They sit defeated, both boys rubbing their shoulders. Livia looks from one to the other, Charlie’s lean, honest runner’s face; Thomas bolder, more intense, ugly in his anger. She pictures herself walking over to them, wedging herself there, in the half-foot gap between their hips. A step from them the respirator leers from its nail on the wall, its saucer eyes reflecting a twinned her.

Then: a knock on the front door. Five little raps, so soft Livia barely hears them. A friend calling. Steps answer, coming from the kitchen.

“See! Here they are back already.”

Mrs. Grendel’s voice sounds pleased with the development. It is their first hint that she is not comfortable with the situation.

They hear her open the door. The next instant there is the opening syllable of surprise, or perhaps it is a question, cut short before it shapes itself into words. It is followed by the sound of two pairs of footsteps, very close together, as of two people dancing, eerie in their tidiness. The steps stop outside the door and a new sound finds them, an animal sniffing, head-high. Through the gap underneath the door a haze invades the room, dark and tentacular, leaving tracks on the floorboards. It’s Charlie who reacts first, scrambling to his feet, drawing Thomas and Livia away from the door.

“It’s Julius.”

The steps resume, still locked in dance. As they retreat into the kitchen, there sounds a scream, the pure notes of panic, a voice so divorced from its normal usage that it takes Livia a heartbeat to ascribe it to Mrs. Grendel. The next moment, Thomas has once again thrown himself against the door. He hammers on it. It does not drown out the second scream. Neither does his shouting.

“Julius!” he shouts. “Julius Spencer. What are you doing to her?”

Beside him Charlie stands, face drained of colour.

“Julius is not what he used to be,” he says.

He has used these words before, precisely these words, talking about the events at Renfrew’s. It is only now that Livia begins to understand what he means.

Then the presence returns to the door. A voice: Julius’s, not Julius’s. Speaking not to them as a group but only to Thomas. As though Julius knows he is there, inches away, right behind the door.

“Are you listening, cousin? How weak you smell. Naked, are you? Come now, don your rage. Here, I’ll help: bait the badger. First the old lady. Livia next. It’ll bring out your plumage. Then we wed.”

“Don’t,” Thomas pleads.

Julius does not appear to hear.

“Locked you in. Thick door! Good of her. A helping hand. Or is it luck? Fortuna is a woman. I am her husband, I am her child. I am the darkness behind her eyelids. I am. .”