“For you and your father, then.” JP smiled widely without showing any of his teeth. He looked a bit like a balloon that had been blown up a little too much—like all the ones Maximilian had just done.

“Thanks,” said Effie, putting the book down on the trestle table alongside some torn bunting. She wasn’t really that interested in having a “family copy” of some book translated by a visiting professor whom her father wanted to impress. But whatever.

Now someone else approached their table. She was extremely thin and dressed entirely in black lace, except for her platform boots, which were white, and her fur cape, which was pale gray.

“JP,” she said, drawing out the letters for much too long in her very deep Russian-sounding voice. “There you are.” She rolled her Rs unnervingly. “The others are waiting for you in the seminar room. Gotthard is very excited to see you again. Don’t keep him waiting.”

Orwell Bookend held out his hand.

“Hello,” he said. “You must be Lady Tchainsaw. I’ve read all your poems.”

This was, of course, a lie. Orwell never read poetry if he could help it. But Lady Tchainsaw was also quite famous and had recently joined the university’s Creative Writing Department. It was always good to get in with the creative writers. Not only were they the most famous members of the university, but everyone knew they had the most fun.

She completely ignored him.

“Come on,” she said to JP, then turned to leave.

“Sure,” he said. “Oh, but before we go you might be interested to know that this is Euphemia Truelove.”

Lady Tchainsaw turned again slowly, like the revolving head of an owl.

“Euphemia Truelove?” she said, looking Effie up and down as if Effie were a small shrew that the owl was just about to swoop down on. “Hello, darlink.”

“Er, hello,” said Effie.

“Well, see you later, folks,” said JP cheerfully. “Come on,” he said to Lady Tchainsaw, who was still staring at Effie in an intense and suspicious way.

Effie didn’t notice the title of the book on the trestle table until Jupiter Peacock had followed Lady Tchainsaw down the gloomy corridor in which Laurel Wilde and Dora Wright had just been seen. But when Effie did look at it, her heart seemed to fly into space like a rocket before landing with a massive thump back in her chest. GALLOGLASS, it said on the front. That was its title: GALLOGLASS.

It was as if he knew. . . . But how could he?

“Who exactly was that man?” said Effie to Lexy.

“No one,” said Lexy. “A very annoying person.”

“What’s this about?” Effie asked her, picking up the book. As well as the gold lettering on the front, its pages had gold edges. Effie’s heart was thumping so hard she felt sure that everyone could hear it.

“God knows,” said Lexy, rolling her eyes.