“Terrible. First, I had two hours of instrument practice cancelled because of a problem with the anechoic damping in Practice Room Two—there was too much leakage. Turns out a dripping pipe in the ceiling had soaked some of the panels. Then I had another shitty committee meeting I shouldn’t really talk about, all to do with the fallout from Vakilabad. Our people in the FO are going to deliver a strongly worded complaint, threaten to withhold cooperation if they don’t promise to tell us the entire truth when they ask for assistance in future. There might even be some finger-wagging.” (Which seems only reasonable to me.) “Seems that what’s gotten up certain people’s collective nose isn’t what the Pasdaran wanted me to do, but the way they went about it. I’m afraid I had a little snit.”

Her eyes are puffy, I realize. And she usually spends a few minutes on cosmetic basics before interdepartmental sessions, suggesting— “Oh, Mo.”

She waves it off. “I didn’t break down or get excessively emotional—in the meeting. I did raise my voice a little. Had to remind them I’m not a fucking human waste disposal machine. Crashed and burned afterwards.”

I pivot silently from teapot to drinks cupboard, wherein I locate the remains of the bottle of Glenmorangie from the other night. There are still a couple of fingers left in it so I pour them all into a tumbler and shove it in front of her. “Sun’s over the yardarm. Drink.”

“If I must.” She looks morose. I turn back to the pot, add loose-leaf tea and hot water, and set it aside to brew. “There is a distinct lack of contact with the hard edges of reality in some parts of the organization these days.”

“Alternatively, you spend too much time poking around corners of the envelope that sensible people stay away from,” I propose.

“Somebody’s got to do it.” She stares at me.

“I had an interesting interview with Angleton today,” I say, “between meetings. Well, after one meeting. Then I sort of called another.” I look guilty. “I created a new committee.”

“Oh. Really?”

“I think someone inside the organization is trying to gaslight us.”

“Well, that’d be a first.” She knocks back a startlingly large gulp of water-of-life then puts the tumbler down and fans herself. “Nobody, in the history of the Laundry, has ever tried to pull the wool over anyone else’s eyes—”

“Planet Earth calling?”

“Yes?” She pays attention but she looks worried. My heart goes out to her but I’m not sure how to break through the icy sheen of cynicism she’s wrapping around herself.

“‘There’s no such thing as vampires,’” I finger-quote at her. “I keep hearing that. Even from people who know better.”

“But that’s—” She peers at me. “Bob?”

I peer back at her, confused. “Didn’t I tell you?”

“Tell me what?”