Miranda’s hand paused in the middle of reaching for her teacup. “From Julian Outis, I take it?”

The prince nodded, his eyes half-shut but still intent on her face. “I recently discovered that he was making use of my resources in ways that did not relate to the work for which he was hired. I have corrected that oversight. He has been cut off. Soon the sudden death of Julian Outis will be announced, and apart from the publication of one or two posthumous manuscripts, that will be the last the world hears of him.”

“You’re going to kill him?” Fae exclaimed.

The man who preferred to be known as Reis looked astonished, then amused at being accused of such incivility. “Only the persona, I assure you. It will be a simple thing, as the man himself went underground some time ago. Missing, presumed dead, likely the last victim of the City’s notorious serial killer . . . though we may need a few banknotes here and there to paper over the cracks in the story. Witnesses, positive identification of some conveniently discovered remains—it all adds up.” He focused on Miranda again. “But as I said, he vanished a while ago, and I believe he is seeking you.”

“I am not hard to find,” said Miranda. “And although I have never met him personally, he is a frequent enough visitor to the City that I have friends and colleagues who have seen him. Why should I be in danger now?”

Reis relaxed his posture, drew a little more deeply than usual on his cigarette, and took his time answering. “I think you have been in danger for a while. The man we call Julian Outis . . . we discovered that he has been writing notes, rather like the notes an author might make about characters, locations, and events in a book. He has a file that appears to consist entirely of different ways to kill you.”

“What?” Miranda said, too bemused for fear.

“Oh, he never wrote down your real name, but from the location, the events, and the character’s appearance and occupation, it was clear that he meant you: Dr. Miranda Ecouvo, forensic therapist of the City.”

“How do you explain the bus accident, then?” Miranda asked. “Hardly the sort of weapon a murderer can arrange.” She did not like his body language; he was almost aggressively peaceful, reminding her of how her doctors would begin to speak slowly and calmly when about to do something that would cause incredible pain.

He shrugged. “Perhaps the driver was startled. Perhaps he saw something that he had never seen before.”

“Or had seen once in a nightmare and never expected to see in waking light,” she murmured, thinking aloud.

His eyes met hers, communicating the intensity his voice lacked. “Something like that.”