“Precisely. Imagine if a man like Grendel fell into the hands of Renfrew. How long before he’d start dreaming of a race of men just like him? It’s what he wants after all. A nation of choirboys. Of automata. And he’s a good scientist, your Dr. Renfrew. God knows what he might cook up in his laboratory.”

“Renfrew’s dead.”

“Dead? No, he isn’t. I asked Sebastian to make inquiries. Gravely injured, it is said. Stabbed and mauled by an intruder. There are rumours that it took ‘Continental medicine’ to save him.”

“I am glad he’s alive.”

Charlie says it slowly, after much thought, a note of wonder in his voice. Livia hears it and feels a pang of pride constrict her chest.

Then she turns away from him and watches Thomas search her mother’s room.

ф

The room is small and stuffy with spent air. Other than the heavy-framed bed, it holds a wardrobe, a washbowl, and a chair. Thomas stands still for a minute, lets his eyes wander. The wardrobe’s door is broken and stands open; it holds nothing but clothes, Lady Naylor’s hanging from hooks, the Grendels’ displaced onto the wardrobe floor. The bed is made; when Thomas runs his hand under the sheet he finds a negligee. A silver hairbrush is tucked beneath the pillow. Underneath the bed stands milady’s travelling valise, holding underclothes and a collection of French poetry. Its frontispiece shows a naked woman in the embrace of a swan.