“What’s going on?” asks Sir David.

“I really don’t think you want to ask that question.”

Sweat beads on Sir David’s forehead. “I in-insist.” He takes a deep breath. “I’m su-supposed to keep the board informed of all developments. How did you get in here? What’s going on? Why are you asking about Oscar’s team?”

“Fancy that.” George stares at the banker. “An intelligent question at last. What a shame.”

“What? What’s going on?”

George looks away. “Imagine what it’s like to be more than two hundred years old and not to have seen the sun rise once in all those years. Imagine what it’s like to be an adept at the peak of one’s powers, immune to the depredations of K syndrome, but utterly alone—the carrier of a parasite so disgusting that every man’s hand will be raised against you should they learn of it. Imagine yourself locked in a duel to the death with the only other one of your kind in London, a duel that has been in progress for nearly a century with no victory in sight. Imagine what it is like to wake one morning and discover that your enemy has placed a catspaw inside your finest experimental project, where their pawn has taken control of a nest of ignorant and deadly children who will inevitably bring the full power of the secret state down on their necks and, in all probability, yours. Imagine furthermore that the enemy has cozened you, concealing their intervention, portraying themselves as your ally, cajoling you to lend them your most powerful weapon when in fact the enemy plans to steal your work and then to expose you, to bring your centuries of secret labor to a premature end at the hands of the modern-day witch finders. Imagine, Sir David, the end of all you ever wanted brought about because an idiot banker did not prioritize highly enough a simple request from their master . . .”

George rises and walks over to the curtains that cover the floor-to-ceiling office windows. He parts them carefully and looks out across the glittering nightscape of the East End. The view from thirty stories up is breathtaking; the dust and pollution rendered invisible by distance, the glory of the lights magnified in contrast. He opens the curtains fully and turns to stand with his back to the city. “Forget you asked.”

“What was the question again?” Sir David’s expression is vague, like a dreamer prematurely awakened.

Old George stares hard at Sir David, who freezes, his mouth ajar. A string of spittle begins to slide from one side of a paralyzed lip.