The letter arrived at the Crystal Palace on the second day of the Exposition, delivered to their exhibition space by a messenger in neutral livery — not Valois, not Beaumont, not any house she recognized, which was itself a kind of signature.

Raymond handed it to her without comment. He had been present when it arrived and had read the exterior — *Miss de Monet, personal* — and had set it on the equipment table and returned to the compound verification he had been doing when it arrived. The act of setting it down and returning to work was, she understood, his version of not opening someone else's correspondence: a deliberate leaving of the thing in her domain.

She opened it.

One page. Leonard's handwriting, which was the handwriting of someone who had been taught to write carefully and had practiced writing efficiently and had achieved a style that was both. Short paragraphs. The tone of someone who had decided to be direct and was being direct with some effort.

*I believe you should know this before someone else tells you. I have been conducting my own investigation into the source of the technical information that reached both Voss and the press. My findings are not complete. But they are sufficient that you deserve to be informed. Please meet me at a time of your choosing. I have no further offers to make. This is a different conversation.*

She read it twice.

"Leonard," she told Raymond.

"I know," he said, from the compound station. "The handwriting."

"He says he has information about the source of the leaks. That his investigation is incomplete but sufficient." She set the letter down. "He says he has no further offers."

"People who have no further offers to make generally mean one of two things," Raymond said, still working. "They've lost and are offering intelligence as a consolation, or they've found something and consider the intelligence worth more to them as a gift than as leverage."

"Which do you think?"

He was quiet for a moment. "Leonard has been consistent in one thing throughout all of this: he genuinely believes he's acting in your interest. He's been wrong about what serves your interest, but the belief appears to be real." A pause. "If he found something that changes the picture significantly, he'd tell you because he'd think you should know. Not because he's lost. Because that's who he is."

She thought about this assessment — about what it meant to have Raymond, who was extremely good at reading people, reach this conclusion about someone who had been a consistent adversary.

"We'll go together," she said.

"Yes."

They met Leonard in a private room at the hotel adjacent to the Crystal Palace, the kind of room hotels maintained for conversations that were not suited to lobbies. Leonard was already there — the waiting posture again, the one she had read at the auction house, but with a different quality. Less managed. He looked, she thought, like someone who had been carrying something unwieldy and had decided to set it down regardless of where it landed.

He looked at Raymond when they came in. His expression was not the calculating expression he usually brought to interactions with Raymond — it was simpler than that, the expression of someone who had arrived at a reassessment and had not yet finished integrating it.

"Mr. Vance," he said. "I'm glad you're here. What I have to tell you is also relevant to you."

Raymond sat. She sat. Leonard sat.

"I began investigating the information leak three weeks ago," Leonard said. "Not for the reasons you might assume. I was —" He paused. "I was concerned that the level of specific technical information that had reached both Voss and the Cronaca Mondana was beyond what should have been possible through the channels I knew about. It suggested a source closer to the project than I had believed Viviane had access to."

"Why did that concern you?" she asked.

"Because I don't work with people who use that kind of source," he said flatly. "I work with competitive intelligence. Not with the personal vulnerabilities of individuals. When I understood what Viviane had been using, I —" Another pause. "I understood that I had misread the nature of the operation I was associated with."

She looked at him. This was, she thought, either genuine or the most sophisticated performance she had encountered, and she had encountered sophisticated performances.

"The source," Raymond said.

Leonard looked at him. "A man named Auguste Bellamy. He has been receiving financial support from Viviane's household accounts for approximately twenty-two months. He has contacts in your professional network" — looking at Adeline — "including the Genoese supplier. The technical information about the compound housing reached Voss through this channel. The personal information about —" He hesitated. "About Miss de Monet's psychological history reached Viviane through the same channel, though I believe the personal information was provided without the provider understanding its intended use."

The room was very still.

Adeline was aware of Raymond beside her. Not looking at her — looking at Leonard, reading the situation with the precision he brought to everything. She was aware of his stillness, which was not the controlled stillness but the stillness of someone receiving information and processing it carefully before responding.

She was also aware of her own response, which was doing something complex.

Auguste.

The name landed in the place where she had been carrying the wound for twelve years and did something she had not expected: it did not rupture the wound. It found the wound and sat beside it and was simply there, another piece of information, another thing that had happened that required integration.

She thought: I will need to see him.

She thought: not yet.

She thought: Raymond doesn't know I'm already deciding to go alone, and I need to not do that, and I am doing it anyway, and I need to notice that I'm doing it and stop.

"Thank you," she said to Leonard. "For telling us."

Leonard looked at her with the expression of someone who had expected more reaction than he was getting, which she understood as a reasonable expectation that she was not going to meet right now. "I'm sorry," he said. "For the way I've handled all of this. I understood it as a business situation. It wasn't only that."

"No," she said. "It wasn't only that."

They left the hotel. The Crystal Palace was visible from the street, its glass catching the afternoon light in the way it always caught the afternoon light, relentlessly and impartially, because glass did not make distinctions between the light it was given.

Raymond walked beside her in silence for half a block. Then: "You're already deciding to go see him."

She stopped walking.

He stopped beside her. He was not looking at her — looking at the Crystal Palace, the glass and iron of it, the vast patient structure.

"Yes," she said.

"Alone."

She did not answer immediately, which was itself an answer.

"Adeline," he said. Still not looking at her. "I know why. I'm not asking you not to. I'm asking you to know you're doing it." A pause. "And to tell me when you're going."

She stood on the street outside the Crystal Palace and acknowledged to herself, fully and without qualification, that she had been about to revert to the pattern. That the information about Auguste had activated the wound in the specific way that activated the oldest response: handle it alone, don't let anyone see the handling, emerge on the other side as if the handling had never needed to happen.

"Tomorrow morning," she said. "Before the gallery opens. I'll tell you before I go."

He nodded once.

They walked back into the Crystal Palace and through the gallery to their exhibition space, and the afternoon continued, and the second day of the Exposition was everything the second day of an Exposition was: busy and loud and full of people and somehow, inside all of that, also the space in which two people were navigating something quiet and important.