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Gypsy was behind it.”
    “I see.”
    “Now I’ve told you everything I know,” she said, smoothing down her redingote and trying to sound pleasant again. “Won’t you come back to my rooms, Elise? Let me spoil you for an hour or two.”
    Corbeau regarded her for a long moment. Sophie had passed her some good information, though she’d had to argue it out of her. She was also disturbed by how close Sophie seemed to be to the situation. If this were only a bit of tittle-tattle she’d picked up here and there, she’d have no cause to get so worked up over it. And she was far too impressed with Madame Boucher to be entirely objective.
    On the other hand, there was a chance that, given time and the proper inducements, Sophie might remember something more. Corbeau’s head pounded. Sophie laid a hand on her forearm.
    “And later, if you’re really interested, I might be persuaded to tell you where the Divine Spark is meeting this very night.”
    Corbeau snapped to attention. A look of victory crossed Sophie’s face, and she covered Corbeau’s hand with her own.
    “You wouldn’t lie about something like that.”
    “Never.”
    Corbeau exhaled heavily. Most agents persuaded their informants with coin. Of course with Sophie, she was never sure who was bribing whom. She lifted Sophie’s palm to her lips. “Just this once. I mean it. I’ll be by in a couple of hours, but right now I have something to take care of.”

Chapter Five
     
    Maria had awakened before the rain. The early hours of that cold November morning had greeted her with darkness, chill, and the tingling, metallic smell that always reminded her of blood. There had been too much blood, hers and other people’s, spilled over stupid things recently. And violence had followed her all her life—which is why she had sat up in her narrow bed, beneath the sloping ceiling of her converted attic bedroom on the Rue des Rosiers, and resigned herself to the new day even before it had truly begun. Violence was coming. It was no time to be lazy.
    Pulling a quilted velvet robe over her nightdress, she padded toward the stairs. The robe had been one of her first purchases in Paris. One of her only luxuries. Spending half her life up to her elbows in metal and grease, and the other half on the run, left little room for nice things. Still, the robe was comfortable and soundly made. It had served her well.
    She navigated the stairwell one-eyed and in the dark. The loss of both depth perception and light made even a well-traveled staircase treacherous. She went slowly.
    Her home was modest, and the common areas were tidy—although since Hermine had driven her business away, the areas that once welcomed visitors were gradually but inexorably giving way to her research. And research was messy. The hallway, though, remained sparse: a few icons on the walls—more to remind her of home than for the sake of any religious sentiment—and a lamp on a spindly table. But the front room, which she had once kept neat for her customers, was now a shambling, cluttered extension of her basement lab.
    She took the hall lamp from its stand, lit it, and set it on the edge of the desk before the front window. Her Eye was on the table, where she’d left it before retiring. Despite the soft leather band, the apparatus was heavy, and by the end of the day, she was ready to sacrifice sight just to be rid of it. She carefully wiped clean the smooth skin the doctors had pulled over the naked socket. Chief Inspector Vautrin hadn’t realized the Gypsy to whom he was teaching a lesson had official sanction to be in Paris. The physician he’d summoned had done a good job covering the damage, but Maria was still waiting for an apology.
    She wiped the woven metal that sat between the device and her skin, then buckled the band around her head. The cool mesh met her face with its usual electrical sizzle. She was accustomed to the sensation by now, but it was never comfortable. The Eye clicked and