I jolted upright, only to reel back to my pillow, swallowing a groan. My head was killing me. When had I gone to bed? Had I finished the paperwork? I shifted on to my side, fighting to gather my thoughts. Gooseflesh washed over my skin.

When I remembered what had happened, I pulled a sheet over my head. I had failed. Jaxon would fire me in the morning. I stifled a weak laugh at the prospect of dismissal from my criminal job. First I had failed to impress him with my gift; then I had fallen asleep mid-task. I might as well pack my bags and go now, save myself the humiliation.

A light switched on outside my room. I kept the sheet over my eyes. A weight sank on to the edge of the mattress.

‘Paige, are you awake?’

‘What time is it?’ I murmured.

‘One in the morning.’ Eliza poked me. ‘I made tea. Dealing with ‘geists always gives me a chill.’

I emerged, pushing my curls back from my face. Eliza was in her nightclothes and a cardigan, and her face was bare. She offered a steaming mug, which I took.

‘Did you fall asleep?’ I asked.

‘No. I had to finish your paperwork,’ she said. When I dropped my gaze, she touched my shoulder. ‘Jaxon did, though. Nick and I were using spools – you two were using your gifts. Yourselves. This is part of what it is to be clairvoyant. There’s a saying in the syndicate: the æther takes as often as it gives.’

Jaxon had been just as burned out by the encounter with Sally, then. It was only a small consolation.

Eliza produced a hand-chased silver pillbox from her pocket. ‘Here.’ She flicked it open and plucked out a pill. ‘Nick said you’d have a headache.’

‘Jaxon’s going to fire me, isn’t he?’ I asked quietly.

No reply. I wasn’t sure whether she hadn’t heard, or was just ignoring me. She busied herself with inspecting my cheek, where Bloatface had caught me with his elbow.

‘That’ll be a nasty bruise,’ she said. ‘And your throat – that will hurt for a while.’

‘Eliza.’

‘We’ll talk about Jaxon later. You’ve been asleep for hours – you need something to eat. I think it’s about time we introduced you to Chateline’s, the best cookshop in London.’

‘Now?’

‘It’s open all night. Rumour has it that the owner never sleeps – he won’t let anyone else cook.’ When I went for my clothes, she said, ‘No need to dress up. I regularly go in my slippers.’

A lump was swelling in my throat. She and Nick often went for supper in the evenings. They had never invited me before. This must be a final kindness before they cut me loose.