“No, except it’s outside the Schengen Area, meaning I need a passport, and no, but probably not more than two nights. Maybe less. If you need to know more, you can yell at Danny White, or someone else in OpExec.”

That tears it. OpExec don’t deal with trivial stuff, paranormal parking tickets and the like: if she’s working for them on this assignment, then she’s probably going to come home with her heart—if not her sanity—in pieces. (Assuming she does come home, but that’s a given in our line of work, for both of us: it’s not a risk-free occupation.) Most likely she’s on her way to one of the less-well-equipped countries—the UK has an unusually large and proficient OCCINT service—to help disinfect an ulcer in the skin of reality. There will be plenty of backup and support, but she’s still going to have to do heartbreaking things to people who probably don’t understand why the pale woman with the bone-white violin and blood dripping from her fingertips is coming for them. Innocent bystanders, collateral damage, victims the monsters just haven’t gotten around to eating yet—and the monsters themselves. She has to deal with them all. And here she is, shivering naked in the kitchen at dead of night, and not just with the cold.

“When it’s over, I want to schedule some quality time. A vacation, somewhere safe. A spa weekend, maybe. Would you like that?”

“Yes, Bob.” I hear her, but her heart isn’t in it. She’s gazing inwards again, already thinking herself into the frame she’s got to be in to do her job properly. “We can talk about it when I get back.” I let my arms drop and she steps backwards, away from me. Closer to the kitchen table, so that her left hand is within reach of the violin case. It’s instinctive, she always does that: like a hit man ensuring he knows where his pistol is, so that he can reach it without thinking, using muscle memory in the dark. “I’d better go and get dressed. Are you going to stay up?”

I nod. “I’ll see you off.”

It’s not as if I’ll be able to get back to sleep again.

• • •