“I do not wish to try,” she said. “I do not wish to have my image . . . trapped.”

“Come, come, Miss Goodgrave,” Dr. Silk said in a cajoling voice. “It is harmless. No one will view it except Mr. Stamwell, unless you wish it.”

“When it is done, I will wrap it so no one else can see it,” Stamwell said.

“If she does not wish it, she does not wish it,” Cade said.

“As your host, I insist you indulge me.” Dr. Silk said it while smiling, but his smile was underlain with threat.

“She does not—” Cade began.

“The other ladies have enjoyed having their portraits made and have shown gratitude,” Dr. Silk said.

Karigan sensed Cade’s increasing tension, and that the conversation was about to escalate into an argument. She placed her hand on his arm to still him. Arguing with Dr. Silk would not end well. He was an important man, a dangerous man, and already the professor’s enemy. And the professor’s student, a young man of low status, could be harmed in many ways by someone of the doctor’s ilk. She suspected that the very least damage he could inflict on Cade was to disrupt his education at the university, although Dr. Silk was capable of doing far worse to anyone who displeased him.

It was also possible that strenuous refusals—whether from her or on her behalf—would only rouse the doctor’s suspicions further. When it came down to it, making him angry seemed more dangerous than revealing her face. As for Mr. Hadley? Well, he was nowhere in sight, and in any case, the professor could handle him.

She glanced at the wooden box with the lens. On a whole other level, she couldn’t help but be curious about this image-trapping business, and she wondered what her portrait might look like. “You promise not to show my image to any other?” she asked Stamwell. Not that she would wholeheartedly believe any such promise, but she had to keep up pretenses.

“As you wish, Miss Goodgrave,” he said and bowed.

“Very well, I will allow it.”

“But Miss Goodgrave—” Cade began.

“I have made up my mind, Mr. Harlowe.”

His expression turned stony, but he did not argue further.

“I am delighted,” Dr. Silk said with an air of victory. “You will not be disappointed.”

“Miss Goodgrave, please be seated,” Stamwell said.

“Will I feel anything?” Karigan asked.

“No, nothing at all. Now, if you would be so kind as to remove your veil.”

“Just a moment,” Cade said. “Dr. Silk?”

Dr. Silk raised his eyebrows expectantly.

“As Miss Goodgrave is about to remove her veil, I ask, as her chaperone, entrusted by her uncle, that you please step outside.”

Anger flickered across Dr. Silk’s face, and then it was gone. He was clearly unused to being told what to do, but he did not protest. He simply bowed and slipped out between the curtains. The fact that he did not argue indicated to Karigan that he intended to see the portrait later.

She sat through the process as Cade had, wondering if Yates were nearby. Perhaps she was sitting on him? Would she know? Not a reassuring thought. Although she must remain still for only half a minute, her nose tickled, and it was difficult to resist rubbing it or shifting her position. The neck brace kept her from moving her head, which just made her want to move it more. She could have sworn she felt a cold touch on her shoulder—Yates? These, however, were the only discomforts she experienced. She did not feel any of her essence being drawn out to be trapped in Stamwell’s box. She felt nothing at all, just as he promised. When it was done, Stamwell assured them he’d have the portraits prepared for them before their departure.

They thanked him, and before leaving the curtained area Karigan once more dropped her veil over her face. Outside, Dr. Silk was nowhere to be seen. The clamor of the music steamer faded away, and its absence left behind a deafening silence. On a high daïs in the center of the ring, a brawny man in balloon trousers and a feathered headdress swung a mallet against a gong. The chatter of guests died away as the tone of the gong reverberated throughout the big top. The ringmaster mounted the daïs and shouted in his well-practiced voice through a speaking horn, “Ladies and gentlemen, dinner is served!”

Karigan saw no food, no tables, no chairs. Where were they supposed to dine if not here in the big top? But then tables did appear. They trundled in through the main entrance, covered with white cloths and all set with plates and silver. That was to say, she saw them trundle in by themselves, rolling in on iron wheels under their own power, and without anyone to guide them.

PERFORMANCES OF DESECRATION

A murmur arose among the guests. Even they, the people of this time, were surprised and astonished by this display of apparently autonomous tables. Click-clack-click-clack. They kept rolling in until they arranged themselves into two straight lines across the ring. When they halted, servants swooped in with chairs and helped seat guests. No few of them peeked under the tablecloths to discover the secret of the tables.

“How’d they do that?” Karigan whispered to Cade as they were seated.

“I’m not sure,” Cade said, his forehead creased, but others were murmuring about etherea and etherea engines.

She peeked under the tablecloth but saw nothing more than the undercarriage and wheels.

“Etherea,” she muttered. But magic was dead here, wasn’t it?

“A tremendous waste of it,” Cade whispered. “Just to impress us lowly citizens of Mill City.”