I knew him immediately. There was only one person with a face like that. Or rather, there were two, but the elder one was swarthier, hairier, and in prison. That other individual was the notorious Julius Winkman, the black marketeer. This youth was his son, Leopold, a chip off the old block.

“What can I do for you, Master Winkman?” That’s what I should have said, in a cool, collected voice. As it was, I was too surprised; I made a goggling sound and just stared at him with my mouth open.

George, suddenly at my side, spoke for me. “Can we help you?”

“I have a message,” the boy said. “My father sends his compliments, and says he’ll be seeing you all very soon.”

“Doubt it,” I said. “Your daddy got twenty years, didn’t he?”

Leopold Winkman smiled. “Oh, we have ways and means, as you’ll soon see. And here’s something in the meantime, Miss Carlyle, by way of being on account.”

With that, swift as a portly snake, he stuck out his hand and prodded me sharply in the solar plexus with the head of his cane. The air was driven out of me; I gasped and doubled over. Leopold Winkman flipped his hat rakishly low across his eyes, spun on his shiny heel, and began to saunter away. His picture of serene progress was interrupted by George, who, whipping his rapier from his belt, stuck it diagonally between Leopold’s legs so that he tripped, lost his balance, and tumbled forward into the crowd, bumping into three burly workmen and spilling their drinks on their wives and girlfriends. An altercation ensued, as Leopold unsuccessfully tried to escape, lashing out at all comers with his little cane. As his cries were swallowed by the angry throng, George helped me upright and led me back across the street.

“I’m all right,” I said, rubbing my stomach. “Thanks, George. But you don’t have to bother about me.”

“Oh, okay.”

“Rats—I never got the ice cream cones.”

But it didn’t matter. When we got back, Lockwood was looking at his watch. “We’d better get to our seats,” he said. “Time’s flying. Wintergarden won’t want us late.”

He led the way among the stalls and under the shadow of the Mausoleum where a row of armed officials studied a guest list and waved us in among the floats. Giant balloons moved above us; streamers gusted, engines revved. We walked through gas fumes.

Miss Wintergarden had said she was important, a friend of high society. As with other matters, she hadn’t lied. It turned out that she was on the first and biggest float, the VIP one. Up a gangway we went and out onto a wooden platform fixed to the top of the truck. It was very broad, extending out on both sides. Flags flew from poles above, and plastic lions and unicorns stood at intervals along the sides like sentries on castle battlements. Rows of chairs were already filled with the broad backsides of the great and good, men in dark, expensive overcoats, women heavily be-furred. Young members of the Fittes and Rotwell agencies moved along them, pouring out mulled wine and offering sweetmeats. From a far-off seat, Miss Wintergarden saw us, fluttered her fingers condescendingly, then paid us no further attention.

Lockwood, George, and I hung back, uncertain where to sit, but Holly Munro seemed galvanized. She smoothed down her coat, adjusted her hat, and sashayed between the seats, nodding to people that she passed, exchanging little waves with others. She seemed miraculously at ease. At the front of the platform she looked back and beckoned. By the time we reached her, she was already talking to several of the most important people on the float, among them the leaders of the two great agencies, Penelope Fittes and Steve Rotwell.

We knew Ms. Fittes already, and were on good, if distant, terms. A striking woman of indeterminate age, the twin auras of beauty and of power were intertwined about her and could not be easily separated. She wore a long white coat that dropped almost to her ankles; the collar and cuffs were made of brilliant white fur. Her long dark hair had been lifted and ornately styled; it was fixed in position by a curling silver band. She greeted us warmly, which is more than could be said of the man beside her—Steve Rotwell, chairman of the Rotwell agency.

It was the first time I’d seen him in the flesh. He was a big man, solid beneath his heavy coat, and handsome in a ponderous sort of way. He was thick-jawed and clean-shaven, with unusual green eyes. His dark hair was turning gray behind his ears. He nodded at us distantly, his gaze wandering elsewhere.

“A wonderful evening,” Lockwood said.

“Yes. A remarkable attempt to entertain the people.” Penelope Fittes pulled her coat more tightly around her neck. “It was Steve’s idea.”

Mr. Rotwell grunted. “Cakes and carnivals,” he said. “Keeps everyone happy.” He turned away from us, looking at his watch.

Ms. Fittes smiled at his back. You could possibly surmise her impatience with the whole proceeding, but she was too well bred to reveal it. “And how is Lockwood and Company faring?”

“Oh, trying to make our mark,” Lockwood said.

“I heard about your job for Fiona Wintergarden. Well done.”

“I’m busy researching,” George put in. “Wanting to achieve big things. I’m hoping to join the Orpheus Society one day. Have you heard of it?” He looked at her.

Penelope Fittes hesitated, then her smile broadened. “Most certainly.”

“Not sure I have,” Lockwood admitted. “What is it?”

“It’s a loose association,” Ms. Fittes said. “Industrialists who are trying to understand the mechanics of the Problem. I encourage their work. Who knows what we might uncover if we use our ingenuity? We would be pleased to welcome you one day, Mr. Cubbins.”

“Thanks. Though I’m not sure I really have the brains.”

She laughed prettily. “Now, Mr. Lockwood, you must meet one of my companions. This is Sir Rupert Gale.”

The person beyond her had been leaning on the rail around the platform. He turned: a young man with blond hair, cut short at the back and sides, but tightly curled above his forehead. He had a neatly manicured mustache, full lips, and very bright blue eyes. His cheeks were pink with cold. Like most of the others on the float, he was smartly dressed; unlike them, he leaned idly on a polished cane. He transferred this to his left glove, so that he could shake Lockwood’s hand.

“Sir Rupert.” Lockwood didn’t betray, in the causal way he spoke, the fact that we had encountered the man before. Last time we saw him, he’d chased us up a drainpipe onto a factory roof, expertly wielding a sword-stick hidden in his cane. He was a collector of forbidden artifacts, and we’d stolen a very important one from under his nose after Winkman’s black market auction. True, we’d been wearing ski masks at the time and had jumped into the river to escape him, but we were under no illusions. Our role had since become common knowledge. He knew us, too.

“Charmed.” The gloved grip held Lockwood fast. “Haven’t we met?”

“I don’t think so,” Lockwood said. “I’d surely remember.”

“Thing is,” Sir Rupert Gale said, “I remember faces. I never forget ’em. Even parts of faces. Even chins.”

“Oh, there are dozens of people with ugly mugs like mine,” Lockwood said. He kept his hand locked in the other’s; he coolly held the young man’s gaze.

“Sir Rupert is a good friend of the Fittes Agency,” Penelope Fittes said. “His father helped my grandmother, long ago. He helps train young agents in swordfighting and other martial skills.”

“I’d love to give you a demonstration.” Sir Rupert let go of Lockwood’s hand. “We must have a chat one day—about your business, and mine.”

Lockwood smiled faintly. “Any time you like.”

A horn sounded. Penelope Fittes made her way to the front of the platform; we retreated along the float. Someone pressed hot drinks into our hands. Firecrackers burst above the streets, bathing us in silver and red; the truck gave a jerk and began to move.

“Bit forward of you to ask about the Orpheus Society, George,” I whispered.

George frowned. “No…she was totally chilled about it, wasn’t she? Kind of surprised me. I thought it might be more hush-hush, somehow.”

He took a chair; Holly Munro stood chatting with members of the Rotwell contingent. Lockwood and I remained standing, staring out over the crowds.

Along the Strand the convoy went, carving its way slowly down the center of the road through wreaths of lavender smoke. Tinned music blared from speakers at the corners of the platform: dramatic, patriotic songs. Ms. Fittes and Mr. Rotwell waved. Behind us came the first show float, with actors in old-fashioned costumes hunting ghosts through Styrofoam ruins to the accompaniment of drums. Agents threw candies and other freebies down; the crowd cheered. People leaped and surged to catch them.

Cakes and carnivals, Steve Rotwell had said. Keeps everyone happy.

But did it? It seemed to me that ripples of electric energy were running through the crowd. Not quite the random chaos you’d expect. Subtle waves of movement like wind blowing through the wheat fields close to my childhood home. Behind the cheers rose other noises—hisses and murmurings that lapped against the rumble of the wheels. Pale faces stared up at us beyond the smoke.

Lockwood had sensed it too. “There’s trouble brewing,” he whispered. “Everything’s wrong. The fair I sort of understand, but this parade thing’s weird. I don’t know who it’s going to convince. I feel awkward and exposed up here.”

“It’s dire,” I agreed. “Look at those idiots capering on the float behind. And the worst of it is—we’re going so slowly. The whole thing’s going to take hours.”

But it didn’t. Our journey was very short.

We were halfway down the Strand, not far from Charing Cross Station and Fittes House, when members of the crowd broke through the cordons and surged across the road. The float stopped, its engine idling. One of the agents took a tub of candies and tossed them from the float: I watched them fall, glittering like rain. Then something else shot through the air—large and dully shining. It landed in the float not far from me, striking the middle of the platform with a crack of broken glass. At first I thought it was one of the ghost-lamps strung above us, and that its cable had somehow broken. Then I felt the wave of cold and sudden psychic fear and realized the truth—but I was still standing rooted to the spot when the first Visitor appeared in the air before me.

It was a pale, bent thing, stooped and thin. Yellowed, diaphanous rags coiled around it. Though its outline held firm, its substance bubbled up and over like soup in a pot. Glimpses of a rib cage, of a folding, twisting spine, of flesh and sinew welled up, stretched, and were sucked back in again. The head was lowered, the white arms crossed over the face as if it feared to see us, fingers splayed above like splintered horns.

Those of us young enough—those of us who saw—had our rapiers out before the second ghost-bomb landed. That would be Lockwood, George, and me; Holly Munro, observing us, struggled to pull her rapier free. Some of the younger Fittes agents, the ones not throwing candy, dropped their trays of drinks and reached for their belts. But the adults were blind—even the ones right by the ghost looked straight through it, merely adjusting their coat collars as if they felt a sudden chill.

Another crack of glass; another Visitor unfolding, up by the front of the float. Other ghost-bombs landed in the crowd. Almost at once we heard the screams begin.

Lockwood and I started forward; George, too. Sir Rupert Gale had also reacted. He pulled at his cane, drawing out a silver blade. Above us, Penelope Fittes and Steve Rotwell turned, responding to the outcry of the crowd. A few startled dignitaries began to rise.

The first ghost moved. Its head rotated impossibly; it flowed backward, through the nearest seat, straight through its occupant, a short, fat tweedy woman. Threads of plasm lingered on her contours as it pulled around her and away. Her eyes rolled upward, her arms jerked in rhythmic spasms; she slid soundlessly onto the floor.

“Medics needed!” Lockwood roared. A wave of fear had engulfed the company; people were throwing chairs back, milling back and forth, too stupid to wait and listen to their senses. Old as they were, faint sensations might have alerted them to the ghosts, and so kept them alive.

The Visitor moved with random darts and scurries, hiding its head as if in pain. Two men toppled as it touched them, collapsing against others, redoubling the panic. I was almost on it. I raised my sword.

A Rotwell operative stepped out in front of me, a magnesium flare in his hand.

“No! Not here!” I shouted. “You’ll—”

Too late. He threw it. The flare shot past the ghost, bounced off the back of the nearest seat, and exploded against the side of the platform. Fragments of wood blasted into space; Greek Fire rained down upon the crowds. The platform gave way. A whole section crumbled like a sea cliff, propelling three people, including a screaming Miss Wintergarden, out onto the street below. Sir Rupert Gale, caught by the explosion, was spun to the very edge, left clinging to the broken boards. George escaped unharmed; he reached the ghost and carved the air around it with his rapier, seeking to prevent it from touching the people on either side.

The Visitor had been peppered with burning iron, and the ghost-lamps hanging above the street weren’t doing it much good, either. Plasm steamed from it. As it cringed back from George’s blade, it removed its arms from its face. It had no features, no eyes or nose; nothing but a sagging triangular mouth. At the front of the platform neither Penelope Fittes nor Steve Rotwell had lost their heads. From beneath his coat, Rotwell had drawn a sword—longer, thicker than a normal rapier. Ms. Fittes had taken her hair band off, shaken her dark hair free. The band was a crescent moon—sharp, made of silver. She held it like a knife.

Rotwell jumped down among the seats, swatting a chair aside. He strode toward the second Visitor—a Phantasm—which several of his agents had pinned back. Holly Munro had been shepherding people to the far corner of the platform. She reached the fallen woman, and knelt down at her side.

Lockwood clutched my arm. “Forget the ghosts!” he cried. “The bombs! Where’d the bombs come from?”

A squawking lady in furs and silver collided with me; I cursed, shoved her away. I jumped onto a seat, spun around, looking down into the street. There were Visitors here, too, fracturing swiftly in the glare of the ghost-lamps. Around them the crowd bent and crumpled, then tore itself to tatters as it fled in all directions.

“I can’t see anything,” I said. “It’s carnage.”

Lockwood was beside me. “The bombs weren’t thrown from the crowd. Above us….Check the windows.”

I stared at the buildings all around. Rows of windows, black, blank, identical. I couldn’t make out the details of what was inside. High above us, the Fittes and Rotwell balloons dinked and swayed.

“Nothing….”

“Take it from me, Luce. Whoever did it is somewhere up—”