He leans towards it, reluctant to touch it, then dips a pinkie in, retrieves it, holds it close to the lamp. They put their heads together, stare at its darkness. As she did the previous day, Livia pulls out the stub of a cigarette, undoes the paper, picks through its contents. It’s like comparing road grit with purest tar. There is no easy way of telling whether this Soot is quickened or remains inert.

“How will your mother save the world with this?” Thomas wipes his finger on the floor, then rubs the spot with a heel, unable to erase the mark.

“We could ask her. Press her on the point.”

“No, Charlie. No more questions, no more lies, no more oaths ‘on her husband’s life.’ The only thing worth knowing is what we learn for ourselves.”

Neither Livia nor Charlie sees fit to disagree. Instead, Livia asks Thomas, “Are we holding on to it?”

“You do it. I cannot stand to look at it.”

“Then we need a container with a lid. I will ask Grendel for a mustard jar.”

“He is spending time with your mother, Grendel is. I saw them talking just now. She talks. He listens.”

Charlie says it flatly, without insinuation, but immediately Livia is in a temper.

“He is helping Mowgli!” She makes to say more, but then jumps up and storms out, hands deep in her pockets like the urchin as whom she is dressed.

ф

They remain alone in silence, Thomas and Charlie, legs sprawled in front of them across the floor. It is like it was at school; a mouldy wall where bathroom tiles should have cooled their backs. It’s good this, Charlie thinks, feeling his friend’s weight against his shoulder. Familial; familiar. He is sitting by Thomas’s good ear. It would feel less of a comfort, perhaps, whispering into the wound.

“I have been thinking,” he says, “about what Lady Naylor said. She must have a hand in cigarette manufacture. There is no other way she would know: about the fact that asylums sell the manufacturers their Soot.”

“Do you think she owns the factory?”

“No. She would not need to borrow money if she did.”

“The Spencers then.”

“Them, and a few others. Cigarettes and sweets. The bedrock of Empire.” Charlie spits, feels his breath grow dark. “Funny thing about greed,” he continues. “It doesn’t generate Smoke. I imagine it’s quite a problem for our theologians.”

Thomas turns to him, puts an arm around his shoulder.

“Don’t be bitter, Charlie. It does not become you.”

Charlie tries not to be. It is difficult, he finds. He had no cause before to feel ashamed for being a Cooper.

ф

As they settle down to sleep, Thomas asks him one more question. He asks it gently, into the two-foot gap that separates their bedding.

“Have you talked to Livia?” he asks.

“Not yet.”

“You should.” Then: “She misses you.”