From the recesses of the carriage, Mysir de Archambeau said, “I see Anne-Marie was correct about where we might find you.”

I gave a start of surprise, for I had not seen the duke de Archambeau since the Winter Revels. That surprise was followed by irritation; the man had a habit of disappearing and popping up like a rabbit in a conjuring act. It seemed we had entered the duke’s own coach, but the one without his coat of arms, and thus anonymous. Next to him sat a man I did not know.

“Your Grace, whatever are you doing here?” I asked, settling in the seat next to Twyla, opposite the two men.

He rapped the hilt of his cane on the roof, and the carriage started off. “Baron Losendahl, meet Madame Elinor Chalamet, Ghost Talker. The girl with the mouth hanging open is her apprentice, Mys Twyla Andricksson.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” said the blond giant gruffly.

With his eyes gleaming, the duke said, “Why don’t you tell us why we are here? Why we have sought you out, Madame Chalamet?”

Analytically, I examined Baron Losendahl. From his appearance, I discerned several things. He was a newcomer to the city and was native to Zulskaya, that mountainous, snowy country to the northeast of my own Sarnesse. The baron was as broad as a barn, his shoulders a thick beam, his head and neck making one solid bullet shape. His nose had been broken once in the past, and he wore thick mutton chops.

“Did you leave your mountains to come to consult me? No. That alone would not entice a man of your station and wealth. You would have sent for me to come to you. That’s what the rich do. It is another who brings you here to our fair city. A wife? No, daughter— yes, a daughter who is in trouble in Alenbonné, and you requested your old friend, the Duke de Archambeau, to recommend someone to help you in this sensitive matter.”

“Madame! How do you know this?” said the baron in astonishment.

The duke leaned back, smiling, as I explained.

“Your accent tells me you are from Zulskaya, though your cravat pin has the emblem of a well-known Alenbonné sporting club for aristos who enjoy boxing and fencing. I have seen such an insignia at the duke’s private residence, a cup engraved with a win of over twelve years ago. Hence the long friendship. Also indicative that you are not the type of man who would entrust your secrets to just any casual acquaintance.

“It is a sport you continue to enjoy, for the skin of your knuckles is reddened from bare-knuckle fighting, probably as recent as last night. But your face remains unbruised, so it was a match and not a street fight. Probably an exercise to work out some great frustration.”

The baron looked at Archambeau, who only remained silent in his corner. He turned back to me and confided, “You are correct, madame. But what about my recent arrival? How did you come by that?”

“You took off your hat during our introductions. That showed not only manners but also the inside of the band, which has the name of the maker— a decent shop for men’s general attire located in Needle Street, but not the best. It specializes in the ready-made, so this was bought when you arrived here. It is too small for your head, as I can tell by the mark across your forehead. A head your size would need a custom-made chapeau.”

Archambeau’s smile had become a smirk as I continued.

“Meanwhile, your tailored and expensive coat is made of kalukoo wool, which is native to the mountains of Zulskaya. It is not often seen in Sarnesse because of the high import tax, yet the garment fits your shoulders like a glove. The wear marks at the cuff and lapels show you have owned it for at least two seasons.”

“No! I do not believe this. Someone has told you about my daughter and her plight. How else would you know?”

“If it were a matter of government, the duke would not need me. If it was a public matter, you would consult Inspector Marcellus Barbier, who is a very fine gendarme detective known to the duke. No, His Grace brings you here instead of waiting for me to return to the Crown, as it is an urgent matter or one that requires discretion. Hence a family matter.”

“That’s cracking!” cried my protégé, clasping her hands together in excitement. “Why don’t you teach me how to do that?”

“Because it requires you to use logic and deductive reasoning, Twyla. Something you seem to lack!”

The baron tried to find a flaw in my logic. “My quest could have been for a son, not a daughter.”

“It could have been. But a son you would wait to return, tail between his legs, begging for forgiveness after a debauchery. A daughter? She requires immediate rescue.”

“I told you she was good,” murmured the duke from his corner, giving me a little clap of appreciation with hands in dove-gray gloves. “Now, will you take the case?”