Grendel nods, distracted, not moving. His eyes are on Sebastian and the bundle he is holding, wriggling now, waking up. At Grendel’s side a new face pushes itself into the sparse glow of the candle. It takes Thomas a heartbeat to recognise him. It’s not just that Charlie is thin. Something has happened to him, a loss weightier than pounds. Still he is smiling. Then the smile freezes on his lips. It might be the sight of Lady Naylor that saps his joy. But Charlie’s eyes are on Livia and Thomas, not on the threesome they have brought.

We are not even touching, Thomas thinks. It must show then, like Smoke.

A moment later Thomas has pushed past Grendel and wrapped Charlie in a hug. His friend hangs limp in his arms, a sack of bones.

CAPTAIN

CAPTAIN

They pick me up at four twenty-five, ship time. Perhaps it is chance that determines the hour, but if they want to scare a man, find him at his most vulnerable, his weakest, they could hardly have picked a better moment. The crew has not returned yet and there is no one to warn me before the hammering on the door. They refuse to let me dress. A man in his nightshirt marched down the gangplank to a coach; his bare legs flashing in the wind: what more ridiculous spectacle can there be?

The stranger in the coach is kindly and stupendously fat. We sit on the same side, and he makes such a depression in the seat cushion that I am forever tumbling towards him. The last I see of my ship is a squadron of men, swarming over its decks. Not one of them wears a uniform. Whatever they are, they wish to appear other. Gentlemen. A gentleman would have allowed me to pull on my drawers. I shiver and fret and feel ashamed for the pools of Soot that glue my nightshirt to my belly and thighs.

I rage at my captor, of course: tell him that I am a subject of Her Majesty, the Queen of the Netherlands; that this is an outrage, an outrage; that I demand to be released at once. But the fat man merely pats my shoulder and never answers, as though agreeing with me that these words need to be said, that they are part of the form of things, and that it is best to get them all out at once. The only time he interrupts me is when my protestations take on the pitch of a shout. Then he lays a finger across his lips. He is wearing gloves. It quiets me down, precisely this part, his wearing gloves. Of course it is cold, and no gentleman is fully dressed without. Still, it brings something home. The potential for violence. It is easy to picture these gloves bunched into fists. And all the time he is cheerfully silent.