“Why can’t we arrest Melancholia?” Valkyrie asked, taking her black clothes from the wardrobe. “Put some shackles on her, send her to prison for a few years, then let her out and tell her to be good?”

“Because she’s the Death Bringer,” said Skulduggery.

“She’s Melancholia. She’s the annoying girl I used to laugh at. I don’t want her dead.”

The reflection shrugged. “Melancholia doesn’t share that compunction,” it said.

Valkyrie frowned at her mirror image.

“Either you’re arguing with yourself,” Skulduggery said from the landing, “or your reflection makes more sense than you do.”

“Shut up,” Valkyrie said to the door, and then looked back at the reflection. “And you, nobody asked for your opinion. And stop standing there all naked and stuff. You’re distracting.”

The reflection shrugged again, went to the dresser and started picking out clothes.

Valkyrie pulled on her underwear and trousers. “We can’t just let Vile kill her,” she said loudly. “We have to try and arrest her.”

“We will,” Skulduggery answered.

“But it’s a race, is that what you’re saying? If we get to her, we arrest her. If he gets to her, he kills her.”

“If she resists arrest, we might have to kill her too. Don’t forget that.”

“So no one is going after Vile.”

“That’s correct.”

She grabbed her boots, started putting them on. “And what about when all this is done?”

“If the Death Bringer, for whatever reason, ceases to remain alive, there’s a good chance that the thing that is Lord Vile will simply… disappear. Whatever aspect of my subconscious that is walking around will come back to me, the armour will return to its inert form, and everyone will be happy.”

“Except Melancholia.”

“Except Melancholia, who will be dead.”

Valkyrie stood up. “And me?”

“Hopefully, you won’t be.”

“But if Melancholia dies,” the reflection said, still picking out clothes, “then won’t the title of Death Bringer switch over to Valkyrie?”

“Stop contributing to this conversation,” Valkyrie said crossly.

The reflection gave another shrug.

“Well?” Valkyrie said loudly. “Will it switch over to me?”

Skulduggery hesitated. “That is a possibility, I grant you.”

“And if it does, then Vile will want to kill me too, won’t he?”

Another hesitation. “Perhaps.”

“So we’re going to have to figure out a way to stop him, no matter what happens,” she said, her voice muffled slightly by the T-shirt she was dragging over her head.

“Not quite,” Skulduggery answered. “There is the possibility that he will go up against Melancholia and she will destroy him utterly, which will take care of the Lord Vile problem quite nicely but, obviously, add to the Melancholia problem. And it might also pose a problem for me, if someone manages to kill my subconscious.”

“This is getting very complicated.”

“Not if you pay attention.”