"Play with me," came a child's voice, layered like three voices speaking in unison.

Edwin Paine adjusted his bowtie—a habit that survived even death. Beside him, Charles Rowland cracked his knuckles, ready for a fight that might not come.

"The children break," he hissed. "But wax remembers forever."

Edwin knelt to the children. "You'll be escorted to your trial. And afterward? Charles knows an excellent chip shop that allows spectral patrons."

"It's the third one from the left," Edwin corrected, pulling out his compass (enchanted to point toward restless dead). The needle spun wildly, then snapped toward a curtained alcove.

"Edwin, mate, I'm getting a bad vibe from that Queen Victoria over there," Charles muttered, nodding toward a wax figure whose glass eyes seemed to track them.