“We are not discussing anything here,” Vance said.

He nodded to the two agents behind him.

“Please step away from the desk, Mrs. Sterling.”

Below us, the murmurs of the guests grew into a distinct roar of conversation.

The music had completely died away.

I could hear the clinking of champagne glasses being set down on silver trays.

“They are waiting for you downstairs, Miranda,” Elias said, his cane tapping once against the floor.

“The whole of Chicago.”

Miranda looked at me then.

The hatred in her eyes was cold and sharp.

“You,” she hissed. “A common maid.”

“I was never just a maid, Miranda,” I said.

“I was a Cross.”

The agents moved in, one of them taking Miranda gently but firmly by the elbow.

“This way, please,” the agent said.

She did not struggle, but she pulled her arm back.

“Do not touch me,” she said.

She straightened her spine, trying to salvage whatever dignity she had left.

We walked out of the library and onto the wide, carpeted landing.

The grand staircase lay before us, curving down into the bright foyer.