Richard is too startled, too surprised to speak. This winged creature in front of him, this miraculous woman stepping from the basement. He had not really considered, not really thought it was possible and yet . . .

‘This is Mr Gibbs,’ says Mary. ‘He helped me find you.’

‘Thank you,’ says Etta, finding her voice again and holding out her hand as Richard, dumbfounded, shakes it.

‘I thank you too,’ says Natalya. ‘Both of you.’

‘I didn’t know there was more than one of you here,’ says Mary, amazement whirling inside of her. ‘Are you . . .?’ She looks at Natalya. ‘You are not by any chance the woman from St George’s? The church in Bloomsbury where a lady fell ill, is that you?’

Natalya looks at this young woman, marvels at how on earth she could know such a thing and nods slowly.

Mary considers her and frowns. ‘But I thought you were dead,’ she says, almost to herself.

‘No! NO!’ a wail goes up. Annie’s voice. The orange glow of the fire is visible through Edward’s small study window that looks out into the yard, smoke already beginning to billow out of the back door.

‘Fire!’ says Richard and, before anyone can think to stop her, Annie dashes back inside. Richard turns to Mary and she already knows what he will do, perhaps even before he does. They look deep into each other’s eyes – a moment that lasts a fraction of a second but feels like a lifetime – before he turns and runs into the house after Annie.

‘Richard! Richard!’ Mary screams after him, but it is too late.

She goes to follow him, but the dog stands in front of her, blocking her way and barking as Richard disappears into the smoke.

‘Richard!’ she yells again, panic rising, heart thumping. ‘Richard!’

Annie coughs, holds her arm over her mouth as she stumbles down the steps into the basement.

‘Edward!’ she shouts. ‘Edward!’

Smoke fills the hallway and she cannot see him. She checks the empty dissecting room before fumbling her way forward as the wood cladding burns to her right, perilously close to her dress.

‘Edward!’

He is in his study, the door locked from the inside. He ignores her as she raps on the door and peers through the small glass panel.

He has his head in his hands. ‘Are we not in our own way gods you and I?’ Then this was a test. This was all God’s test and he has failed Him – for do not medicine and morality come hand in hand? His angel told him that his ambition blinded him and he cannot face the world without her, cannot face the hordes at Exeter Hall, cannot face his beloved Society ever again. He has nothing to offer. All the promises he has wrought and all for nothing. All is lost. All is turned to dust. He used God’s creatures for his own gain, deluded himself with his own greatness when he was, all along, as his angel had said, merely a man. A man with foibles and faults, hopes and dreams. He has torn up his own life, ripped it into shreds just as he destroyed Annie’s painting. He unpeels the bandage on his arm, looks at the scar, at the angry rash that spreads up and over his skin as he recalls the inscription at St Luke’s, words that now cut him deeply. Miseratione non mercede. For compassion not for gain.