Fear tinged my eyes with salt. Fear. It was strange. For all the wait and war and worry as humanity churned toward its likely end, I had not had this fear, personal, fanged with loved ones’ pain, not since [Bridger died.] (Mycroft’s draft left this sentence incomplete, but the intended end was obvious.—9A.)

«You won’t be able to track me once I’m in Sniper’s hands.» It was my last defense. «They’re a professional, Lesley and Tully too. Whatever device you plant to trace me with, they’ll find it.»

«There shan’t be a device on thee, Mycroft, we’re leaving thee alone. And I shan’t track thee. Doubtless thy beloved aliens are already conjuring their hordes to hunt for thee.» Dominic lifted Voltaire’s now-lifeless swissnake from the seat. «I’ll follow them. Ah.» He smiled, and from the flicker on his lenses I guessed the car had flashed its landing notice. A few minutes’ flight, then. Our destination was close to Majorca; Europe or North Africa, not farther. «Now, Mycroft,» Dominic pressed, «thou hast play-sparred with the blasphemer—tell me all thou canst about her weaknesses.»

«No, bad Dominic!» Madame gave the too-keen bloodhound a chiding fan-strike. «Now’s the time to be gracious, not cruel. We’re about to send dear Mycroft to potential death. It’s time for last requests, not interrogation.» Her vise of blades tipped me back enough to see her kindly smile. «Come, Mycroft, what wouldst thou? Last messages to send?»

I had plenty, but none that I would speak to her; however harsh my trials, I trust even Providence over Madame.