Johannes climbed in first and then James Noble pushed off and jumped in behind, almost tipping them over. He settled on his knees and began to paddle, but the coracle turned like a wheel over the water, no keel, and the two of them aboard like children on a fairytale leaf. It was woven of wicker and stank of brine and fish guts and everything was wet and slimy with dew. Neither man was particularly fond of the sea, and less so now.

‘Use your hands,’ Noble said. ‘We’ll get there quicker.’

The lugger was about a quarter-mile off the coast. First they had to swing around a ragged finger of rock to get its bearing. Shapes appeared there, dark stone skulls against the night sky. They could hear the soft rhythmic hiss of the tide as it spread and sank into the gravel and shell scree of the beach.

‘Keep her straight,’ Noble said. ‘Haste, my friend!’

They paddled steadily and the sea lapped at them and soon the dawn crept into the horizon. The clouded sky turned pale orange and pink.

‘It’s grand, isn’t it?’ Noble said, pointing at the sunrise. ‘That way, my good man, into the light!’

Johannes Meyer’s hands were numb and he was cold and uncertain.

They paddled, spun about, seemed to go nowhere. Maybe an hour passed and then a fog rolled in. Before it settled completely, Noble cried out, ‘There!’

She’d been a chasse-marée once upon a time, smuggling wool to the French; now she hauled mackerel as a lowly fishing lugger. Swiftwing. Ghostly and beautiful in the morning light. Noble smacked Johannes on the shoulder. Both men were grinning with relief.

MOSES

The boards of the guillotine were slicked with blood. The doctor moved quickly; there was no time to lose. He went to his knees beside the basket, reached in and turned the head around so that he was staring at the man’s face.

Breathing fast, Dr Antoine Girodet leaned the severed head against the side of the basket, cursing himself now for not having thought to bring something—a rolled-up towel or a block of wood—to stop it from falling over. But he managed to fix the head at an angle, then instantly let go, aware that he’d already contaminated the experiment (too late!).

Girodet gripped the sides of the basket, ignoring the warm blood seeping into the knees of his pants.

‘Moses!’ the doctor said. ‘Moses!’

The eyelids seemed to flicker, but remained closed. It was baking hot in the courtyard and the sun was directly above.

‘Four seconds,’ Christophe Bergerard said, standing over Girodet’s shoulder, a watch ticking in the palm of his hand. This was the second experiment he’d been involved with since agreeing to the doctor’s offer and terms of employment. The first had yielded no science to record.