‘What about Toccata?’ I asked, and Aurora’s unseeing left eye twisted around in its socket to stare at me.

‘What about her?’

‘Do you think you’ll ever reconcile yourselves to the fact that you’re actually one person?’

Both of her eyes suddenly glared at me in a dangerous manner, which gave the odd impression that she was staring at me in a completely normal manner. But then her left eye wandered off to stare at the ceiling, and she was back to her old self.

‘You need to stop listening to Shamanic Bob’s conspiracy theories,’ she scoffed. ‘Toccata and I the same person? Ridiculous.’

I could see she was rattled, though.

‘When was the last time you saw her in the flesh?’ I persisted. ‘In fact, have you ever seen her in the flesh?’

‘No, but by that reasoning,’ she said slowly, ‘anyone who I’ve never met in the flesh might actually be me. There would be millions. What about you? Have you ever met Carmen Miranda? In the flesh, I mean?’

‘Well, yes, I have actually.’

‘Okay, that was a bad example. How about Dylan Thomas?’

‘No.’

‘Then why couldn’t you be him as well as being yourself?’

‘Because he’s dead?’

‘Okay, maybe that’s also a bad example. Look, it’s not my fault Toccata is such a coward that she avoids me at every—’

She was interrupted by a knock at the ticket office door. Aurora narrowed her eyes.

‘Don’t try anything stupid, Wonky.’

‘It’s nothing to do with me,’ I said, and it wasn’t – it was the shimmery Mrs Nesbit. But she wasn’t here to sell us targeted advertising, she was here to bring news from the outside world, and I already knew what it was. I’d asked Dr Gwynne to donate one of his Golgotha demolition charges to the ticket office, the firing pin booby-trapped to the lower drawer of the desk.

‘Three dead, one missing and that’s the second Sno-Trac destroyed this evening,’ said Goodnight through Mrs Nesbit. ‘We need to up the ante; if you don’t think you can handle it, instigate 110B. Everyone talks after that.’

I turned to face Aurora, who, like all powerful people, was more annoyed about being outmanoeuvred than just losing. All of a sudden this wasn’t about a cylinder, it was about winning, and that made it personal.

‘I told you it wasn’t there,’ I said.

‘You fooled me,’ she said, ‘led me on that merry dance to the Cambrensis so I wouldn’t see that you were spinning a false narrative. I take it back: you’re very good. But this only delays the outcome, it doesn’t change it. We still need that cylinder, and now we play hardball. Ever wanted to know what it’s like to be eaten alive by nightwalkers?’

‘I’d have to answer no to that.’