The backward mermaid began to swing her hips side to side, with the ease of a practiced cabaret dancer. Her mouth bobbed open and closed in rhythm with the music. Her small fins, on either side of her body, flapped.

To Matthew’s credit, the rest of the Devil Tavern crowd seemed to be unironic admirers of Claribella and her performance. When her dance was finished she retreated behind her tank, at least in part to protect herself from her most ardent devotees.

“She does have a certain way about her,” Christopher said. He looked over at James hopefully. “Eh?”

“We should have gone to the Pouncebys’ sledding party,” said James.

“Perhaps a quiet evening upstairs?” said Thomas sympathetically. “I’ll cut a path through the crowd.”

As they followed Thomas through the surge of Downworlders, Matthew, who had been selling tickets for private sessions with Claribella, saw them and leaped down from the stage.

“Seeking the beautiful solace of solitude?” Matthew asked, taking James’s arm. He smelled like Matthew always did—cologne and brandy, singed with a bit of smoke and sawdust.

“I’m going upstairs with the three of you,” said James. “I wouldn’t call that ‘solitude.’ ”

“Quiet, then,” said Matthew. “ ‘Thou still unravish’d bride of quietness, Thou foster-child of silence and slow time—’ ”

As they reached the steps, Ernie the tavern owner jumped up on the stage and attempted to dance with Claribella—but with only a pair of stubby fins, she easily eluded him and leaped headfirst into the tub of gin inhabited by Pickles the kelpie. She emerged a second later, blowing a spout of gin as Pickles neighed in delight.

They made it to their private rooms upstairs, Thomas bolting the doors firmly behind them. It was cold, and a steady leak was dripping water from the ceiling onto the worn carpets, but James found it a welcoming sight anyway. This was the headquarters of the Merry Thieves, their bolt-hole, their place away from the world, and the only place James wanted to be right now. The snow had picked up and was coming down in whirling white gusts against the leaded glass windows.

As Thomas carried over an empty pot to catch the leak, Christopher knelt in front of the fireplace and examined the logs laid within it, damp with melted snow. He took an object from his pocket, a metal tube attached to a small glass flask—a delivery method for a chemical fire starter of his own invention that he had been working on in recent weeks. He threw a switch, and the flask filled up with a pinkish gas. There was a small pop and a brief flash of a flame shooting out the end of the tube, but it quickly extinguished itself and thick black smoke poured into the room.