With utmost calm, Renfrew takes Charlie’s jaw into a viselike grip and slips the belt around his head, forcing the tubing between his lips and teeth. Charlie kicks, screams, gags on the tubing; feels a buckle dig into the back of his skull. Beyond Renfrew’s shoulder he becomes aware of Eleanor’s figure standing in the doorway. He wants to make eye contact, tell her not to be afraid, but all he can see is her feet, agitated, rubbing heel on heel. Charlie ceases in his struggles. They are hopeless, and he does not want the child to endure the sight.

“There,” Renfrew says, “that’s better.”

He unscrews the flask, upends the cap, and uses it as a measure.

“Don’t choke, Charlie. You have to swallow. All it is, is salt water. Keep it down, though. If you vomit, you will suffocate.”

Without the slightest hesitation the Master of Smoke and Ethics pours a measure of liquid down the tubing. An instant later it is in Charlie’s mouth, his whole body rebelling against the shock of salt, stomach heaving, dank brown Smoke drifting from his lips.

Renfrew removes the gag, disperses the Smoke with the back of his hand, then pours out another measure and quickly drinks it himself, sealing his lips against the spasm of his gag. They stare at one another, teacher and pupil, each mirroring the desperation of the other’s thirst. Beyond his shoulder, Charlie is dimly aware of soundless movement. Eleanor has slipped away.

At last Renfrew rises from the bed and walks over to the water jug and glasses. He picks up the glasses and carries them over to the night table. The water quivers as he sets it down.

“Perhaps,” Renfrew croaks, speaking against the rawness of his mouth, “perhaps I have not explained myself sufficiently. Baron Naylor and I, we were once like father and son. We made a pact, long ago, to change the world. But he won’t see me anymore and does not answer my letters. I am fighting for change, Charlie, for virtue. All I need to know is that the Naylors are doing the same.”

Charlie stares up at his tormentor.

“I don’t know,” he whispers.

“Tell me everything,” Renfrew answers, “and we will work it out together.” And then, mournfully, his cracked lips twitching with a hint of bitterness: “Why won’t you trust me, Charlie?

“Help me,” Renfrew pleads. “Help me, Charlie, to breed out sin.”

ф

There is a knock at the front door, loud and insistent, three sharp raps that echo through the house. Charlie is grateful to these raps: they save him from the need to answer. It is quite dark now but for the few rays of light that creep up the stairwell from the downstairs lamp. The room’s floorboards, too, prove porous and are outlined by the faint glow of their cracks.