“I simply cannot recall.”
“Where did you get it?”
Hume tensed, an attack dog waiting for the signal.
“Ah yes, I recall now. From that dear little trinket shop in Rue des Capucines. What is it called? Oh, yes. Colifichet and Sons.”
*
“We’ll go to Colifichet’s shop directly.” Penrose handed Ophelia up into the carriage and jumped in beside her. “Colifichet has seen the stomacher.” The carriage jerked forward.
“And Hume was trying to hide the music box.”
“Yes—I haven’t yet had a chance to congratulate you on your rather stunning sleight of hand. Or, I should say, sleight of hip.”
“Prue shouldn’t be left all alone at H?tel Malbert. I’ve got a bad feeling about this.” A sickening thought hit Ophelia. “Lady Cruthlach—and her husband, too—they’re collectors, right? Fairy tale collectors, like you?”
“Yes.”
“What if . . . do you think Lady Cruthlach might try to, well, collect Prue? Because she looks like her Cinderella music box?”
Ophelia wished with all her might that the professor would laugh off the notion. But to her dismay, his eyes grew troubled. “It is not inconceivable.”
“Might we take Prue along with us today, then? She could stay in the carriage. She’s able to take naps anywhere, and I’m certain she won’t complain if we give her some penny sweets.”
“Very well. I’ll instruct the driver to go first to H?tel Malbert.”
*
Penrose waited in the carriage. Baldewyn appeared to have been awoken from a snooze when he opened the front door. Ophelia rushed past him without a word.
Prue wasn’t in her bedchamber. But then, why would she be? It was nearing luncheon time.
Ophelia hurried downstairs. As she passed through the entry foyer, the stepsisters and Miss Smythe were just returning from their outing. Their arms were piled high with parcels. Only Miss Smythe noticed Ophelia rushing past. Behind her owlish spectacles, her glance was sharp.
Ophelia heard the thuds and shouts as soon as she was on the kitchen stairs. She raced down. The thuds were coming from the closet under the stairs.
Ophelia fumbled with the latch and flung open the door. Beatrice staggered out, begrimed and sweaty, with flyaway hair.
“Where is Prue?” Ophelia cried.
“Oh, that woman, that old woman with the gun!”
Ophelia’s heart shrank to a pebble. “What woman?”
“A peddler woman, old. A hunchback. Selling sweets.”
Sweets? Prue would follow a pointy-tailed demon if he lured her with sweets.
Ophelia tore out the kitchen door and through the courtyard. The carriageway gate stood open.
“Miss Flax!” Penrose cried when he saw her.
“She’s gone! Someone has taken Prue.”
*
Ophelia insisted that they drive straight back to Lady Cruthlach’s mansion. She had a mad, sickening hunch that somehow Lady Cruthlach was mixed up with Prue’s disappearance. That horrible little music box . . .
The traffic thickened and slowed, and Ophelia fought panic. She held her elbows tight in cupped hands. The professor sat in tense silence.
The carriage hadn’t quite stopped in front of the mansion when Ophelia leapt out and ran up the steps. Penrose was just behind her. They both pounded on the door.
No answer.
Ophelia tried the door handles. Locked.
“What about another door?” Ophelia stepped back to scan the fa?ade. She had just spied an archway off to one side, when the front door opened.
Hume.
Penrose grabbed Ophelia’s hand. “Please excuse us,” he said. Hand in hand, they raced up the stairs and burst into the stifling sitting room.
Lady Cruthlach slept upright on the sofa where they had left her.
“Shall I wake her?” Penrose asked.
“No. Let’s search the house.”
For once, the professor didn’t argue.