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part of history because he had nominated William McKinley for governor in 1893, thus launching the sun, as it were, into the republic’s sky, Daugherty himself had no political luck; had failed by seventy-seven votes to be nominated for governor; had now settled for being the hidden power behind whatever throne he could set up. Of course the highest throne of all was currently empty or, to be precise, occupied by one Woodrow Wilson, a Democrat, an unnatural state of affairs which would be corrected in 1920 by the election of a Republican president. But that was three years away, and there were certain arrangements that must first be made. Madame Marcia was one.
    “Is she always so late?” Madame Marcia glided into the room, at an odd angle to the floor. She had once been a dancer, as she had told Jess on hisprevious visit, with the Frank Deshon Opera Company. “At sixteen,” she would add, in case someone were to count the years that had passed since her name had appeared in very small letters on a very large poster whose date marked her as an artiste from the long-ago age of McKinley. Now the dancer was a spiritualist minister and a guide to the stars in the dark days of Woodrow Wilson when every day, for Republicans, was like today, February, with wet snow falling and a cold north wind.
    “No. The Duchess is the soul of punctuality.” Jess rose, as he always did, when a lady, any lady, entered a room, any room. “The weather …”
    “The weather, oh, yes.” Over the years, one by one, Madame Marcia’s Brooklyn vowels had gradually closed until she sounded refined and deeply spiritual. She wore priestess black, and a string of pearls. Only the thick scarlet hair struck a discordant Frank Deshon dancer note. Jess had first met her with Daugherty, who swore by her, whatever that meant. Although Jess believed fervently in every sort of ghost and ghoul, he had no particular interest in any spirit world other than the one in his hall closet where, back of an old winter coat and a stack of galoshes, horror reigned. Only his driver George dared enter that closet; and return unscathed and sane.
    “Mr. Micajah is keeping well?” Madame Marcia sat in a straight chair, and smiled, revealing pearl-like teeth rather more authentic in quality than the pearls she wore. Micajah was Daugherty’s middle name. Real names were discouraged by the lady. “Otherwise I might be influenced when I consult the stars.” Daugherty maintained that she had no idea, ever, whose horoscope she was casting: hence her high price. She was a legend in the capital and much consulted by some of the highest in the land, usually through intermediaries, as the faces of the highest would have been recognizable to Madame Marcia, thanks to photography and the newsreels.
    “Yes. He’s gone back to …” Jess stopped himself from saying Ohio. “Home. But his—uh, friend is here. The Duchess’s husband.”
    “An interesting—even
significant
—horoscope.” Madame Marcia had been given nothing more than the date and hour of birth of the Duchess’s husband. Of course she had a Congressional Directory in her inner sanctum and she could, if she were so minded, check the various birthdates with the one in hand, assuming that its owner was in the Congress. But, as Daugherty said, even if she knew
whose
horoscope it was, how could she predict his future without some help from the stars or whatever? The whole town knew that she had predicted the elevation to the vice presidency of the current incumbent, Thomas R. Marshall. Without supernatural aid, this was an impossibly long shot.
    “I’ve never seen such a cold winter. Worse than New York ever was.…”
    “Why did you come to Washington?”
    “Fate,” said Madame Marcia, as though speaking of an old and trusted friend. “I was associated with Gipsy Oliver at Coney Island. Mostly for amusement’s sake. But”—Madame’s voice became low and thrilling—“she had gifts as well