I felt it, floating in the non-space where these abstractions catch hold of the fabric of the universe – and it was different. I mean really different. Now, I knew there were different magical traditions, but I’d always assumed that they shared common characteristics. Sensing the forma Caroline invoked to defy gravity was like listening to Yusef Lateef take his flute into the pentatonic scale, still music, still beautiful, but a whole new landscape of sound.

‘Can you truly fly?’ I asked.

She paused once our feet had settled and whispered in my ear.

‘Not yet,’ she breathed. ‘Soon, though. And then I will be away and free.’

Away from what, I wondered, and free from who?

Nightingale was waiting for us at the bottom of the tree, wearing the oyster coloured Burberry coat that is the closest he’s ever going to get to a high-viz jacket.

‘How did you find us?’ I asked.

‘In the first instance the screamers worked as advertised,’ said Nightingale. ‘Then there were your texts. Beyond that it was just a matter of following the trail of destruction.’

Up the hill there were flashing blue lights visible through the trees.

Guleed chivvied Caroline towards the waiting paramedics while she protested she was fine – which wasn’t the point. As a civilian mixed up in a police operation we had to be able to prove she was uninjured so she couldn’t sue us later.

‘You understand the implications of Martin Chorley being the Faceless Man,’ said Nightingale.

‘Which one?’ I asked and shivered.

‘The revenge aspect,’ he said. ‘There’s a definite cause for concern there.’

‘No shit,’ I said, and held my right hand in front of my face – there was definitely a tremble. ‘Did you warn everyone?’

‘Phoebe is with Olivia at Tyburn’s house, but I lost Reynard when the screamer alerted me and I had to divert here,’ he said. ‘Gone to ground no doubt.’

I stopped walking towards the lights and looked around. What was left of the Orange Asbo was sitting on its roof amongst shattered wood. Nightingale stopped to wait for me.

‘Is anyone looking in our direction?’ I asked.

Nightingale said he couldn’t see anyone, so I turned away, found a convenient tree trunk, leaned over and vomited. Once I’d started I found I couldn’t stop until what seemed like about a month’s worth of dinners had come back-up. I was lightheaded and hollowed out when I’d finished.

Nightingale gave me one of his cream coloured linen handkerchiefs, monogramed and ironed by Molly to such a sharp edge I could have happily used it as a shuriken. I carefully unfolded it and used it to wipe my mouth – he didn’t ask for it back.

The Thames Valley Police were out in force at the house, including an armed response unit who slouched against the sides of their Volvo V70 and glared at us on general principles.