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wearing your fancy new black cloak, Miss Pot Calling the Kettle Black.”
    “Shut up. I like this cloak. It has lots of little pockets sewn inside, and it never tries to take over my brain and make me kill innocent people like my old cloak did.” She looked out the window as the streets became narrower and more tree-lined, the shops going upscale as they headed farther north. They wound through a residential neighborhood where the houses got progressively bigger and set farther back on their lots, as black wrought-iron gates and stone walls rose up to hide the estates from prying eyes. Finally they approached the hill of the Heights, the highest point in the city, providing unobstructed river and bay views for the lucky few houses on its slopes. And the highest house, perched on the ridge, was the Chamberlain’s, a gated mansion of ancient stone surrounded by acres of meticulously landscaped grounds. It was the largest private residence in the city, and the Chamberlain lived there all alone—or so most thought. As far as her ordinary neighbors knew, the Chamberlain—Mrs. Chambers—was an intensely private, incredibly wealthy black woman in an overwhelmingly white neighborhood. There were lots of rumors about her, Marla knew—she was a mad recluse, or she ran a highly exclusive brothel, or she hosted private orgies, or she was a senator’s mistress, or, or, or. Most of the stories weren’t even close to being as weird as the truth.
    Rondeau pulled up to the front gate, and the uniformed attendant sauntered over and leaned down. “Afternoon,” Rondeau said. “Ms. Mason to see the lady of the house.”
    “She’s expected. Go on up. Just park in the driveway.”
    The barrier lifted, and Rondeau eased up the curving road to the house, pulling around a large white fountain to park in the circular driveway. He cut the engine and they sat for a moment, looking up at the house. “It’s like something out of
Jeeves and Wooster,
” Rondeau said at last. “Some English country house-style shit.”
    “It is,” Marla said. “One of the founders of Felport, Randall or Tennyson or something, I forget which, he got rich in the New World and decided to buy himself a lordship back home in England. Except even though he was officially Lord Such-and-such, when he got back to London, people still laughed at him behind his back and called him a jumped-up merchant, so he decided to piss them all off by shipping the big estate out of the country and reassembling it brick by brick in America. Left a big gaping hole in the middle of his newly acquired ancestral lands.”
    “Those old dudes knew how to be spiteful,” Rondeau said, with a certain amount of admiration. “Guess we better go in.”
    Marla got out of the Bentley, and Rondeau followed her up the broad steps. The front doors were enormous, carved wood, with knockers shaped like lions, and Marla was rearing back her foot to kick one in lieu of knocking when someone opened them from the inside.
    The Chamberlain stood in the entryway, beautiful as always, but Marla had never seen her like
this
—her cascade of dark hair tied under a kerchief, her fine gown replaced with an ordinary housedress, and inconceivably, a smudged apron. She was still wearing heels, though. “Welcome to my home, Marla.” She gestured for them to enter, frowning at Rondeau. “Your associate can wait while we discuss things.”
    Marla bristled a little, but then the Chamberlain turned to Rondeau and said, “If you head to the kitchen, I think the cook’s baking, and she may have something sweet for you.”
    “Much obliged.” Rondeau ambled off in search of pastries before Marla could object.
    The Chamberlain cocked her head. “New cloak, I see. Dashing. Does this one make you turn into a giant raven that eats the eyeballs of your enemies, or is it just for looks?”
    “I don’t need a magical cloak to eat the eyeballs of my enemies.”
    The Chamberlain smiled thinly. “I’m glad you