Quill was relieved and awed and once again scared to see the figure of the Ripper walk purposefully through the wall of Vincent’s office. He found himself flinching at the possibility that she would once more rush to attack him. She looked at him, considered him. Then she turned to look at Vincent.

He was backing away, looking to the scrying glass, but the figure in front of him felt different now, silver hissing from her, her Ripper guise only a garment that she could throw away if she could be bothered. This woman was awake. She made a noise that went beyond sound, and the scrying glass shattered, the pieces of the mirror embedding themselves into walls and furniture, the valuable ancient bloodline from the frame splattering across the desk. Quill lowered an arm and found himself miraculously unharmed.

Vincent managed to stagger forward, bleeding from a gash across his brow. ‘Go back,’ he said, and he still sounded commanding. ‘I didn’t call for you.’

She took a deliberate step towards him.

Vincent considered for a long moment. Then he bolted for the door.

The Ripper waited, and Quill got the feeling she was considering the other presence in the room, the phantom Quill was sure was the Smiling Man. Quill could feel that being’s pleasure, his sense of completion. The Ripper despaired at that feeling.

The Ripper met Quill’s gaze again. He felt himself noted, distantly approved of.

Then there was a blur of silver, and the Ripper was gone through the wall. Quill looked around for that other presence and was thankful to find that he was alone.

*   *   *

Down the night-time side streets of Wapping ran Russell Vincent. His suit was sweaty from him having spent all night in it. It clung to him like a second skin, outlining the contours of his buttocks and thighs, his ragged breaths pushing his muscular chest tight against the silk of his shirt. As he ran, he saw people who were boarding up their doors or looking down from their windows or just doing what they always did and taking shopping from their cars, stopping to point at him as they recognized him. He could imagine the huge web of commentary, of tweets, people saying that a famous media tycoon was running down their street, that he looked afraid. That he would soon be in Whitechapel. In moments, all London would know where he was, that he was being pursued by something. He hoped someone with secret knowledge might see that, might help him, in the hope of a reward.