As the maid undertook the trudging journey back down the stairs, the door began the process of whining shut, taking its time about the matter and complaining shrilly each instant. The youth reached with an impatient boot heel to hasten the progression to its end; the door clicked shut; and Katarina Rasmirovna and Maxwell Carrington looked at each other.
“What are you doing here?” he greeted her.
She raised her eyebrows at him under the stovepipe hat. “Looking for you, and you didn’t make it easy.” She took off her hat, a symbolic divestment of disguise—but removing it seemed to strip off her armor of detachment as well, and she was unable to hide the worry that had been swelling in volume within her for months. “So? Did it—?”
“Yes,” Maxwell said. “It worked.”
Katarina let out a hard br
