Laughing, my hands shaking in front of me, I gazed down at what I had done.

On the desk: a five-pointed star sketched in molten gold. At its centre, a heart.

The broken heart bleeds gold.

Who was to say if the heart was broken?

In such times as those, I doubted there was any other kind.

‘What have you done?’ Christophor demanded of me.

His horror was evident as he gazed down at the gold scorched into the desk. He doubted he could prise it out, even if he could bring himself to touch it. He wouldn’t touch the heart, either.

Instead, he snatched the book from where I had left it. He held the page up to the mirror.

‘Look at it, day-brother.’

It was too late, but Christophor couldn’t help himself. As he read the passage, he struggled to keep his voice even.

‘To begin such a ritual requires conditions and considerations rarely found in an epoch. However, there is no requirement that Berith proceed in order.’

Again, he presented the book to me. Unmarked by his hand, and free of any circling of words.

‘Many scholars believe the ritual may be aided by the advent of All Hallows’ Eve, when the veil between worlds becomes membranous. Earlier historical catastrophes, plagues, implosions of empires and states are among the consequences ascribed weakly, through supposition and speculation, to witches or magi and the Ritual of Berith.’

He slapped the book shut, the sound echoing about the room.

‘You were bewitched, enchanted, under the witch’s spell,’ he said. I realised he was correct: the calling of my name, the compulsion, the confusion of words. The certainty with which I acted – when, in my life, had I been certain of anything?

‘We have been used,’ he said. He blamed himself as much as he blamed me. ‘We have been used. No more.’

Gathering his coat, he collected his badge of office and his pistol. He locked the bedroom door behind him and sought out the landlady. He refused her offer of breakfast.

‘Are you sure, Inspector?’ the woman said. ‘You look awfully pale, and it’s set to be a frightful night out there.’

He glanced about the empty common room. ‘Do not enter my chambers, Mrs Lehner. Not under any circumstances. Not until I return.’

‘Is it… is it not safe?’

‘Not until I return.’

‘Oh, Inspector,’ she all but wailed. ‘When will it end?’

He donned his hat and left the inn.

*

The people of Drekenford were about their nightly business. Christophor paid them no mind, except for when they stood in his way or were moving slowly along the same streets. However, I found them fascinating in their obliviousness. They appeared to have no knowledge, or even the vaguest apprehension, of what was happening in their town. A woman set out her vegetables for sale, grumbling about the cold – and with winter yet to come! A father scolded his daughter for not looking where she was going. Carts rolled by, their drivers and animals weary but not panicked. On one street, two neighbours were working together to string festive decorations from one side to the other.