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‘I know that I am sheltered,’ she says, ‘in my jewels and my silks. I know I am privileged, more than most, more than almost anyone. But you said so yourself: the Company seems to have sent invitations to those desperate enough to attend. And I am desperate, sir—I am not ashamed to admit as much. You need not resent me because you are desperate, also.’

Surprisingly, he rumbles a rough laugh, lower than she might have expected from the timbre of his voice. He does so with abandon, his head tipped back so that Genevieve can see the marble arch of his throat.

‘You may be a comte’s daughter, mademoiselle, but you have the bearing of an empress,’ he tells her, taking a step back. ‘Well, then: if I can’t compel you to leave, Your Highness, I have no choice but to guide you out of this labyrinth.’

‘I shall be impressed if you can, sir. You have taken me to a dead end once.’

‘Of course I can,’ he replies, with some petulance, and Genevieve swallows a smile. There are some things about this man she finds strange, even frightening—but his pride? That she is accustomed to. Her grandfather would go into a sulk if she beat him at chess, let alone if she implied he could not navigate a hedge maze. ‘I would never lie to such a fine lady, would I? Besides, I need to leave this place as much as you do.’

That is true enough. Genevieve extends her hand, intending to take his arm. He flinches. She draws away. ‘Forgive me.’

‘No, it isn’t your fault. I’m not accustomed to. . . Never mind.’ He hesitates, then bends his elbow towards her. Genevieve lays a hand there hesitantly and smiles at him. He doesn’t smile back, but she can perhaps perceive a faint flush on his cheek.

‘Lead on, Ariadne,’ she says.

‘Careful, Theseus,’ he returns. ‘There’s more than one monster here.’

Four

They are last to arrive in the foyer, and the room is crowded with the other guests. Leander looks down at Genevieve de Vienne, whose grey eyes dart around with unhidden wonder, painted lips pulled into a small smile. He thinks, What secret could this lovely creature have that would be worthy of my mother’s attention? That would be worthy of stealing? But Leander knows it’s often the most beautiful things that wound the most savagely. This doll-like girl with her flushing cheeks and dancer’s step may well have blood on her hands or ghosts clawing at her shoulders. She glances up at him, and there is that look again, the ill-hidden awe: she is an obvious target—too obvious. If he pushed her, just a little, he could have her spill the past onto the floor between them like a tipped glass of wine.

Oh, he is tempted. She is tempting.

Now, more than ever, Leander must keep his nerve.

At the centre of the room, standing a few feet before the staircase, a massive golden tree has grown from the ground. Its branches reach up so high that they connect with the chandelier. The crystals resemble blooms bursting from the metal. Its roots have pierced through the marble, chips of stone crumbling away, the floor distorted over the erupted earth. Leander is begrudgingly impressed. Each day, the Château seems to grow features even more ornate, even more refined.

On the front of the tree there is a clockface embedded into the metal. The gold of the clock is so finely carved with lines and knots it seems utterly organic, save for its metallic sheen beneath the chandelier’s flames. The face has no numbers: instead, the hand spins around a gradient of blues, reds, and peaches. Its top half represents the passage of the sun, a dot of gold paint, and the bottom is the moon in silver. In this way, the clock shows the passage of time through the movements of celestial bodies. It’s now approximately noon, an exact quarter segment of pink sunrise behind them.

Leander wants to stand in the corner, out of sight, but he knows that if he is to steal a secret, he should interact with the other guests. It’d be easiest to make introductions on his own, but Mademoiselle de Vienne seems reluctant to release him. When he tries to step away, she tugs at his arm, then blushes when he looks down at her. What did she expect would happen? Leander opens his mouth to tell her, We will part here. Farewell, mademoiselle, best of luck to us both—then she breathes, looking up at him through her lashes, ‘Monsieur Sterne, you will accompany me, will you not?’

He opens his mouth to refuse her. What emerges instead is ‘Fine.’

The first guest they approach is a handsomely featured man with deep brown skin, his braided black hair streaked lightly with grey. He wears a long white shirt and trousers, all richly and colourfully embroidered, and he is scribbling in a small notebook with a stick of graphite.

Mademoiselle de Vienne releases Leander to curtsey to the stranger, then immediately takes his arm again. The man closes his book, smiles at her, and responds with a bow. ‘Good afternoon,’ he says in warmly accented French.

They all introduce themselves. After some uncertainty, the mademoiselle refers to Leander as ‘Monsieur Leander Sterne, of America,’ which suits him just as well as anything else would.

America. The word feels familiar, and it conjures up vague images of salt-sea air and cold wind, but nothing concrete. He knows that the way he speaks has led others to refer to him as American before; from the books that sometimes appear in the library he has learnt a series of dry facts about the country—taxation and war and geography. But none of those facts have triggered an actual memory. He’s long given up hope of that.

The stranger’s name is Monsieur Abraham Missah, and he has come to the auction by ship all the way from Gondar. Leander doesn’t know what or where Gondar is; de Vienne seems to, however, and she makes suitable noises of sympathy over the length and difficulty of the journey.

‘I could not say for certain it was difficult,’ Missah replies.

‘Whatever do you mean?’ the mademoiselle asks.

‘Well. . . your journey here, mademoiselle. And yours, monsieur. Do you remember it?’

‘Naturally,’ she says, frowning. ‘I received the invitation, and I wrote my desire upon the back. I burnt it, and. . .’

‘And?’

Her mouth opens and closes again. Leander doesn’t bother saying anything, just inclines his head as if in agreement; no need to speak when silence serves his purposes just as well. Guests will presume whatever answer is simplest, most expected. As with all other members of the Company, he cannot lie—and so must rely on these presumptions over the course of the auction.

‘But. . .’ she says. ‘A long journey, such a long journey, it must have been—across all of Europe, and Europe at war, no less! Weeks, it must have taken.’

‘And you can recall those weeks?’