Never in his life had he felt so helpless and so conflicted, for in exchange for this quest he had vowed to find Brazio Valeriani for Professor Fell and he was certain the professor did not want the man to discuss the weather in Italy. It had something to do with Fell’s interest in demonology, Valeriani’s dead father Ciro—a man of science who had for some reason lost his mind and hanged himself—and, strangely enough, a piece of furniture.

It sounded to Matthew like an evil mixture, to which Cardinal Black had become an added ingredient.

As the coach had gotten nearer to the city, Matthew could hear London calling. It was at first a low murmur or drone, felt more than heard, even through the noise of the wheels and the creaking of the coach. He recalled such a sound on his trip from Plymouth en route to his stay at Newgate Prison. It was the voice of London in all its life: the inhalation and exhalation of breath from human lungs, the thuddings of boots, the slamming of doors, the scrapings of wooden hulls against piers on the river, the noise of forks against plates, the clinking together of glasses, the music of taverns and street-singers, the beat of hooves on the streets and the squeak and crunch of innumerable wheels of wagons, coaches and carriages ever turning, all these and a thousand more elements to the voice of London and its six hundred thousand occupants … but in the depths of this voice Matthew heard only one question being directed at him from whatever spirit ruled the sprawling city: Will you succeed, or will you fail?

And the observation, delivered like a blade to the heart: I am the city that eats men alive. Once I almost consumed you. So come to me again, young Matthew, and test yourself against my age-old teeth of stone.

He could not fail. Could not. But … how to succeed, when failure would mean such a torture he could not live beyond another twenty days, yet as a husk of a man he must find Brazio Valeriani for Professor Danton Idris Fell and in so doing have a hand in damning the world?

These things whirled through his mind as he followed Julian into The Octopus Garden. Within, the hanging lanterns cast greenish glows, there was a musty smell and many arms were reaching for tankards of ale, dice, cards and the like, but neither was there an octopus nor a garden. Over the hubbub of voices there bellowed the noise of excitement—hurrahing and shouting—toward the back of the place, where a dozen or more men were standing around a large table. “Ah!” said Julian over the tumult. “I believe I see our prize.” He took a few more strides through the layers of swirling pipe smoke and then turned back to Matthew again. “He’s there,” Julian said. “Now: you stand silent while I speak to him. Make yourself invisible. Understand?”