Sam and Evie stood in line at the main branch of the New York City post office, watching the large wall clock’s filigreed hand tick off precious minutes. The post office was surprisingly busy. Long lines, and it wasn’t even Christmas. At window number six, a statuesque redhead grew exasperated with the addled clerk, who couldn’t seem to locate her package. “Could you look again, please?” the woman asked in a clipped, slightly British accent. “It was sent parcel post two weeks ago from Miss Felicity Worthington and addressed to Mrs. Rao, Mrs. Gemma Doyle Rao.”

“Excuse me, but aren’t you Sam and Evie?”

Evie turned around. A young woman in a flowered hat beamed at her, excited.

“Guilty!” Evie said, preening.

The woman gasped. “I adore your show! Oh, do you think I could get an autograph for my mother? It would make her so happy, and—”

“Sorry, sis, we’re not in the Sam ’n’ Evie business just now,” Sam said, shutting her up.

“That was rude,” Evie whispered to him through clenched teeth.

“We don’t need the attention right now, Sheba. This is why it’s good not to be famous.”

Evie’s eyebrows shot up. “That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard come out of your lips, Sam Lloyd. And you say a lot of stupid.”

“Next,” the clerk called, waving Sam and Evie over.

“How ya doin’, Pops?” Sam said. “We need some help with an address.”

“No kidding,” the clerk deadpanned without looking up. “Where to?”

“Oh, no, we’re not mailing anything,” Evie said. “We’re curious about an office here in this very building.”

The clerk glared over the top of his glasses. “Two years away from a watch and a pension,” he said with a sigh. “What office is that?”

Sam handed over his mother’s mysterious file. The clerk frowned. He disappeared into the mystical recesses of the post office. A few minutes later, he returned. “Sorry. I can’t help you with that unless you’re with the United States government.”

“What do you mean?” Evie asked.

“That office is restricted. Belongs to the feds. Or it did once. It’s not in use anymore. Sorry.” He handed back the file. “Next!”

“How’re we gonna get back there?” Evie asked as she and Sam walked away from the window.

Sam thought for a minute. “What we need is a distraction. Something that’ll get us a big crowd in here.”

“You want a big crowd?” Evie repeated.

“That’s what I said.”

“I just wanted to be sure. Sometimes you mumble. Here. Sign this.” Evie handed Sam a scrap of paper and a pencil. She signed her name beside his. “Leave it to me.”

Evie pranced past the line of impatient people, swinging her beaded handbag on her arm. The young woman who’d recognized them was at the clerk’s gated window now.

“I am terribly sorry to interrupt,” Evie said, smiling at the woman. “Here’s your autograph, darling.” To the clerk, she said, “I’ve already forgotten—which stamp do we need for the marriage license again?”

The clerk only looked confused, but the girl gasped, then bit her lip.

“On second thought, never mind. I’m sure I’ll find it. Can’t keep the justice of the peace waiting,” she said, winking at the girl.

Humming, Evie tottered away, then hid herself in a spot with a view of the telephone booth.

“Any second now…” Evie said to herself, watching through the fronds of a potted palm.

Their young fan skittered toward the telephone booth, not even bothering to shut its folding door all the way.

“New York Daily Mirror, please,” the young woman shouted into the receiver. “Yes, is this the Daily Mirror? Well! Hold on to your hat, because I’ve got a scoop for you. I’m at the post office, the big one on Eighth Avenue? The Sweetheart Seer and Sam Lloyd are here. They were collecting a marriage license, and I heard them saying something about a justice of the peace. They must be planning to elope!” She paused. “Well, I have no idea why they’d be procuring a marriage license at the post office, but they’re here, and you’d better hurry before they get away!” The girl clicked her finger down on the disconnect bar, then placed another call. “Yes, the Daily News, please…”

Satisfied, Evie sneaked back to Sam under the stairs to wait.

“What did you do, future Mrs. Lloyd?”

Evie grinned. “Good things come to those who wait.”

Sam gave her that lupine grin. “That a promise?” he said, and Evie’s stomach went flippy-floppy again.

They didn’t have to wait long. Within ten minutes, a crew of competing reporters rushed the building. On the street, people took note, and soon the post office was mobbed by New Yorkers excited by the prospect of catching the famous couple trying to elope. Sam peeked out to see police arriving to hold back the sudden swarm of fans. It all had the feel of a friendly riot.

“Is this enough of a distraction for you?” Evie asked.

“Sheba, this is a first-rate confluey.”

The last of the day’s sun streamed in through the high windows and fell across Evie’s face, lighting it up—lips quirked into a smile of amusement, dark blue eyes gone to squinting because she probably needed a pair of cheaters but was far too vain ever to wear them. She was grinning now, really enjoying the spectacle. Sam had spent time traveling with a circus, but being with Evie was its own circus, a real trapeze act. He wanted to do something grand and ridiculous to prove himself to her—like go to Belmont and bet all his money on a horse. Hell, he wanted to buy her the damned horse and name it for her. It was stupid to let a girl get under his skin this way. But he didn’t feel like stopping it.

“What is it?” Evie said, patting at her hair. “Is there something on my face?”

“Yeah. There’s a face on your face.”

Evie rolled her eyes.

“It just so happens to be a really nice face,” he said, and he could swear that he saw Evie blush.

“Over there!” someone in the crowd shouted, but they were looking the wrong way, toward a man and woman walking a small terrier on a leash. The cops shouted and blew their whistles as the crowd broke free, surging toward the other side of the post office and the hapless wrong couple about to be swept up in their frenzy.

“Let’s ankle, Baby Vamp!” Sam reached for Evie’s hand. She clasped her fingers around his, and Sam reveled in the sureness of it as they sneaked down the stairs into the basement, enjoying the sounds of chaos from above. They passed through a large main room where sorting machines hummed and hammered, creating a constant, mechanized thunder. Letters shot down clear tubes and into waiting trolleys to be sorted by postal workers too busy to notice Sam and Evie as they passed through. At last they came to another portion of the post office, which splintered off into a vast warren of drab hallways. The search was starting to feel fruitless when, finally, they came to a set of stairs that led down one more level to a long, cheerless line of office doors.

“B-118, B-120,” Evie called as they walked. They passed several more, and a men’s room. “B-130!” The dark, pebbled window of B-130’s door still bore the ghostly traces of former lettering that read, simply, STATISTICS. “That’s a good way to keep people out—make it sound like a flat tire of a place.”

Sam jangled the doorknob. “Locked.”

“What now?” Evie asked.

“Wait a minute.” Sam fished in his pocket for the key he’d gotten from his contact. He tried it in the lock but it wouldn’t fit. He groaned.

“We could break the glass,” Evie said.

“Last resort. We don’t want anybody to know we were here.” Sam pressed his face to the glass, cupping the sides of his eyes to block the hallway’s glare. He could just make out a shaft of light coming from up high on the right by the lavatory. “Hold on. I’ve got an idea,” Sam said, heading to the men’s room.

“I do not believe that answering the call of nature qualifies as an ‘idea.’”

“Just hold on to your hat for a second,” he said, disappearing inside. A moment later, the men’s room door opened again. Sam leaned out and crooked a finger at Evie.

Evie folded her arms. “You want me to go in there?”

Sam waggled his eyebrows. “Don’t you just love a cozy spot for two, Baby Vamp?”

“There’s nothing more romantic than a row of urinals, Sam, but what’s your plan?” Evie said, following him inside.

“That.” Sam pointed to a small hinged window near the ceiling. “It leads right into office B-130.” Sam laced his fingers together, palms up. “Come on. Upsy-daisy. I’ll give you a boost.”

Evie’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re joking.”

“I used to do this in the circus all the time. Piece of cake.”

“Why do I think that piece of cake is going to be Pineapple Evie-Upside-Down Cake?” Evie grumbled.

“Those shoes look dangerous. Better take ’em off first.”

“I love these shoes more than you, Sam.”

“We’ll come back for them.”

“They’re from Bloomie’s. I’m not leaving them.” Evie slipped off her satin Mary Janes and bit down on the leather straps, letting the shoes dangle from her mouth.

“So that’s what it takes to shut you up!” Sam joked.

“Ah will draaahhph dese on your heeaad. Ah schwearrr Ah weeeal,” Evie managed to say as she stepped onto Sam’s finger bridge and he hoisted her up. Evie grabbed hold of the window as her stockinged feet scrabbled for a hold on the slick white-tiled wall. “Saaam!”

“Hold on!” Sam stepped up into a urinal and wedged his shoulder under Evie for extra leverage.

“Naaah eenufff!” she called, slipping.

“Okay. Then I’m apologizing for this in advance,” Sam said. He placed his hands firmly on her backside, boosting her up. He was glad Evie couldn’t see his grin. “Take your time. I’m good.”

“Saaam, Ah’d kick you if Ahh were’n afraaay you drophh me.”

With a grunt, Evie scrambled through the window and landed with an audible thud on the other side.

“Evie! You jake?” Sam called.

“Yes. Fortunately, there’s a desk by the wall. Sam?”

“Yes, Mutton Chop?”

“Remind me to kick you later.”

“Will do,” Sam said. “Just don’t forget to unlock the door.”

Sam ran around front as Evie opened the door, arms spread wide in a welcoming gesture. “How nice of you to stop by. I think you’re going to love what I’ve done with the place.”

It took a few seconds for Sam’s eyes to adjust to the gloom. He wished he’d brought along a flashlight. “The dust is a nice touch.”

“Isn’t it, though? I had a decorator come in. I said, ‘I’d like something a bit Fall of the House of Usher, but less cheery.’ Honestly, where are we, Sam?”

Not much remained of whatever the U.S. Department of Paranormal had once been. Three desks. A few chairs. An oak file cabinet. Bookcase lined with begrimed volumes of large, rather dull-looking books. An American Eagle Fire Insurance calendar hung from a rusted nail on the wall, left open to April 1917. Beside it was a map of the United States dotted with thumbtacks pressed into towns in every state. Each thumbtack had been assigned a different number: 63, 12, 144, 48, 97.

“What am I looking for?” Evie called, opening and closing desk drawers, where she found nothing but dust balls.

“Anything with the words Project Buffalo on it,” Sam said, marching to the file cabinet. It was locked. “Got a hairpin?”

Evie rummaged in her purse and came up with one, and Sam slipped it into the lock and yanked open the drawer. It was empty. They were all empty.

“Dammit!” Sam punched the side of the cabinet. “Ow,” he said, shaking out his hand.

“What now? There’s nothing here,” Evie said. She and Sam stood at loose ends in the middle of the office.

“I really thought we’d found it,” Sam said quietly, and Evie could tell how disappointed he was. It meant so much to him, and this was the best clue they’d had so far. She looked around for something, anything, that might prove useful.

“Sam…?” Evie said, an idea taking shape.

“Yeah?”

“Didn’t you say you found that letter from Rotke in a book?” Evie nodded at the bookcase.

A flicker of hope quirked Sam’s lips. “Baby Vamp, you’re a genius.”

“Oh, Sam, you’re just saying that because it’s true.”

They dove for the large leather-bound books. Evie swept away a layer of dust. “Ugh. That’s the end of these gloves. ‘The Declaration of Independence.’ Say, I’ve heard of that,” she said. When she opened the book, she found that it had been hollowed out, the pages cut into a ragged box that held two slim glass bottles. Whatever liquid the bottles had contained had long since evaporated, but a crusted blue film remained inside.

“Booze? Perfume?” Evie opened and sniffed one, shaking her head. “Definitely not either.”

“Let’s see what’s inside The Federalist Papers,” Sam said, coughing as the dust spiraled up into his face.

“Looks like an ordinary book,” Evie said. “Not hollow. Any hidden messages?”

On a hunch, Sam turned the book upside down and shook it. Several pieces of paper fluttered to the floor. Sam picked one up. It was a rectangular card with a series of patterned holes punched into it. The other cards were the same except for the typed headings: Subject #12. Subject #48. Subject #77. Subject #12. Subject #63. Subject #144.

“Sam, what are these?” Evie said, turning one of the cards over. “Why are there all these little holes?”

“It’s code.”

“Honestly, Sam, how can this be code? They’re just holes.”

“The holes are the code. Listen, one Christmas, I worked at Macy’s—”

“As an elf?”

“Yeah. I put you down for two lumps of coal,” Sam shot back. “As a punch card operator. We kept information on sales in code. That’s what these cards are—coded files. All these little holes? Information.”

“So how do we get to see that information?”

“They hafta be read by a special machine.”

“You see one of those special machines around here?”

Sam peered into the gloom. “No.”

Evie flipped through the cards again, reading aloud. “Subject number twelve. Subject number forty-eight. Subject number seventy-seven… Wait a minute.” She ran back to the wall, looking from the cards to the map. “These subject numbers correspond to different towns! Why, look—they’re all over the country. Subject number seventy-seven is in…” She searched the map. “Here! South Dakota. And Subject number one forty-four is…” Evie traced a finger to another thumbtack. “Bountiful, Nebraska.”

“Subject number twenty-seven, New Orleans. Subject number twelve, Baltimore…” Sam said.

“How many of these are there?” Evie said, stepping back a bit to take in the whole of the map.

“Don’t know. The highest number we’ve got is one hundred forty-four.”

Evie frowned at the wall. There was a thumbtack stuck into Zenith, Ohio, beside a number. Subject zero.

Footsteps sounded in the hall, coming closer.

“Sam!” she whispered urgently.

“Here. Grab some of these,” Sam whispered back, stuffing some of the punch cards into his vest. “Put ’em in your purse.”

“That’s the first place someone would look.” Evie lifted her skirt and shoved the punch cards into her stocking, under the garter, beside her silver flask. She smoothed her skirt back down. “Were you staring at my legs, Sam Lloyd?”

“Your flask, actually. I’m a sucker for silver,” Sam said, moving to the door.

Evie came up behind him. “What if we get in trouble?” she whispered. “This isn’t like breaking into a pawnshop. We’re trespassing in a government office!”

Sam’s wolf grin was back. “I like it when the stakes are high.”

He opened the door a crack. At the far end of the corridor were two men in gray suits. Their gait was calm but deliberate, and something about it unnerved Sam, though he couldn’t say why. The men seemed out of place—not like postal workers. More like security of some sort. If pressed, Sam could use his skills to disorient the men long enough to get away, but that was an absolute last resort. He liked keeping his divining talent—if that’s what it was—a secret. Secrets were protection.

Evie peered over his shoulder. “Who is that? Police?” she whispered, confirming his gut reaction.

“Don’t know, but they don’t look friendly. Come on. We can’t get out that way,” Sam said, shutting the door. “We’ll have to go out the way we came in.”

“Sam. There’s nothing to catch us on the other side. We could break an ankle. What if those men hear us? What if they want to use the lavatory?”

The footsteps were very close now.

“Maybe they don’t even want this office,” Evie whispered.

“Maybe,” Sam said, but he flipped the latch on the door anyway. The footsteps echoed louder, coming closer, then stopped just outside the office. Sam grabbed Evie’s hand, and they dove under the desk and squeezed in together. The space was tight. Evie could only curl up against Sam. His hand rested on her arm and his mouth was against her neck.

The doorknob rattled, then fell silent. It was followed a few seconds later by the click of a key in the lock. Evie took in a sharp breath.

“Easy, Sheba,” Sam whispered, his breath warm on her skin.

Hallway light spilled across the office floor, then receded as the door was shut again. From their hiding spot under the desk, Evie and Sam could see the gray trouser legs and black shoes of the two men as they moved silently around the abandoned office. File drawers were opened and shut. One of the men stood in front of the desk, very close, and Evie’s heart hammered so hard in her ears, she feared it could be heard plainly. Sam rubbed his thumb in small circles against the inside of her wrist. It was meant as a reassuring gesture, but it sent shivers up her arm and made her head buzzy.

One of the men spoke. His voice was bland, almost soothing. “See anything that looks like a prophecy?”

“Not unless it’s written in dust,” the other man said. His voice was quieter and raspy, like a broken whisper.

Both pairs of shoes faced the wall with the map. “So many chickens to round up.”

The men stood in the gloom a moment longer. The door opened to hallway light, then closed again. The key turned in the lock. The footsteps moved away. Evie turned her head, and Sam’s mouth was a breath away from hers. There was a feeling inside her like bees.

“That was close,” she whispered. Her head was light.

“Yeah. Yeah, it was,” Sam said. Neither of them moved. His hand still cupped her wrist gently.

“I-I suppose we can go now,” Evie said.

“Suppose so,” Sam answered.

“Well,” Evie said, then she crawled out from under the desk and stretched. Sam followed, but he turned away and leaned against the wall for a moment.

“You jake?” Evie asked.

“Sure. Just, um, gimme a minute,” Sam said. He sounded winded. In a second, he turned to her, looking a little flushed, as if he were newly drunk. “I, ah, guess we’d better breeze while we can.”

They started down the long hallway. Sam could still smell a bit of Evie’s perfume on his collar. He gave her a sideways glance just as she looked his way, grinning, clearly invigorated by their shared adventure. And Sam’s heart felt suddenly too big for the cage of his chest.

A janitor came around the corner with his mop and pail, and Evie let out a yelp of surprise. The janitor startled, then narrowed his eyes. “Hey! You’re not supposed to be down here. Who let you in?”

“Gee. We’re awfully sorry, Pops. We were looking for the dead letter office so we could pay our respects,” Sam said, and Evie let out a little snort of laughter, which she covered with a cough. “Guess this isn’t it. Excuse us, won’tcha?”

They sidled past the janitor, holding fast to each other’s hands. Evie’s giggles bubbled up, and that was all it took to make Sam lose his composure.

“You’re not supposed to be down here!” the janitor yelled after them as they broke into a run, both of them laughing hysterically.

By the time Sam and Evie arrived at the Waldorf, the Radio Star people were waiting.

“I’m gonna see if I can scare up one of those punch card–reading machines,” Sam said, smoothing back his thick dark hair and securing his Greek fisherman’s cap in place once more.

“Who do you think those gray-trousered men were?” Evie asked.

“Don’t know. But I got a feeling they weren’t looking for dead letters.”

“Oh! Don’t forget about tomorrow night! Pears soap is very excited that you’re coming on the show with me.”

“Do I hafta?”

“Yes. You do. It’ll only be a few minutes, Sam. Just enough to sell soap and make the advertisers happy, which will make Mr. Phillips happy, which will make me happy.”

“That’s a long chain of happy. Okay, Sheba. I’ll see you at nine.”

“Nothin’ doing. Show’s at nine. You’ll see me at half past eight.”

On the other side of the windows, Mr. Phillips’s secretary waved impatiently to Evie and nodded toward the magazine people.

“I suppose I’d better get in there,” Evie said. She could still feel the lingering ghost of Sam’s touch on her arm.

“Suppose you’d better,” Sam said, without moving.

“Well,” she said.

“Yeah,” Sam said.

“So long, my lovely leprechaun,” Evie called as she backed away.

Sam doffed his hat to her. “So long, Mutton Chop.”

Sam watched through the hotel’s tall front windows as, inside, the photographer had Evie pose with a tennis racket, as if she were pretending to reach for a serve. It was just a photograph, but Evie’s expression was one of fierce concentration, as if she meant to hit that ball out to the stars. Sam knew he should be moving on, but he couldn’t seem to go.

On the road to New York, Sam had spent a wild couple of months with daredevil aviator, Barnstormin’ Belle. He’d liked her plenty, but in the end, he’d left her to chase after Project Buffalo.

“Always thought it would be a plane that’d bring me down someday. Never figured it would be a boy like you,” she’d told him. “Someday, a girl’s gonna break your heart. Let me know when it happens. I’d like to send her a thank-you note,” she’d said, slapping a pair of aviator goggles over eyes glistening with tears. “Scram, Flyboy. I got a show to do.”

Sam had a skill that often let him take what he needed. But you couldn’t do that with love. It had to be given. Shared.

Through the window, Evie saw him. She made a funny face—a silly gesture—and Sam felt it deep inside.

“Don’t get soft, Sergei,” he muttered to himself.

The uniformed doorman approached Sam. “May I help you, sir?” he said, letting Sam know he’d worn out his sidewalk welcome.

“Pal,” Sam said, giving Evie one last, longing look, “I really wish you could.”