‘Why not?’ Christophor said.

‘Why not?’ The magistrate almost choked. ‘Look about you, Inspector! Most of the town is still drunk, or worse, from the day’s revels. And this night won’t improve matters. Simply impossible.’

‘You wish to leave a witch alive in your town on All Hallows’ Eve?’

‘I wish we didn’t have to. If she had been found sooner, if you—’

He slammed the door on the magistrate.

Christophor stood there for a moment, staring at that solid wooden door as he reined in his temper. Deep breaths helped. Then he turned and crossed the office to the bars of the cell. ‘What will be your mischief tonight?’ he said.

Mrs Eder, gagged, gave a helpless shrug. He provided nothing for her to eat or drink, nothing to break her fast. With only a single candle lit, he settled into a chair to watch her. He cleaned his pistol, primed it, then kept it aimed at her. How long passed that way, he didn’t know. But the noise from the streets grew louder, more disturbing, with each hour. Until screams cut through it all.

They rang like church bells all around the office, around the cell. They weren’t the screams of revelry. The terror at the core of the sound was tangible.

Mrs Eder stood and looked at the barred windows.

Christophor considered ignoring the screams. He came close to convincing himself that to do so would be for the greater good – that guarding this woman was more important than rescuing another. But that did not sit well with him. ‘If I find that is your doing,’ he said. ‘I will hang you myself. No trial.’

She watched him leave.

What I had seen that day was charade, pantomime, costume – the drama of a carnival. Christophor stepped out into something real.

Gone were the children, and gone were the mothers. The pack of devils that loitered at the end of the street didn’t wear masks. They weren’t painted or dressed for anything but the night’s chill. And yet malicious intent wafted from them. When another scream came Christophor assumed them to be the cause, but he was wrong. As a group they stiffened, like hounds tracing a new scent. At the other end of the street was an alleyway where the scream came from. Christophor broke the stillness first. He faced the group of men, his pistol in hand, and shook his head lest they thought of following.

When he reached the alley he started to run. It wasn’t just a passage between two buildings, but a warren of crisscrossing lanes. He had no idea where he was going. Horribly, he found himself wishing for another scream to guide him, to reassure him whoever it was was still alive. He got his wish and dashed down one alley, then across another. At the end he saw them – a blackness more solid than the shadows. Many-limbed, roiling, hard to make out.

Christophor uttered prayers as he ran.