Augustine said smoothly: “See where you’re needed, sis. It may be that the Beast has some vulnerability you can mark. Or it may try to attack us from without, which means you’ll be useful on the perimeter. Keep flexible.”

This would have been a perfectly reasonable request had its meaning not been so obvious. Do not distract us with your death.

The Kindly Prince said, idly: “He’s right, Harrowhark. From what I can tell, it’s useful to have someone who can move laterally, rather than being obliged to keep to one place … and in any case, like most best-laid plans, this one won’t survive contact with the enemy. Do what you feel is best, and everyone else will endeavour not to swamp your skeletons … Can we have a tea break, Mercy? I’m gasping.”

Your sister closest in age did not stand, as everyone else did, at God’s request to put the kettle on. She was still looking at the black diagram, and she asked, quite unconcernedly: “What is the stoma?”

Mercy said, “Augustine, you did tell her about the stoma,” in tones of accusation, but he simply said: “No. I saw no reason to frighten her. Why—did you tell Harrowhark?”

Naturally, you had not been told about the stoma. Your teacher simply said, fractiously, “She’ll never see it! Why bother?”

“If I have my way, we’ll leave Ianthe safely in the mesorhoic. We three old lags will be more than enough to take it down,” said Augustine sharply. Ianthe’s languid brown-spotted gaze dragged up to him as though it barely had the energy to do so. “That thing has a ferocious gravitational pull. It’s not for neophytes.”

“Excuse me, we may not all of us be alive by the time the thing is exhausted, so I would stop swaddling your squalling baby—”

“You never did take the stoma seriously, which is why your whole damned House sucks at it like a grotesque teat—”

“Don’t be coarse—”

“It is the mouth to Hell,” said God.