She nods. Her neck muscles are still tense, but she takes the glass. “I can’t afford to lose track of normal, Bob. Most of our friends aren’t normal anymore—neither are we.”

I take a sip (okay, a mouthful) of pinot noir and swallow. “Dead right.” Pete (vicar) and Sandy (teacher) are some of our few remaining friends outside the organization. If I was a Harry Potter fan (and offensively stupid besides) I’d call them “muggles.” But that’s exactly the wrong way to look at the picture. Those of us who have too much to do with the supernatural aren’t wizards, but monsters. Or in danger of becoming monsters.

Over time, most of our circle have either moved away or started families; we increasingly socialize with workmates because it’s safe and easy. They understand why we can’t talk about certain parts of our office days, and we don’t risk endangering their world view by accidentally exposing them to the nihilistic truth. Our grip on everyday normality is, shall we say, eroding like the cliffs north of Aldeburgh. Lose that grip, and . . .

“We need more normal in our life,” I say. “Especially now that I’ve been roped into, into . . .” I can’t say it. Into the irregular twilight at the edge of the organization that she’s been quietly slipping in and out of for so long, carrying that damned violin.

“Easier said than done.” She takes in some wine, then slowly twirls the stem of the glass between her fingers, staring at the film of red washing up the sides of the bulb. I’ve seen this often enough to realize that right now she’s in danger of tipping from anger into bitterness. “We haven’t been normal since—”

“We could go out more often,” I suggest. “Do normal things, meet normal people. Take up”—I search for a good idea, come up blank—“going to the theater? Opera?” (I detest opera and have no time for classical music in general, but Mo is rather a keen violinist.) “Bingo?”

Her cheek twitches. “We’re a bit young for that, dear.”

“We could get a cat.” I’m not sure where that idea comes from, but it’s an ordinary people kind of thing to do. Normal folks can also have children, but in our line of work that would be highly inadvisable. Even if we wanted kids, knowing the nature of the world we’d be bringing them into would give us second thoughts. But a cat . . . what could possibly go wrong with that?

“Are you volunteering for litter tray duties?”

I shrug. “It can’t be worse than riding herd on software updates for six computers, two phones, and a tablet. Can it?”

“If you’re sure—” Her eyes narrow. “Hmm. A cat.” Pause. “Have you ever lived with a cat before?”