I stared at Gardena in shock. "You did what?"

She began to laugh. "Oh, if you could see your face!" She signaled for the waiters to bring our food: lamb, spring greens, and new potatoes.

"Is this a joke? Because if it is, it's in very poor taste."

Gardena shook her head, contrite. "I wish it were."

Once the waiters refilled our wine glasses and retreated, Gardena cut her mother's food as she told me her story.

Hector Diamond was a kind and gentle man, at least to Gardena and her family. He was a younger son who took over the Business late in life. His main passion was mechanism, and he became the Diamond Family's Inventor, the youngest to rise to that rank since the Coup.

Hector and his brilliant soon to be daughter-in-law Rachel were friends immediately upon meeting. Rachel became one of his Apprentices, and after her marriage to his son Julius, they spent hours in their basement working on one contraption after another. Gardena spent much of her childhood playing there while her mother and grandfather worked.

"I can't tell you what they made," Gardena said. "That's secret. But their grand achievement was to have been an automaton with the electrical patterns of a human brain. It might be truly alive, and think for itself. Just imagine the possibilities!"

Her mother and grandfather decided to use their minds as patterns for this automaton, and all was going well. But a storm came up, and something went terribly wrong.

"Fortunately, none of us children were in the room at the time," she said. "But we heard a great noise, and the lights went out, then a roar from my grandfather and a sound of smashing. My father and brothers ran downstairs to see my grandfather breaking all he had built. My mother stood in the midst of it, her face blank and staring.

"It took all of them plus many servants to restrain him. He was tied to his bed. My mother would do whatever you asked, but then stay still until you told her to do something else.

"As time progressed, they both regained a bit of their sanity, but have never been the same. During my grandfather's calm periods, he spoke of futility and wishing for death. Many a time, he begged me to kill him. The only time which seemed to bring him joy was when we took tea together. He loved mushroom sandwiches, so I made him some."

I put my hands to my mouth in horror.

"The cook was a wretched woman, who beat us when my parents were absent, so I made it appear she did it." Gardena stared at her plate; the lamb fat had begun to congeal. "My father had her killed." She turned to me. "Who would know what I did?"

Rachel hummed a children's tune in the silence.

I leaned back and took a sip of my wine, stunned by the revelations. "Tell me what's happening now."

"Last week, I received a letter which said, 'I know what you have done'. At first I didn't know what it meant, but the letters continued every day, with greater threats. Then," she glanced away, "I received another, which said, 'mushroom sandwich'."

Why wait all these years, then blackmail her now?

"Each letter was brought by a different messenger boy. Each said he got the letter from a different part of the city, but they all said the man looked like a Diamond." She laughed. "In other words, he could be just about anyone in the city."

I laughed. "But not Charles Hart."

Rachel Diamond gave me an amused glance which was so ... aware ... that I shuddered. How much did she understand?

Gardena laughed. "Or Roy Spadros." But then she sobered. "His last letter said he plans to send letters everywhere if I don't pay him a great sum, more than I have: the police, the newspapers, my father." She paused, looking away. "I fear my father the most. He will never forgive me for what I've done."

I glanced at Gardena's mother, who was trying — and failing — to eat her lamb with a spoon. "Should we be speaking of such things in front of her?"

Gardena sighed and switched out her mother's spoon for a fork. "I've cared for her daily for many years. Sometimes it seems as if she knows what you say ... but I don't really think she does."

"But what if she says something to your father?"

"Oh," Gardena said, "I don't think Papa would believe her."

That look Rachel gave me ... "I suppose you know best." I took a bite of lamb; it was quite good.

How to handle this crisis so her father wouldn't learn the truth, yet the blackmailer might be silenced? "Arrange a meeting with this blackmailer in a public place. Have your brothers there and capture the man. They can discuss this with the man at leisure, and your father need never be notified."

"What should I tell my brothers?"

I shrugged. "The truth: a man is blackmailing you. You need not say why, or tell them whatever you wish. I'm sure you can think of something." She had eaten nothing. "You'd best eat, or you'll lose your reputation; the bird eats thrice its weight daily."

Gardena chuckled at the reference to my dinner party, but began eating. After she had eaten about half of her plate, she said, "Will you come with me? When we catch this man."

The idea made me uneasy. "I don't know, Dena ..."

"I promise, Jack won't be there. He has a horror of sitting in wait; he thinks it tedious. Please come with me. This whole thing is all too frightening. I wish you to be with me, as support."

Why didn't they do something about him? "It can't be in Diamond quadrant, Dena, it can't ... please ... make the meeting on Market Center."

Gardena nodded. "I would be so grateful. But what do you need? I've taken of your generosity twice now, and this seems like a poor return."

I stared at my plate. "I don't know if I ..." Could I trust her with this? I glanced at Rachel; she was intent on her napkin again.

Don't let Jack hurt my Ma.

But I couldn't say that. Gardena believed Jack to be sick, not dangerous. I didn't want to get in an argument about her brother or reveal his crimes, not in the midst of Diamond quadrant.

I stared at my plate, feeling ill. Sharing this with Gardena, who didn't understand the danger ...? But who else could I trust? If Jon wasn't away, I would have gone to him. He would help me in this without question.

I took a deep breath. "I must get my mother out of the city."

Gardena gazed at me without moving. "I've never heard you speak of your mother before." Then she frowned slightly. "Why must you get your mother out of the city? What's wrong?"

The irony didn't escape me. "Her life has been threatened."

"What's happened? Are you sure? This is horrifying!"

If only she knew. "I have good evidence. I wouldn't ask something like this for anything less."

"I'm sorry. Of course, you know best." She sat silently, eyes far away. "I overheard Cesare and Lance talking about shipping Pot rags to Dickens as workers. Would that do?"

Pot rags. "Is that what you think? That I'm just a Pot rag?"

She put her hands to her mouth. "I'm so sorry, Jacqui. Of course not, you're not like that."

I shook my head. She just didn't understand. "I appreciate the thought, but my Ma would never leave for that; she's an owner."

This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

And I remembered how the Clubbs sold the secrets of others. Could I trust Lance Clubb?

Gardena said, "Perhaps he can get her a post as a supervisor?"

I laughed. My mother ran the best brothel in the Spadros Pot. "Now that's something she certainly can do." Then I sobered. Ma would be giving up everything she had worked so hard for.

"I'll speak with him about it," Gardena said. "If I do that, will you come with me?"

I took a breath and let it out. I would have to get a message to Ma; she still might not want to leave me here. It was so risky. If the letter were intercepted, it could mean both our deaths ... but it was the best chance I had to get her to safety. "Very well, but it must be truly secret. No one must know my mother is leaving the city. I'm serious; she might be killed."

Gardena stared at me in horror.

"And your brothers mustn't breathe a word I was there to meet your blackmailer. Mr. Spadros would be quite upset if he learned I placed myself into such danger."

Gardena smiled fondly. "He would." She sat up straighter. "It's settled, then. I shall write when it has all been arranged."

When I left the Diamond Ladies' Club and approached my carriage, I realized I could have gone to Anastasia any time to smuggle Ma out of the city and she would have done it. I had a terrible vision of an empty lock-box.

I don't trust Anastasia anymore.

"I should like to visit the bank on Market Center."

"Of course, mum," Honor said.

It was a short ride to the bank, my outriders clearing the path through Diamond and across the bridge to the island.

Gardena had done a terrible thing. But it wasn't what caused friction between her and Tony.

I believed Gardena told the truth about her grandfather, but ... something didn't ring true about the blackmail. I felt that whoever blackmailed her did so for another reason.

What was Gardena involved with?

***

I entered the bank, a sandstone edifice several stories high. Of course, I had been to the bank many times, but never had a lock-box before. I felt unsure how to proceed, so I went to the teller, who acted as if accessing a lock-box was an everyday occurrence. After a brief wait for the manager, I produced the key to box #7 and was ushered into the vault area.

Rows of boxes ran along an enormous golden hall, to the ceiling; there must have been thousands of them. But we didn't go inside the hall itself, but into a small glass antechamber. "Wait here," said the manager.

In the antechamber sat a round table of polished wood with carved wooden chairs. It also held a drawer made completely of glass, set waist high in the wall closest to the box room. The table was lit from above, as if the purpose of the room was to display it.

I waited while the manager approached a technician dressed in white who stood inside the hall. They spoke briefly, then the manager returned, standing outside the open antechamber door.

The technician used a system of levers, gears, and pulleys to move a large arm over and down, to the bottom row. The arm then slid inside a small cubicle in the far wall and emerged holding a box. The technician guided the arm completely around, then deposited the box into the glass drawer. The drawer slid forward; there lay box #7. "Astonishing!" I said.

The manager smiled to himself.

The necklace lay inside, just as when Anastasia put it there. The jewels sparkled brightly, the metal showed the same patina of our finest silver.

I let out a breath, relieved. At least in this one thing Anastasia had spoken true. I ran my finger over the beautiful necklace then locked it away.

***

When I exited the bank, Honor raised his hand to help me into the carriage, but I said, "I'll be along shortly."

"Yes, mum," Honor said, but I felt his eyes on me all the way down the block.

The day was warm and pleasant, with a slight breeze, and I strolled along like everyone else on the promenade. I turned into The Bridges Daily's offices, giving Honor a brief smile as I did so.

The thin man in his thirties leaning over the counter reading a worn, dog-eared novel quickly straightened when I entered the shop. "Mrs. Spadros! How may we help you?"

"I wish to place an ad for the Celebration program."

"Right this way." The man led me past an array of busily typing men to an office. The glass-paneled door read:

Mr. Paul Blackberry

Clubb Desk

Mr. Blackberry, a portly man with long graying sideburns, nodded to me as I entered. "Surprised to see you here. Must be important!" He gestured for me to sit across the desk from him. I noted the numerous faces of those pretending they had work to do which allowed them to pass by the large windows so they might peek in.

"It is," I said. "What have you learned of Dame Anastasia?"

He lit a cigar, and puffed on it. "The records aren't all that clear back when she came here, but —"

"What do you mean? Hasn't she lived here her whole life?"

"Goodness, no! She and her father, Sir Rounder Louis, arrived back in the late 40's. From Chicago, if these reports are correct. Must have been a teenager, and from all accounts, she was a wild one." He grinned. "You would have liked her."

I laughed.

"She drank, smoked, ran off to the theater, even played a role — I'm sure you've heard of her stint as 'Queen of Diamonds' —"

I nodded. Trey said as much. I wondered why she never mentioned it. Trey certainly seemed proud of her.

"— and generally carried on like this for years. Her father was no help there; a notorious gambler and loan shark. Some say even his knighthood was a fable. But after a few years in Bridges they were seen at every Grand Ball, dining at all the Family parties. After a while she settled down and took up various amusements, all with hints of impropriety. From all accounts, though, she's a good jeweler, or at least a successful businesswoman."

"Whatever happened to her father Sir Louis?"

"Up and disappeared one night. There were rumors of some scandal, and Dame Louis wore mourning garb for a while, but then she went on as before."

"You make it sound unseemly."

After putting on spectacles, he picked up a pile of ancient newspapers and set them on his desk, paging through them. "Seen with dozens of men," he peered over his spectacles at me, "young men, mind you — over the past thirty years. Sometimes several at once. Then there would be some uproar, and the faces would change."

The men guarding her were indeed young.

"And there's something odd."

I leaned forward. "What?"

He rested his hands on the desk. "I've talked with several jewelers. She's never been seen in person by one of them. Not at a convention, nor a workshop, nor even a showing."

"That is indeed odd." I wondered what it meant.

Then I remembered the faces at the window behind me and reached into my pocket, handing him a folded paper. "I'm supposedly here to place an ad for the Celebration program."

He gazed at me, sympathy in his eyes. "I'm sorry, Jacqui. This must be a difficult time for you."

A much thinner, much younger reporter in the Pot. The same bushy sideburns, only dark brown back then. "May I take your picture, miss?"

I smiled. An easy mark, I thought. "Sure."

Picture taken, I went to hug him, and picked his pocket.

I shrugged. "No worse than any other." He never got angry, though he did ask for the wallet back. But I was only five; I got better at pickpocketing as time went on. "It's good to see you, sir."

"Let me walk you out," he said, rising, and came round to open the door for me, the faces outside scattering.

I chuckled at that.

We strolled through the sea of typists past Mr. Durak's open door. The man lay face down on the floor.

I rushed into his office, which stank of alcohol, and knelt beside him. The man was breathing, but slowly. Tear-stains streaked his brown face. His graying brown hair was disheveled, his collar, askew. I looked up at Mr. Blackberry. "Call a doctor."

The faces outside the plate glass windows peered back at me, puzzled and concerned.

Mr. Blackberry rushed out of the room, roaring, "Don't you louts have anything to do? Get to work. You, call the doctor."

I rolled Mr. Durak on his side should he be sick. Drunken men were a common sight back home in the Pot, but I never expected such here.

Mr. Blackberry came in and shut the door. "How is he?"

"Out cold." I settled back on my heels, holding Mr. Durak steady with my right hand. An empty bottle of whiskey lay on the floor under his desk. "What's going on here?"

The desk creaked as Mr. Blackberry settled on a corner. "Ah, my dear, his wife turned in her cards in the fall, and poor Acol's not been the same since. Never wore mourning but a week. Comes in and leaves on schedule, but does little but drink. We forced him to go to your charity event; thought it would be good for him to get outside."

"I had no idea." Seeing Mr. Durak — a solid and reliable man — in this terrible state seemed most unsettling. "I saw his interview with the banker. About the gems."

Mr. Blackberry frowned. "Dame Anastasia set that up. The gals were all aflutter about the man she came in with. I never saw him." He gestured with his chin at Mr. Durak, who snored softly. "His secretary said he gave her the interview already dictated, but only he spoke."

"Do you think he concocted it?"

"I have no idea. If true, it's suicidal, if you ask me." Mr. Blackberry put his hand to his chin. "A pity."

I remembered our brief interaction at the charity event last month. Nothing seemed wrong. "Has he no children?"

Mr. Blackberry shook his head. "His wife was incapable. His first wife died in childbirth, oh, back when I was a cub reporter, the babe along with her." He paused. "This time hit him hard."

I had a sudden vision of Tony, alone and grieving, and I shook my head. "He deserves better."

The doctor and his assistants came in then and we left the room so they could tend to Mr. Durak. Then Mr. Blackberry escorted me to the door.

"Sir," I said, "make sure he's taken care of."

He nodded. "I'll get him home and in bed once the doctor says he can be moved."

"Thank you." I squeezed his hand, but close, so none saw it. "Dealer's blessings with you."

He smiled. "And also with you."

Honor stood outside the door, relaxing when he glimpsed me. "Is all well, mum? I saw the doctor's carriage."

I strolled past, and he fell in step beside me. "A man took ill, but he's being cared for."

"Very well, mum. Spadros Manor?"

"Yes, thank you."

In the carriage, I shook my head. Anastasia (and likely, Frank) had dragged Mr. Durak into this scheme of hers ... or was it theirs? ... and used him to defraud the city.

I wondered whose idea creating these false gems was. The little I knew of Frank Pagliacci indicated poor reasoning skills. Whether this came from lack of intelligence or carelessness, it was difficult to say. The process as described to me by Anastasia's great-nephew Trey, though, spoke of a plot well-crafted. The factory and processing alone would have taken years to set up.

Would Anastasia have planned the kidnappings, the attack on Tony, the false letters, the break-in at Madame's shop? No. What possible motive might she have? By all appearances, she held regard for us, not hate. She had no reason to extract the sort of vengeance from us that Frank spoke of at Jack Diamond's factory. And if she wished to harm us — or me in particular — she had only to say a word to the right ear.

The horses trotted down the busy street, shops passing by as we went.

There seemed to be more than one plot here. Jack and Frank were being directed by someone else. Anastasia had her simple yet ingenious scam, which might just work. Zia's hopes were probably much like Anastasia's: marriage, home, and family.

Back then, I didn't see any reason to care about Anastasia's scam, other than concerns for the safety of anyone associated with Frank and Jack. So she defrauded some merchants. What was that to me? The fact that she involved Mr. Durak did upset me, especially her doing so while he grieved his wife.

But I couldn't understand the violence. What did whoever directed Jack Diamond and Frank Pagliacci stand to gain from that? What pushed this ringleader to move from breaking into a shop and causing a mess to kidnapping and murder?

Jack Diamond in Spadros, harassing merchants and widows. What could cause him to do that, when he normally would have (by his reputation) simply murdered them? Frank Pagliacci strangling a grown man this time. Why change his targets?

And why was the group so afraid of being revealed?

None of this made any sense.

We went over the bridge to Spadros quadrant. Sailboats passed under us, sending pale gray ripples over clear water.

I suddenly remembered Roy's letter to Tony:

You must allow me to take over this interrogation to learn the truth of the matter.

Tony never answered that letter. And when Roy learned that these men used our money to finance their schemes, he would be furious. He must have his men feverously searching for them.

I laughed. Jack and Frank must be terrified! Being pursued by Roy Spadros would produce a crisis for anyone. No wonder they were trying to cover their tracks.

Perhaps the tide had finally turned in our favor.