Ptolemy's Gate

George Fox had disguised it with a display of postcards and horse brasses. All the broken chairs and tables had been replaced; the circular burn mark near the door was covered with a rug.
    Mr. Fox gave Kitty a subdued welcome. "Extra work for us tonight, Clara," he said. "Haven't found anyone yet to. . . you know, replace Sam."
    "No, no. Of course not." Kitty's voice was mild, but impotent fury sloshed inside her. She felt she might scream. Grasping a cloth as if it were the neck of a magician, she went about her business.
    Two hours passed; the taproom filled. Men and women huddled at the tables or stood talking quietly by the counter.
    An unenthusiastic darts match began. Kitty pulled drinks behind the bar, lost in her thoughts. She hardly looked up when the door opened, bringing with it a gust of autumn chill.
    As if a switch had just been pushed, or a battery pulled out, all conversation in The Frog suddenly wound down. Sentences were left unfinished, glasses paused en route to open mouths; eyes swiveled, a few heads turned. A dart embedded itself in the plaster wall beside the board. George Fox, who had been bent beside a table chatting, slowly drew himself erect.
    A young man stood there. He shook the rain off his long black coat.
    Kitty saw the newcomer between the heads of nearby customers. Her hand jerked, splashing gin upon the surface of the counter. Her mouth made a little noise.
    The young man removed his gloves. He ran a slender hand through his hair—short, cropped, and flecked with rain—and looked around at the silent room. "Good evening," he said. "Who is the proprietor here?"
    Silence. Shuffling. Then George Fox cleared his throat. "That would be me."
    "Oh, good. A word, please."The request was quietly spoken, but it held the assumption of authority. Everything about the young man did: his coat, his smart black jacket, the ruched white shirt, his patent leather shoes. In his own way he was as alien a figure in the taproom of The Frog as the demon without a face.
    Animosity and fear rippled out around the room in waves. The young man smiled. "If you don't mind."
    George Fox stepped forward. "What can I do for you?"
    The young man was shorter than Mr. Fox by half a head, slim as he was burly. "I believe you have a girl working here," he said. "What is her name?"
    One or two of the customers standing at the counter flicked their eyes at Kitty, who had shrunk back against the cabinet behind the bar. The door to the passage was close: she could slip out, through the kitchens and away.
    Mr. Fox blinked. "Urn, Clara Bell. She's the only girl, since Peggy left. . ." His voice trailed off, was replaced with guarded hostility. "Why? Why do you ask?"
    "Is Clara Bell working here tonight?"
    George Fox hesitated—precisely the answer the young man was expecting. "Good," he said. "Fetch her out." He looked about him. Kitty was concealed behind the patrons standing at the bar. She inched toward the backroom door.
    "Fetch her out," the young man said again.
    Still George Fox did not move; his face was set in stone, his eyes bulging. "Why do you want her?" he repeated stolidly. "Who are you? What do you want with her?"
    "I am not accustomed," the young man said; his voice was tired, "to explaining myself, nor to asking more than once. I am from the government. That should be good enough for any of you here—Oh, sorry! I don't think so—"
    A man sitting near the entrance had slipped from his seat and hurried to the door. He opened it, made to depart. The magician spoke a word and gestured. The man was flung backward bodily into the room, landing hard beside the fireplace. The door slammed shut so hard the brasses rattled on the walls.
    "Not one of you leaves this room until Clara Bell is found." The young man looked testily toward the commoner lying on the floor. "Stop that groaning! You're not injured." He turned back to George Fox. "Well?"
    Kitty was by the backroom door. One of the customers at the bar nodded his head almost imperceptibly. "Go on," he hissed. "Get out."
    The young man tapped a shoe upon the tiles. "It won't surprise you to learn that I have not come to this hovel alone. Unless the girl is brought before me in thirty seconds, I shall issue orders that you will presently regret." He glanced at his watch.
    George Fox looked at the floor. He looked at the ceiling. His hands clenched and unclenched. He tried not to meet the beseeching gazes of the people all around. Lines of weariness and age