I passed an older couple closing up a late-night pastry stand and asked if they knew where Grant’s store was. I used a Belsian accent. It hid my Sirminican one but was easy for Osfridians to understand.

   “Lots of those stores these days,” the old woman told me. “Everyone wants to go off into the wilderness and strike it rich.”

   “One of the proprietors is Elliott,” I said.

   Her husband scratched his head. “Oh. Winslow and Elliott. Over on Broad Street. Are they still alive?”

   “Well, their store’s still open,” the woman replied.

   “I haven’t seen a Winslow or Elliott there in years,” he argued. “I don’t think there’s ever even been an Elliott.”

   “There’s an Elliott there now,” I said. “Just returned from Osfro.” Grant had told me a little of the cover story. It was a legitimate business, and Winslow, the original founder, had retired and managed it from afar through proxies. As a loyal subject and friend to the McGraw Agency, he’d made an arrangement with Silas to set up Grant as a faux co-owner.

   “Well, there you have it,” said the wife. “Now just take Central over there two blocks to Broad and turn right. You can’t miss it.”

   “They’re probably closed,” her husband pointed out.

   I repressed a groan. There was a good chance he was right, and if so, how would I find Grant? I thought back to Silas Garrett’s letter. “What about Percival and Son’s Clothiers? Do you know where that is?”

   The man brightened. “You mean Percy the tailor? Oh, sure.”

   They gave me those directions too, but I stopped by Grant’s store first, just in case he worked late hours. The stenciled WINSLOW & ELLIOTT sign stood out prominently—as did another reading CLOSED. Feeling a little less sure of myself, I took the street to the tailor’s shop and hoped for better luck.

   But it too was closed. I sighed. Either Silas didn’t really live there or he was out on the town. Looking up, I saw that all of the businesses had second floors. A few windows were dark, but most were lit up. Like the one above the tailor’s. Mundane businesses open this late? No, I realized, spying a narrow staircase that led up to a walkway around the second story. The lower floor was commercial space, the upper one residential. I followed the stairs up and knocked on the door directly above the tailor’s shop.

   An older man opened it, his hair streaked with gray and skin wizened from the sun. He raised one bushy eyebrow upon seeing me, and I suddenly wondered what I would do if my hunch had been wrong. An outcry from behind the man, however, told me I had found the right place.

   “You have got to be kidding me. Get her in before somebody sees her.”

   The older man grunted and stepped aside, his eyes watchful and shrewd. Grant strode toward me with an expression I knew well. In work trousers and a barely tucked-in shirt, he was a much more casual version of the proper passenger aboard the Good Hope. His hair was about the same.

   “Too late,” I said, as the door shut behind me. “Plenty of people saw me. But no one recognized me.”

   “I recognized you in two seconds. Take that off. You’re a terrible blonde.”

   The other man strolled over, hands stuffed in his pockets. “Always so genteel, Grant. Glad to see Osfro didn’t change you. Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”

   Grant waved vaguely in my direction. “Yes, yes. Mirabel Viana, Silas Garrett. Silas, Mirabel.”

   A small mirror on the wall showed that I didn’t make a terrible blonde. I could pass for an Osfridian—or a Belsian—more than I’d expected.

   I took the wig and mask off and shook Silas’s hand. “It’s nice to meet you. And you can call me Mira.”

   Silas’s expression didn’t change much, but that eyebrow rose once more as he studied my face. In a mild tone, he remarked, “The boy’s right for once. That wig is holding you back.”

   “What do you mean, ‘for once’?”

   “What is she doing here?” Silas asked in return.

   “Good question.” Grant’s gaze swiveled back to me. “You know the asset arrangement. You aren’t supposed to come to me.”

   “Asset?” Silas’s other eyebrow rose. “Since when are you running assets?”

   I shot him a nervous glance before answering Grant. “Aiana wasn’t around.”

   “Are you one of those Glittering Court girls?” Silas’s incredulity grew as he kept looking between Grant and me. “Do you have her and Aiana both involved in this? Are you out of your mind?”

   It was the first time I’d ever seen Grant look even a little intimidated. “She’ll run into most of our suspects. She gets the info, Aiana brings it to us. It’s perfect.”

   “Nothing about this is perfect,” said Silas.

   “And she wouldn’t be here if there wasn’t a good reason,” added Grant pointedly. Almost hopefully.

   I swallowed, a bit taken aback as both men turned their attention on me. Silas had a different type of forcefulness than Grant did. A lot of Grant’s just came from his own self-assurance and disregard for social niceties. Silas radiated authority, despite his deceivingly mild exterior. His presence filled up a room. I could understand how he ran the McGraw Agency in the colonies.

   I steeled myself as I met his eyes. “Theodore Craft was in our house today and mentioned that he was going to Bakerston tomorrow. That it was important and couldn’t be rescheduled.”

   Silence fell. Neither man said or did anything, and I began to feel stupid. The words I’d just uttered seemed so trite. So insignificant. I’d just delivered a meaningless piece of trivia.

   At last, Silas threw his arms up in the air and stalked away from us. “Damn it!”