“But I didn’t,” she says. “Who’s Evander?”

Salisbury’s kneeling over the fallen man—who I’m fairly certain is the same person who runs the door at Smith-Richards’s meetings. “It’s Smith’s godfather,” he says, distressed. “Did you kill him?”

“No.” Penny puts her hands on her hips. “Not intentionally.”

Evander Feverfew is an older white guy, around 60 maybe, with longish grey hair, a diamond earring, and an elaborately tooled leather wand holster on his belt. Shepard stoops to pick Feverfew’s wand up from the floor and hands it to Penelope. She tucks it in her waistband.

I let them fuss over him—I need to get to Philippa. The duffel bag is hauling me deeper into the room, where Smith’s godfather shoved her. She’s lying on her side on the floor, arms and legs tied. She’s still so small. She still reminds me of a mouse …

When she sees me, she tries to squirm away.

“Pippa…” I say. Should I untie her first, or—No. I just need to—

I fall on my knees before her and unzip my bag. The tape recorder tries to sail out; I catch it. It pulls my arms straight and my body forward.

Philippa sees the tape recorder, and her eyes get wider. She’s crying now. Kicking the floor to get away from me.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” I say. “I promise!”

She twists her face away from me.

“I have your voice, Pippa. I—” Circe, what am I waiting for? There’s nothing I can say or explain. I hold the tape recorder out and press play.

There’s a staticky sound, and then Philippa’s squeaky little voice rings out from the speaker. “Hiya, Simoooooooooooon!”

The last syllable disintegrates into a long squeak. Then there’s a sound like a record being played backwards. Like a little girl talking very quickly, in reverse.

Lying on the floor, Philippa gasps—and swallows and swallows. The noise gets higher and more chaotic, like a high-pitched waterfall.

Then the tape snaps to a stop. The squealing ends, and Philippa’s head falls to the floor. The tug has gone out of the tape recorder. I drop it. “Pippa…” I say, scooting forward to free her hands. Simon is already working on her ankles.

As soon as she can, she sits up—and scuttles away from us. She’s rubbing her throat.

“Are you okay?” I ask.

She doesn’t answer. Her shoulders are shaking.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t know, back at Watford. I thought it was temporary. I’m so sorry.”

“Here,” Shepard says. He’s getting a bottle out of his backpack. “Have some water.”

Philippa takes the water and swallows some.

“Philippa,” Simon says, crouching next to me, “are you okay?”