She stands by the hallway window of the second floor and watches him emerge from the hotel’s front doors. He surveys the square, slowly and theatrically, then starts walking in a mincing, unsteady gait. Five yards on a giggle shakes his frame, and he darts to the left down the shadows of an alley. For a heartbeat nobody reacts. Then the men posted in the square all fling themselves into pursuit. Four men, rather than the three Thomas counted: one of the vagrants leaps up from his dirty blanket and joins the chase. A fifth man bursts from the hotel. Their departure is so conspicuous that it raises a cheer and laughter from the drunks, beggars, and ragamuffins that still populate the square. Livia takes it as her signal to leave. The stairwell is empty, the night porters standing in a huddle on the steps outside, wondering at the noise. Within a minute she stands breathless in the shadowy corner where she left Charlie and Thomas. They don’t see her at once, are absorbed in discussion, Charlie talking intently, soothingly at his friend. Thomas’s shoulders are hunched, his good arm raised in front of him, warding Charlie off. His hand is so swollen it looks like a mitt.

They catch sight of her in the same instant. For all their differences their faces show the same expression. Concern. Relief. Love. She smiles despite herself and they each smile back; even Thomas, past his hurt. A moment’s happiness in the chaos of their lives. Then Livia does what has to be done.

She spoils it.

“I know what they are up to,” she says. And: “I have an address.” She unfolds the fist she made ten minutes ago. “He burnt this. Of all the papers he was reluctant to burn, he made sure to burn this!”

They stare at the scrap of paper like it will provide salvation. It is ripped in half and scorched black, had floated up on the chimney’s hot draft and then got stuck upon the brickwork of the fireplace’s outer lip, the paper’s edge still fire-red and smouldering when she snatched it. Together they read the few legible words. A company name and a street address. “Ryman’s Fine Tobacco Products. Manufactory and Wholesale.” The opening line promises a detailed report on the progress made on the construction work performed within the factory cellars. The next line has been eaten by the flame.

A cigarette factory. Construction in its cellar.

A gateway to the sewers.

“How will we find it?” asks Charlie.

“Sebastian gave me money,” Livia answers, displaying the purse. “So I could ride home in a cab. We must hurry,” she adds. “Two thousand two hundred cubic centimetres. How much blood does a human child hold?”

BERTA