What is that noise? A rhythmic shift of air somewhere close by. Am I laughing? “No one’s coming for you, Thisbe.”

“Very funny.”

“No one’s coming for you ever. No one wants you.”

“This is childish.”

“No one wants you, Thisbe. They want Ockham Prospero Saneer. The trial starts tomorrow but there’ve been crowds camped around the courthouse for days. They want Sniper, the world’s turned upside down for Sniper, because Sniper’s a noble creature, and Prospero’s a noble creature. They’re all noble creatures, Thisbe, except you, you’re a…”

Her eyes dared me to finish.

“You’re a tick.”

She snorted. “A tick? That’s the best you have?”

“You’re a tick, Thisbe,” I spat it this time, spat it like a curse. “A tick, and you feed, and you bloat, and you crawl, and you think it makes you something poetic and exciting, like a vampire, and you’re so wrong.”

She threw her head back into laughter. “Says the cannibal.”

“You can’t see, can you? How wrong you are?”

Again her warm, slow smile. “Are you going to make me see? Come on, then? Make me, Mycroft Canner. Make meeeeEEEEEEAAAAAAA!”