streetcar alone. Thumb to the resistance switch, I charged it with repeated depressions until I could make out its telltale whine. “Get behind me.”
    Nic squinted at me in puzzlement. “Whatever is the matter?”
    I put my finger to his lips and nudged at the heavy front door. It swung inward without so much as a whisper—
bless Dreadnaught for her conscientious oiling!
—revealing another scene of wreckage. Rugs had been tugged from their proper places and left in woolen wrinkles along the hall. Occasional tables were overturned. Broken crystal and bruised flowers decorated the floor.
    A few steps more and we stood in our parents’ study. The damage inflicted here was precise. Methodical. Someone upended the room, turned out the drawers of the desks, rifled through the filing cabinets, removed the art from the walls, slashed open pillows and chaise cushions and even the leather armchairs. Feathers and cotton were scattered among the various oddities our parents collected over years of travel: petrified wood from