account.”
“Because laundresses didn’t have bank accounts,” Molly said, a little angrily. “Why are you so eager to think the worst of my family?”
“But was she still a laundress? The trial’s thirty years after she joined the Order of the Labyrinth. A lot could have happened in that time. For one thing, she seems to speak like a lady now.”
“She still has the same last name, though.”
“Quiet, the both of you,” the librarian said. “Another word and I’ll have to show you the door.”
“The letters!” Molly said. The librarian started toward them. “Sorry, sorry,” she said.
She scrolled quickly through the fiche to the letters page. The Times had devoted far more space to letters about Binder’s suit that it had to the suit itself. There were dozens of them, and the one Swafford-Brown had quoted was not the worst. “Lunacy,” “folly,” “extraordinary gullibility,” some of the writers said.
“Poor Emily,” Molly whispered.
On August 25 there was an answer from Lord Sanderson. “It is always easy to ridicule secrets and rituals that are incapable of immediate interpretation. Unfortunately it is far more difficult to understand these rituals with the proper questing spirit. We regret that these mysteries of our Order have been made public.”
“Look,” Molly whispered, pointing to the bottom of Sanderson’s letter. “25, Sibylline Crescent,” it said. “Could the Sandersons still be there? Eighty-five years later?”
John shrugged. “Maybe,” he said.
She rewound the fiche and put it back. The librarian glared at them as they left. Molly blew him a kiss.
They bought a London A-Z at a corner shop and looked up Sibylline Crescent, then caught a taxi. Molly had expected a manor as imposing as the Westingates’, but the taxi dropped them off in a part of town that reminded her a little of Berkeley. She saw small bookstores, record stores, take-out vegetarian restaurants, people wearing torn black clothing with their hair dyed in a dozen colors, blue, pink, purple, white. Loud reggae music came from a street market on the corner.
“Where are we?” Molly asked.
John looked at their map. “It’s called Camden Town,” he said.
“And the Sandersons lived here? It’s not quite what I expected from Emily’s description.”
“It could have changed over the years. Or Emily could have made a lot of it up.”
“There you go again.”
John didn’t answer. He walked to the corner and turned at Sibylline Crescent.
“Over here,” Molly said from the other side of the street. “This is twenty-five. And look.” She pointed.
She had stopped at a plain storefront. The front windows were soaped over, but three smaller windows above them were still clear. Two were blank. The middle one said:
RUE AND ANT
OF THE LAB
N BRANCH
“Rue and Ant?” John said.
“The True and Antient Order of the Labyrinth,” Molly said slowly, working it out. “London Branch?”
“Or Camden Town Branch. Maybe they had branches all over—maybe they were bigger than we thought.”
“I bet this is Harrison’s second house in London, the one Swafford-Brown mentions. Swafford-Brown must have seen the address in the Times and didn’t bother to go there himself. If he had he’d have known it was a storefront.”
Molly went to the front door and knocked. No one answered. She turned the knob. To her surprise it opened. “Careful,” John said behind her.
The shop was empty, dimly lit by the three top windows. The hardwood floor was scuffed and streaked with white paint. Dust circled in the wind from the doorway. “Hello?” Molly said. Her voice echoed in the bare room. “Hello!”
John moved to one of the corners. A light shone from another doorway. Molly went over to it.
A man lay slumped against the wall halfway down a corridor. Beside him was an overturned flat racing cap. Molly put her hand to her mouth.
“John!” she said.
“Don’t touch anything,” John said, coming over
“Because laundresses didn’t have bank accounts,” Molly said, a little angrily. “Why are you so eager to think the worst of my family?”
“But was she still a laundress? The trial’s thirty years after she joined the Order of the Labyrinth. A lot could have happened in that time. For one thing, she seems to speak like a lady now.”
“She still has the same last name, though.”
“Quiet, the both of you,” the librarian said. “Another word and I’ll have to show you the door.”
“The letters!” Molly said. The librarian started toward them. “Sorry, sorry,” she said.
She scrolled quickly through the fiche to the letters page. The Times had devoted far more space to letters about Binder’s suit that it had to the suit itself. There were dozens of them, and the one Swafford-Brown had quoted was not the worst. “Lunacy,” “folly,” “extraordinary gullibility,” some of the writers said.
“Poor Emily,” Molly whispered.
On August 25 there was an answer from Lord Sanderson. “It is always easy to ridicule secrets and rituals that are incapable of immediate interpretation. Unfortunately it is far more difficult to understand these rituals with the proper questing spirit. We regret that these mysteries of our Order have been made public.”
“Look,” Molly whispered, pointing to the bottom of Sanderson’s letter. “25, Sibylline Crescent,” it said. “Could the Sandersons still be there? Eighty-five years later?”
John shrugged. “Maybe,” he said.
She rewound the fiche and put it back. The librarian glared at them as they left. Molly blew him a kiss.
They bought a London A-Z at a corner shop and looked up Sibylline Crescent, then caught a taxi. Molly had expected a manor as imposing as the Westingates’, but the taxi dropped them off in a part of town that reminded her a little of Berkeley. She saw small bookstores, record stores, take-out vegetarian restaurants, people wearing torn black clothing with their hair dyed in a dozen colors, blue, pink, purple, white. Loud reggae music came from a street market on the corner.
“Where are we?” Molly asked.
John looked at their map. “It’s called Camden Town,” he said.
“And the Sandersons lived here? It’s not quite what I expected from Emily’s description.”
“It could have changed over the years. Or Emily could have made a lot of it up.”
“There you go again.”
John didn’t answer. He walked to the corner and turned at Sibylline Crescent.
“Over here,” Molly said from the other side of the street. “This is twenty-five. And look.” She pointed.
She had stopped at a plain storefront. The front windows were soaped over, but three smaller windows above them were still clear. Two were blank. The middle one said:
RUE AND ANT
OF THE LAB
N BRANCH
“Rue and Ant?” John said.
“The True and Antient Order of the Labyrinth,” Molly said slowly, working it out. “London Branch?”
“Or Camden Town Branch. Maybe they had branches all over—maybe they were bigger than we thought.”
“I bet this is Harrison’s second house in London, the one Swafford-Brown mentions. Swafford-Brown must have seen the address in the Times and didn’t bother to go there himself. If he had he’d have known it was a storefront.”
Molly went to the front door and knocked. No one answered. She turned the knob. To her surprise it opened. “Careful,” John said behind her.
The shop was empty, dimly lit by the three top windows. The hardwood floor was scuffed and streaked with white paint. Dust circled in the wind from the doorway. “Hello?” Molly said. Her voice echoed in the bare room. “Hello!”
John moved to one of the corners. A light shone from another doorway. Molly went over to it.
A man lay slumped against the wall halfway down a corridor. Beside him was an overturned flat racing cap. Molly put her hand to her mouth.
“John!” she said.
“Don’t touch anything,” John said, coming over
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