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depositing me on one of the slashed-open cushions, he sat down next to me, arm at the ready to catch me if I toppled off. His sturdy presence was as reassuring as the light scents of his cologne and fresh linen, but his face was drawn.
    “A month. Maybe two.” Nic stumbled in after us and felt his way to the desk. “Her ventriculator is already outmoded,” he added as he rummaged in the drawers. “It was only a prototype to beginwith, and the doctors aren’t certain how much longer it will function. Warwick was developing a new Ticker for her when he was arrested.”
    The sharp reek of ammonia carbonate cleared the rest of the fog from my head. Indeed, I could just make out the label under my very nose.
    T HE BESTSELLING OF ALL THE PATENT FAINTING MEDICATIONS!
D OCTOR A BSALOM ’ S O LFACTORY I RRITANT IS GUARANTEED TO ROUSE EVEN THE MOST RELUCTANT OF PATIENTS FROM THE DEEPEST OF DIZZY SPELLS
OR YOUR MONEY BACK!
    My head recoiled, as though I’d been slapped, and several things came into rapid focus: the concern on my brother’s face, the stranger’s uniform of charcoal wool, the fact that I had just been attacked, and then saved, by a soldier.
    “I’m afraid you still have me at a disadvantage, sir,” I said.
    “Marcus Kingsley,” he said, offering me a small nod. “Proprietor and Legatus legionus of the Ferrum Viriae.”
    Thoroughly taken aback by the introduction, I blinked. We’d never met socially or professionally, but anyone with an eye to the broadsheets knew the Kingsley name. Marcus only recently inherited the military empire; still, it was common knowledge that disarming any member of Ferrum Viriae required stealth, cunning, and heavy artillery if one wished to avoid precipitous termination.
    For the moment, though, I was alive and fairly tingling with it. As was he, it would seem, from the flakes of brilliant scarlet that painted his cheekbones. I struggled to sit up, not wanting him to have the advantage of looking down at me in any way.
    “Thank you for coming to my aid,” I said, “but could you explain exactly what you are doing skulking about our home when you ought to be supervising your soldiers at the courthouse?”
    Though only nineteen or twenty, Marcus wore the air of a much older person the same way he wore his uniform: with excessive amounts of starch. He replied slowly, as though ironing out every word to perfect crispness. “Seconds after we received word about the factory explosion, one of your neighbors called in a burglary. The moment I heard it was Glasshouse, I put my second-in-command in charge and came to investigate. Tensions are running high in the city because of the trial, and against my advice, your family refused a protective detail. Where are your parents?”
    A masculine shout of “Penny?” came from the front door followed by a louder, feminine “Nic, where are you?” from the hall. Violet and Sebastian charged into the study, skidding to a halt several feet away. There was a lot for them to take in, what with the house in disarray, a bloodied and battered Nic squinting at them, the collar of my bodice ripped away from my neck, and Marcus Kingsley sitting next to me on the chaise.
    “Gracious, Nic,” Violet said, striding toward him as she yanked off her gloves. Taking his face in her hands, she turned him toward the light. “You look as though you’ve had quite the time of it this morning.”
    “And it isn’t even luncheon yet.” Nic tried to smile but only achieved a grimace.
    Standing, he allowed himself the small luxury of putting his arms about her and resting his head atop hers. With my breath still rattling in my lungs, I realized that if I was a cookie crumbling before his very eyes, Violet was a ship’s biscuit: sturdy and in no need of coddling. Ever prepared, she pulled a spare pair of Nic’s glasses from her reticule.
    “Stirling,” Marcus said, rising from the chaise to offer his hand in greeting.
    “Kingsley.” Struggling to