“His dreamscape,” he said softly. “What does it feel like?”

“Dark,” I said, “and—”

“Excellent. Say no more.”

He almost ran up the stairs, his cigar lodged in the corner of his mouth. I was left with three suitcases and a dead artist for company, and as much as I liked Pieter, he wasn’t a man of many words.

I checked the clock. Half eleven. Eliza would be back in a few minutes. I made some fresh coffee and went to sit in the living room, where a John William Waterhouse canvas took pride of place: a dark-haired woman in a flowing red dress, gazing into a crystal ball. Jax had paid a lot of money to a trader for three blacklisted Waterhouse paintings. There was a painting of Edward VII, too, decked in his regalia. I opened the window and settled down to read the new pamphlet Jaxon was working on, On the Machinations of the Itinerant Dead. So far it had told me about four kinds of spirit: guardian angel, ghost, muse, and psychopomp. I had yet to read about poltergeists.

Eliza wandered in at twelve, away with the spirits as usual. She handed me a carton of noodles from Lisle Street. “Hey. Don’t suppose you persuaded Pieter to paint Violin and Glass Ball again?”

Eliza Renton was Jax’s trance medium, four years my senior. Her area of expertise was mime-art. Born within striking distance of Bow Bells, she’d worked in an underground theater in the Cut until she was nineteen, when she responded to Jaxon’s pamphlet and got hired. She’d been his main source of income ever since. She had clear olive skin and apple-green eyes, and she kept her golden hair in sugar curls. She was never short of admirers—even spirits loved her—but Jax had a “no commitment” policy, and she stuck to it.

“Not yet. I think he’s got artist’s block.” I put the pamphlet to one side. “Met the newcomers?”

“Just met Nadine. Barely got a ‘hello.’ ” Eliza flopped down next to me. “Are we sure she’s a hisser?”

I cracked open the steaming noodles. “I didn’t see any instruments, but maybe. Have you seen Zeke?”

“I peeked into the office. His aura’s a kind of dark orange.”

“So he’s a fury.”

“He doesn’t look like a fury. Doesn’t seem like he’d say boo to a ghost.” She balanced her prawn crackers on her knee. “Well, if Pieter’s being pig-headed I officially have a window in my schedule. You want to try and drift again?”

“Not until Jax gets the life support.”

“Sure. I think the ventilator is supposed to arrive on Tuesday. We’ll take it easy until then.” She handed me a sketchbook and a pencil. “I meant to ask—could you draw your dreamscape?”

I took them. “Draw it?”