The silence stretched on for what seemed like hours. I took a sip of wine. The unfamiliar alcohol felt sharp on my tongue.

“It is well that the blood-consort has chosen such a worthy human tenant as 40,” Nashira said, with a faint laugh. Her laugh was disconcerting, like hearing a bell that had struck the wrong note. “She was able to fight the Buzzer alone, without her keeper.”

More silence. I guessed none of them had ever been into the woods without a Reph escort, let alone tried to fight a Buzzer single-handed. 30 took the opportunity to voice exactly what I was thinking: “You mean he doesn’t fight the Emim, blood-sovereign?”

“The blood-consort is forbidden from engaging with the Emim. As my future mate, it would be inappropriate for him to do the work of red-jackets.”

“Of course, blood-sovereign.”

Nashira was looking at me. I could sense it. I carried on eating my potatoes.

Warden did fight the Emim. I’d cleaned his wounds myself. He’d gone against Nashira, and she had no idea, or if she did, it was just suspicion.

For several minutes, only the clink of cutlery disturbed the silence. I ate my vegetables and gravy, still thinking of Warden’s secret dealings with the Emim. He’d never had to risk his life, yet he’d chosen to go out and fight them. There must be a reason.

The red-jackets talked in low voices. They asked each other about their residences, marveling at the beauty of the old buildings. Sometimes they slighted the harlies (“Cowards, really, even the nice ones”). Kathryn toyed with her food, flinching if the Rookery was mentioned. 30 was still pink-faced, while Carl chewed with excessive force, alternating mouthfuls with his second glass of wine. Only when all the plates were clean did the amaurotics return to clear the table, leaving us with three dessert platters. Nashira waited for the red-jackets to serve themselves before she spoke again.

“Now you are fed and watered, my friends, let us have a little entertainment.”

Carl wiped the treacle from his mouth with his serviette. A troupe of harlies filed into the room. Among them was a whisperer. When Nashira nodded, he raised his violin to his shoulder and played a soft, lively tune. The others began to perform graceful acrobatics.

“To business, then,” Nashira said. She didn’t even look at the performance. “If any of you have ever conversed with the Overseer, you may know what he does to earn his keep. He is my procurer for the Bone Seasons. For the last few decades, I have been attempting to procure valuable clairvoyants from the crime syndicate of Scion London. No doubt many of you are aware of it; some of you may even have been part of it.”