Now he allowed himself to wonder the thing he’d been trying not to wonder ever since the sloth first brought it up: whether Alice was here. Part of him was yearning to see her, would have given anything if one of the faces in the crowd could just belong to her. Another part of him hoped that she wasn’t here. She was a niffin now. Maybe that counted as still alive.

There were big metal pillars here and there holding up the ceiling, and Benedict was sitting leaning against one of them, staring off into the pale, empty distance. Half a game of solitaire was arranged in front of him, but he’d lost interest in it, even though it was pretty obvious he wasn’t stuck. He could put a red five of diamonds on a six of clubs.

He looked more like the Benedict Quentin had first met in the map room, than the suntanned bravo he’d become on board the Muntjac. He was pale and thin-armed, with his old black bangs falling over his eyes. His hair had grown back. He looked like a sullen Caravaggio youth. Death made him seem younger.

Quentin stopped.

“Hello, Benedict.”

“Hello,” Julia said.

Benedict’s eyes flicked over to Quentin, then back to the distance.

“I know you can’t take me with you,” he said quietly.

The dead didn’t mince words.

“You’re right,” Quentin said. “I can’t. That’s what the sloth said.”

“So why did you come?”

Now he did look at Quentin, accusingly. Quentin had worried that he would have a gaping wound in his neck, but it was smooth and whole. He’s not a zombie, he’s a ghost, Quentin reminded himself. No, a shade.

“I wanted to see you again.”

Quentin sat down next to him and leaned back against the pillar too. Julia sat down on his other side. Together the three of them looked out at the milling throngs of dead people.

A period of time passed, maybe five minutes, maybe an hour. It was hard to keep track in the underworld. Quentin would have to watch that.

“How are you, Benedict?” Julia said.

Benedict didn’t answer.

“Did you see what happened to me?” he said. “I couldn’t believe it. Bingle said to stay on the ship, but I thought—” He didn’t finish, just frowned helplessly and shook his head. “I wanted to try some of the stuff we’d been practicing. For real, in a real fight. But the minute I stepped off the boat, tschoooo! Right in my throat. Right in the hollow of it.”

He pressed his index finger into the soft part below his Adam’s apple, where the arrow went in.