“I was in touch with Flex because I thought it wasn’t right,” she said. “But something happened . . . the moths are out. They’ve escaped. Gods only know how.” I know how, thought Isaac grimly. It was me. “Do you know what it means that they’re out? We’re all . . . we’re going to be hunted. And the militia must’ve read Runagate Rampant and . . . and thought that Flex had something to do with it . . . and if they think Flex did then soon . . . soon they’ll think that I did . . .” Barbile began to snivel again and Derkhan looked away in disgust, thinking of Ben.

Mr. X walked over to the window to rearrange the shutters.

“So, look . . .” Isaac tried to collate his thoughts. There were a hundred thousand things he wanted to ask, but one was absolutely pressing. “So Dr. Barbile . . . how do we catch them?”

Barbile looked up at him and began to shake her head. She glanced up briefly, between Isaac and Derkhan who loomed over her like anxious parents, past Lemuel who stood to the side, studiously ignoring her. Her eyes found Mr. X, who was standing by the uncovered window. He had opened it a little, was reaching out to pull in the shutters.

He was standing quite still, looking out.

Magesta Barbile looked over his shoulder at a flickering wash of midnight colours.

Her eyes glazed. Her voice froze.

Something was battering at the window, trying to reach the light.

Barbile rose, as Lemuel and Isaac and Derkhan flocked to her in concern, asking what was wrong, unable to understand her little cries. Her hand rose, shaking, to point to the paralysed figure of Mr. X.

“Oh Jabber . . .” she whispered. “Oh dear Jabber, it’s found me, it’s tasted me . . .”

And then she shrieked, and spun on her heels.

“The mirror!” she screamed as she did so. “Look in the mirror!”

Her tone was fraught and utterly commanding. They obeyed her. She spoke with such desperate authority that not one of them succumbed to the instinct to turn and see.

The four of them gazed into the mirror behind the tattered sofa. They watched transfixed.

Mr. X was stepping backwards with the mindless tramp of a zombie.

Behind him, there was a dark flurry of colour. A terrible shape squeezed and folded in on itself to push its organic folds and spines and bulk through the little window. A blunt eyeless head poked itself through the opening and turned slowly from side to side. The impression was of an impossible birth. The thing that loomed through the space in the glass had made itself small and intricate by contracting in invisible, impossible directions. It shimmered unreally under the strain, hauling its glistening carcass through the opening, arms emerging from its dark bulk to push and strain against the window frame.

Behind the glass those half-hidden wings boiled.