“I can’t believe it’s fucking Philos that Rufus nominated as head of the household!” Victoria says, still agitated. “At least Juventus is bigger. How’s Philos going to scare the spirits off? Being sneakier than they are?”

“Rufus knows what he is doing. He’s assured me Philos will have the authority to protect us,” Amara replies, getting up from the couch to go and sit next to Victoria. She puts an arm around her, knowing how much Victoria has been dreading this night. Britannica’s angry tribe are not the only ghosts to fear. Even more worrying is the man Victoria killed, whose shade will be waiting to revenge himself on the murderer who left his corpse, unburied, in the hidden alleys of the Necropolis. “Nothing’s going to hurt you,” Amara says. “I promise.” Victoria leans on her, but the words don’t seem to bring her any comfort, perhaps because Amara herself is afraid. Amara wishes Philos were here now—his presence never fails to reassure her. But the pair of them decided last night it was safer to split the household, for him to eat as usual with Martha and Juventus in the small storeroom off the kitchen. They have both been scrupulously ignoring one another, yet both felt the risk of eating together and letting some familiarity slip was just too high.

“We’ll just have to beat the pots louder,” Victoria says, pulling herself together. “We should go get them. It must be time soon.”

They line their sandals against the atrium wall and stand in a huddle, clutching sticks and pans from the kitchen. The hall could almost be a tomb, darkness filling every crevice like black soil, the small square onto the night sky their last link to the living world. The dread is suffocating. Amara can hear Victoria’s breathing coming too fast beside her and strokes her arm. Victoria isn’t alone in wishing she had not just learned Britannica’s entire family were massacred.

“What if she’s up there, speaking to them?” Victoria whispers. “Sending them down here for revenge?”

Amara does not get the chance to reply. It is midnight. Philos leaves the group, holding an oil lamp in his left hand, and walks silently in his bare feet to the center of the hall. He stops in a dull patch of moonlight, a slight figure to set against the forces of darkness.

“Ghosts of my fathers and ancestors,” he calls in a clear voice. “Be gone and do not linger here.” He starts to walk around the hall, reaching into a bag tied at his waist and throwing black beans over his shoulder. The sound of them falling on the tiles is like the patter of rain. Light flickers over his face from the lamp, its glow barely enough to illuminate the space ahead as he walks. Philos never looks back—to do so would be to invite the dead to take him.