“Be gentle,” muttered Tallow, stepping up to the door. “She scares easily.”

He knocked. Three slow, steady knocks. “It’s me,” he hissed at the lock.

Nothing. He knocked again. Three slow, steady knocks. “It’s me!”

“Let’s go,” hissed Vick. This broke all her rules, and she had a bad feeling. She’d had a bad feeling for years.

Tallow slipped out a key, unlocked the door with a trembling hand, turned the knob and pushed it creaking open. There was a musty-smelling little hall beyond, paper peeling from the mould-speckled plaster.

“Inquisitor Teufel’s with me,” he said softly, like he was trying to coax a skittish cat down from a windowsill. He stepped into a room where dim light flickered, and Vick followed. “You remember Inquisitor Teufel, don’t you?”

“Of course,” said Pike.

He was standing in the centre of the floor with his hands clasped behind him. As if he’d been expecting her for hours.

Vick hadn’t often been taken by total surprise. But this was the second time he’d managed it. She spun around, but there were Practicals in the hallway. Four of them, black-dressed and black-masked. The way they used to be, before the Great Change.

“I get the feeling you might have been expecting someone else,” said Pike. “I can only apologise for that. Please don’t blame Master Tallow. He was only doing his job. Extremely well, I might add.”

Vick stared at Tallow. Somehow, he didn’t look so much like her brother any more. His eyes weren’t sad, they were hard and careful. The way she might’ve looked at a prisoner before she started asking questions.

“Sorry,” he said. But he didn’t look sorry at all.

Pike watched, his burned face, as usual, showing no emotion. She wondered, as usual, whether behind the ruined nerves, the ruined muscles, the ruined skin, he was bursting with feeling, or if he really was a void inside. “The Weaver would like a word,” he said.

Vick swallowed. “Aren’t you the Weaver?”

The corner of Pike’s mouth quivered. “A title I borrowed from a better man.” He gave a nod.

She was seized from behind and a bag was forced over her head.

She didn’t know where they were taking her. She didn’t know who was behind this. She hardly knew what the sides were any more, let alone which one she was supposed to be on. She didn’t even know what betrayal, what deception, what secret she was paying for. Probably she’d never know. Body found floating by the docks. An unsatisfactory ending to her bitter little story.

Occasionally one of the Practicals would murmur, “Steps up here,” or, “Mind your shoulder,” in a polite, disinterested tone, often with a steering tug or a gentle nudge. But never rough. No violence whatsoever.

That, no doubt, would come later.

It took a while to get wherever they were going. Lots of time to think. To feel her stiff hip aching. To listen to her quick breath echoing. To mull over all the deceptions, all the betrayals. The ones she’d done and the ones done to her. By the time they stopped, she’d steeled herself. By the time they pulled off the bag, she was ready for anything. Except the one thing she got.