The last time they had seen the house, it had been night, and it had been swarming with half-seen beasts. Now it stood tall and quiet in the cold autumn air, the sun throwing stripes across the roofs from the many chimneys.

The boys faced it across the lawns. Somehow, they had to get in.

“Think the best way is through the kitchen?” Gregory asked.

Brian shrugged. He didn’t seem very energetic.

Gregory said, “The perfume is in the basement, which is off the kitchen.”

“What about the Lurker?”

“Hmm?”

“The Basement Lurker,” said Brian. “Uncle Max said that if the light went out, the Basement Lurker would seize us.”

“That,” said Gregory, wagging his finger, “that’s a bridge we’ll cross when we come to it.” He was looking nervously up toward the house.

“We should wait until tonight,” said Brian. “When everyone’s asleep.”

“We don’t have time,” said Gregory. “Who knows where Jack Stimple is by now? We only have maybe a day left. We can’t wait. And plus, I don’t think anyone’s sleeping in there much anymore.”

“What do you mean?” said Brian.

“Let’s go for the kitchen door,” said Gregory.

They ran forward, crouching low. There were fewer windows in the back of the house; the rooms that looked out over the gardens were the servants’ quarters, the kitchen, the nursery, and a bathroom. They saw no motion inside the windows.

When they reached the wall, they flattened themselves against it. Gregory took the kitchen doorknob in his hand and gradually turned it. For an agonizing minute, he stood, twisting the knob, lips sucked into his mouth.

“Locked,” he said.

“Greenhouse,” whispered Brian. He pointed around the corner.

They crawled around the corner on their hands and knees. When they reached the glass solarium, Gregory slowly rose, peering through the panes, through the fronds, into the dining room.

He nodded quickly. He turned the handle of the solarium door, and it opened.

The boys were inside. They stepped through the solarium into the dining room.

They could hear voices speaking in a strange tongue. Arguing. Someone was playing something hectic and terrified on the piano.

They moved toward the door to the kitchen.

Now, for just a minute, they could catch a glimpse into the entrance hall. Men in long, black coats lounged on the round, cushioned bench in the foyer. They were facing the parlor, watching whoever played the piano. Trailing all the way down the steps like a Christmas garland was what looked like a length of brown and gray muscle. Ripples went through it, and it caressed the wall.

Daffodil served drinks on a tray, her back to the boys, while off in the parlor, the piano trilled and thundered.

One of the men shouted with a strong accent, “She plays like a fawn! I should like to give her a locket, this pretty girl! Or tickets to a baboon show.”

Prudence’s voice, high and tight with fear, burst over the rumbling chords, “It is a piano sonata by Mr. Robert Schumann. It was first composed—”

“Mr. Grendle!” shouted the man. “I should like to see your stepdaughter dance.”

The piano playing stopped. Gregory slipped into the kitchen.

Brian did not follow. He had heard that Prudence was sobbing. He couldn’t move.

Uncle Max said something sharp in the foreign tongue. The man replied. Then Uncle Max and he were yelling.

Brian stepped quickly into the kitchen.

Gregory still waited there by the door.

Together, they stood hunched, listening to the argument in the other room.

“Daffodil,” said the man with the accent to the maid, “move yourself about. Show us that fine profile.”

Uncle Max protested.

“That’s right, Daffodil. And you, too, Burk. Back and forth. Good. Good.”

Uncle Max bellowed.

Then a gunshot rang out.

Brian and Gregory both gasped. Their eyes were wide. Their skin was white.

Brian moved to clutch the doorknob.

And the door to the kitchen slammed open.

They threw themselves in opposite directions—Gregory toward the basement door, Brian slamming sideways into a counter—and a figure stood between them—

Daffodil, holding her tray.

Half of her face was missing.