The town was preparing itself for a festival, not for what was coming.

The house he stopped at had a wall and iron gate at its front. He employed the door’s knocker liberally.

‘Good evening, sir,’ a butler said from a half-open door. ‘Can I help you?’

‘Magistrate Channock. I must speak with him.’

‘Is he expecting you, sir?’

‘Inspector. And no, he is not. But he will see me.’

The butler graciously acquiesced to Christophor waiting in the hallway. My night-brother was rankled. Perhaps out of the two of us, I was more used to the special disdain of butlers. After some time – long enough for his coat to stop dripping on the tiles – Christophor was shown into a drawing room.

Magistrate Channock was sitting behind a polished dark wood desk, flanked by drawn curtains and standing oil lamps. The thin man’s stillness was striking, and gave the whole room the appearance of a painting. His mouth barely moved as he welcomed my night-brother.

‘Is it done then, Inspector? Your investigation is over?’

The magistrate’s bluntness surprised Christophor, until he realised it was born of ignorance.

‘Yes, sir, I have the evidence I require for an arrest.’

‘I see,’ Channock said, as it became apparent my night-brother wasn’t going to say more. Channock gestured towards a seat, but Christophor remained standing. ‘I must confess that, fortunately, my long tenure as magistrate for Drekenford has not included the arrest of a witch. How many have you brought to trial, Inspector?’

‘Thirty-four,’ he said without hesitation.

‘Well, indeed. What is it you need of me?’

‘For you to remember your position. Above all else. At all times.’

‘Of course. Of course.’

A silence grew between them, neither comfortable with just how they were being forced to engage the other. For his part, Christophor evidently resented the role of instructor; one of his many flaws was that he assumed everyone else was as competent in their work as he considered himself to be.

‘We should be leaving now, sir. It will be a long night.’

Channock visibly digested the implication of that. ‘Is my presence really so necessary?’

‘Absolutely necessary.’

‘Constable Webber—’

‘The late Constable Webber.’

‘—did not require my presence for an arrest.’

My night-brother struggled against his impatience. ‘As you said, Drekenford has never before dealt with its witches.’

‘Careful, Inspector. I may be ignorant of witch hunts, but you have met my wife – I am well versed in veiled insults.’ Channock rose slowly from his desk. ‘Will you at least tell me who stands accused?’

‘It is a name best said as little as possible. You must trust me on this.’

‘And a great many things, it would seem.’ The magistrate rang for his coat and boots.

*

The wind had gained some bite. Both of them clutched their coats as if they were in danger of being stripped away, just as the leaves from their trees. Magistrate Channock moved awkwardly, stiffly, even in the brief periods of calm. He was a man made of metal rods but without the grease that allowed a waterwheel – or a simple iron gate – to function. It gave a certain kind of authority to his bearing, until he had to move. Somehow he managed to keep step with Christophor, but it appeared taxing to say the least.