“Nora?” he says. Barely managing to find a human voice.

But Nora is face down on the floor in a puddle of blood.

Ernesto Candlefly had stayed out of the way, called home to the family. Spoke first to his wife, then to his Uncle Borja. Explained what was happening. Or tried to. Then came along James Werth with the gun, and Haversham – of all the people – to save the day.

Konrad Zoladski’s transformation, on the other hand, was a beautiful thing. And only just beginning, by the look of it. The monster that Mookie Pearl became should have been easy pickings: strong, yes, but slow. No match for a god. But this god had yet to realize his full form.

And so, this charade is now prolonged. As Candlefly ascends the cratered steps, he sees that Mookie is pinned behind the door of the study. Zoladski – or, perhaps it is time for Candlefly to begin thinking of him by his proper name, Vithra – slams against the door again and again with the rage of a starving devil.

Sorago hurries up to Candlefly as Candlefly emerges.

“I failed you,” the assassin says, bowing his head.

“Shut up, old friend. This will be over soon enough. Vithra will handle it.”

“But–”

“Look. He’s almost torn the door apart.” He has – already it is splintering against the onslaught of his metal claws. But oh, what’s this? Is that a glint of envy in Sorago’s serpentine eye? Good. Punishment for his failure. Let him fear that he’s fallen in Ernesto’s estimation. That is something Candlefly can use.

The door is splintering. Rocking against the bookshelf.

Nora. Nora. She’s dead. She’s really–

Her back. Still lifting gently. Rise and fall. Breath. Life.

On a nearby table is his bag. And his cleaver. That’s where Werth got the Red Rage. Did he also take…

“Nora,” he roars. Nothing. No movement.

He needs to get to the satchel.

Wham. The Boss-thing is through the door. Books rattle. His claws are tearing the mahogany back off the bookshelf now.

Mookie storms across the room. Grabs his bag, opens it. His giant hands can barely handle this task – they tear the bag in twain. At first he doesn’t see it and he thinks: they have it, or Werth took it, or it’s gone, we’re dead, she’s dead; and again panic scrabbles against his mental walls like tarantulas on fire.

But then–

There. The box. The Ochre. Werth didn’t take it.

The Golden Gate.

Gate. That’s what they need.

Some way out. To anywhere.

The glutinous golden sap crawls in the glass.

A dread thought hits him: I have no idea what to do with this.

Drink it? Rub it on his temples like Cerulean? On his gums like blow?

Shit! He should have asked Burnsy.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. They’re all right. You are dumb as a, as a…