The Amulet of Samarkand

around. Nathaniel stepped in smartly after them and closed and locked the door.
    The boy was out cold, so Nathaniel met no resistance when he took his clothes. He had infinitely more difficulty in gathering up the canapés, which had scattered and smeared themselves in every crack and cranny of the washroom. The cheese was soft and could often be shoveled back onto the pastry, but it was not always possible to resurrect the prawns.
    When he had arranged the platters as best he could, he tore his grocer's shirt into strips and bound and gagged the boy. Then he pulled him into one of the cubicles, locked the door on the inside, and clambered out over the top by balancing on the toilet tank.
    With the evidence safely hidden, Nathaniel straightened his uniform in the mirror, balanced the platter upon his head, and left the washroom. Reasoning that anything worth discovering was unlikely to be in the servants' quarters, he retraced his steps and set off up the staircase.
    Various servants hurried past in both directions, carrying trays and crates of bottles, but no one challenged him.
    At the top of the stairs, a door opened onto a hallway, lit by a row of high, arched windows. The flooring was polished marble, covered at intervals by richly woven carpets from Persia and the East. Alabaster busts, depicting great leaders of past ages, sat in special niches along the whitewashed walls. The whole effect, even in the weak winter sunlight, was one of dazzling brightness.
     
    Nathaniel passed along the hall, keeping his eyes peeled.
    Ahead he heard loud, laughing voices raised in greeting. He thought it wisest to avoid them. An open side door showed a flash of books. He stepped through into a beautiful circular library, which rose through two full stories to a glass dome in the roof. A spiral staircase wound up to a metal walkway circling the wall far above his head. On one side, great glass doors with windows above them looked out onto the lawns and a distant ornamental lake. Every other inch of wall was covered with books: large, expensive, ancient, collected from cities all over the world. Nathaniel's heart skipped a beat in wonder. One day he too would have a library like this....
    "What do you think you're doing?" A panel of books had swung to one side, revealing a door opposite him. A young woman stood there, dark-haired and frowning. For some reason, she reminded him of Ms. Lutyens; his initiative failed him: he opened and shut his mouth aimlessly.
    The woman strode forward. She wore an elegant dress, jewels flashed at her slender throat. Nathaniel collected himself. "Erm... would you like a prawn thing?"
    "Who are you? I've not seen you before." Her voice was hard as flint.
    He cudgeled his brain into action. "I'm John Squalls, ma'am. I helped my father deliver some supplies to you this morning. Only the pageboy's been taken ill, just now, ma'am, and they asked if I could help out. Didn't want you to be short-staffed on an important day like this. Looks as if I took a wrong turning, not being familiar—"
    "That'll do." She was still hostile; her narrowed eyes scanned the platter. "Look at the state of these! How dare you bring such—"
    "Amanda!" A young man had followed her into the library. "There you are— and thank goodness, food! Let me at it!" He plunged past her and seized three or four of the most forlorn canapés from Nathaniel's silver dish.
    "Absolute lifesaver! Famishing journey from London. Mmm, there's a prawn on this one." He chewed heartily. "Interesting flavor. Very fresh. So tell me, Amanda... is it true about you and Lovelace? Everyone's been talking...."
    Amanda Cathcart began a tinkling little laugh, then gestured curtly at Nathaniel. "You—get out and serve those in the entrance hall. And prepare the next ones better."
    "Yes, ma'am." Nathaniel bowed slightly, as he had seen the parliamentary servants do, and exited the library.
    It had been a close shave, and his heart was beating fast, but his mind was calm. The guilt that had beset him after the fire had now hardened into a cold acceptance of his situation. Mrs. Underwood had died because he had stolen the Amulet. She had died; Nathaniel had survived. So be it. Now he would destroy Lovelace in his turn. He knew the likelihood was that he would not survive the day. This did not worry him. The odds were stacked in his enemy's favor, but that was the way it should be. He would succeed, or die trying.
     
    A certain heroism in this equation