‘Illyria wasn’t ever cut out to read the bones – that wasn’t her aptitude. But she was good with numbers, mathematics, navigation. Took that from her mother, they say. Bosa must have seen the cut of her and knew she could be shaped to fit into the Nightjammer’s crew.’

‘Shaped?’

‘Turned loyal to Bosa. With drugs and psychology to begin with, and surgery if the drugs and psychology didn’t work fast enough.’ Prozor gave me a warning look. ‘I don’t mean clever surgery. Just drillin’ and cuttin’ out the parts of someone that make ’em difficult, if you know what I mean. Whisk a stick through someone’s grey, you can turn ’em pliant as you care.’

I had a shuddery little thought of someone spooning hot butter into porridge, then giving it a good stir.

‘You think Bosa turned Illyria, then.’

‘Turned her, or burned her. Either way, Rack wasn’t getting to see her again.’

‘Then why the crossbow?’

‘Which crossbow?’

‘I’ve been thinking about it ever since left the Monetta, Proz. You mentioned it once, then never brought it up again. The crossbow I found with Rack, the one that killed him. You said it was one of ours, not Bosa’s. And the way he was left with it, his hands still on the crossbow, holding it in his own mouth . . .’

‘Where are you drivin’ with this?’

‘She didn’t kill him, did she? That wasn’t Bosa’s doing. Not directly. But whatever she said to him or showed him, it was enough for Rack to put that crossbow into his mouth and drive a bolt through his own brain.’

‘He’d just lost his crew.’

‘It was more than that. He learned something about Illyria, didn’t he? Something he couldn’t stand to live with. But he must have already known she’d either be turned or dead, and I can’t think of much worse than that.’ The tram lurched to a halt and I had to reach for a pillar to stop myself toppling. ‘Except one thing.’

‘This is our stop,’ Prozor said.

We jostled our way off the tram, me vowing to pick up the conversation as soon as I could. The stubbled man, still on the tram, saw this as his chance to have a valiant final say, muttering something about ugly women sticking together, but he’d reckoned without Prozor. Even as the tram started up again, she pounced back in and swung a punch at the man, catching him neatly on the bristled jowls. He sprawled backwards into his fellow travellers. Prozor hopped back off, dusting her hands even as the man succumbed to a barrage of fists and feet from the other passengers.