Next, Molly and I went to visit the isolation wards in the infirmary, in the north wing. Neither of us wanted to, but we had to see how the infected Loathly One drones were doing. Twenty-eight now, including Sebastian. Twenty-nine, including Molly. I was ready to go on my own, but Molly insisted on accompanying me, and I couldn’t say no. Not when she was fighting so hard to hang on to her humanity.

The family has always trained its own doctors and nurses, to staff its own hospital. Partly because we don’t want the world to know that Droods can be hurt, even with their marvellous torcs, and partly because only we are equipped to deal with the kind of problems faced by Droods, in and out of the field. Our doctors have to be able to diagnose and treat all kinds of physical, spiritual, and unnatural accidents, everything from werewolf bites to long-distance curses to post-possession stress disorder.

Our infirmary equipment is extremely up to date, and sometimes even a bit beyond, but the place itself is still the traditional pale, paste-coloured walls, snotty matrons, and the faint but pervasive smell of boiled vegetables. Molly and I strode quickly through the wards, nodding briskly to the staff on duty. A few looked like they would have liked to object to our presence, but we were come and gone before they could put their objections into words. Most of the ward beds were occupied, far more than normal. Some were clearly dying, despite all the doctors could do for them. A small, cold part of me was glad to see that Harry had been as bad a leader as me, but I pushed the thought aside.

The isolation wards are tucked away in their own private annex. Essentially, they’re a series of heavily armoured, pressurised holding tanks with steelglass walls, designed to contain the more problematic patients, like field agents who’ve brought back a disease from some other dimension, or the seriously possessed. The only entry point to each tank is a closely guarded air lock, whose combination code is changed daily, just in case. There are only six tanks; we’ve never needed more. Now they were packed from wall to wall with the recently rounded up drones.

Molly and I moved slowly down the row of isolation tanks, nodding to the armed guards at each air lock door. Some of the drones came forward to beat on the heavy steelglass with their fists. Their voices came clearly to us through the built-on speakers, saying they were innocent, uninfected, this was all wrong, there’d been a terrible mistake. They called me by name and pleaded for my help. Others shouted threats and curses. But most just sat or stood quietly, their faces expressionless, waiting to see what would happen next. Waiting for us to drop our guard, just for a moment.