And God help me, I know in my gut he is right. If we want to stop this (whatever this is), put an end to this infernal plot, it is by far the safest option. The child is the key. Aschenstedt and Lady Naylor paid a fortune to have him smuggled into the country. Even now she is looking to the boy, waiting for something, some revelation or event. Once he is eliminated, we can arrest her at our leisure. She is a lady of the peerage, she has the right to a trial. Not so the child. And after all, it is our duty. For Queen and country; for the good of the state. It wills it. We must obey.

Boswell is looking to me with his Smoke-curdled eyes. An impatient look. He is awaiting the order from his commanding officer. I look straight back. Beyond the bars, in a part of the room we cannot see, a voice calls out, the words swallowed by distance. Lady Naylor rises and answers; her hand discloses a snub-nosed gun. She steps, gestures, commands. A patrician voice.

Her son’s Smoke is filling our lungs.

Boswell tastes it, licks it, decides. His finger curls around the trigger. My hand slaps the barrel when the bullet is already racing along inside: I feel the hot quiver of its passage. It is treason then and nothing less, the deliberate betrayal of my mission. Borne of what? Of decency, I suppose, a distaste for death. It appears the witchfinder in me has lost his callous love of justice. I have been a headmaster for far too long.

The shot is deafening. The bullet hits the table, an explosion of glass. Then everything happens very fast. Boswell is working the bolt for a second shot when Julius takes the gun away from him. He does not wrestle it free or even wrench it: he simply takes it into his broken hands. Takes it, turns it, swings it, and buries it inch-deep in Boswell’s face. The man is dead before he hits the ground. A black cloud leaps out of him and straight up Julius’s chest like a dog changing masters. Then Julius turns the gun on me.

He gives me time to draw my Colt. God only knows what thought is running through him now: in his face not hatred but sulky petulance at not having had his way. I fumble for the holster, tear free the revolver but cannot thread my finger through the hole. In the end I let it drop. It falls and spins between my toes.