‘I promise I won’t hurt you. Come, Tommy. Sit down next to me. Tell me all your secrets. You must have some. Everybody keeps something to themselves.’

Zita was still looking at him with the same demeanour. Tom went to sit next to her, and she stroked his cheek with her finger. An electric sensation passed over him.

‘Zita …’

‘Hush, now, Tommy boy,’ she whispered. ‘No need to say anything. I know what you want. My beautiful Tommy.’

The door burst open.

Framed in the doorway was Zita, the real Zita. She looked worried, and her expression changed into one of great relief when she saw Tom.

‘Tommy, don’t!’

He sprang away from the bed.

‘You’re all right!’

The apparition dissolved into shreds of mist.

‘Better check this room quickly.’ Tom closed his eyes, sensing the room unfold in his mind’s eye; all of it was brimming with energy, but it was Jack’s alone.

‘Come on, I’ve looked at four of them. How many have you done?’

‘Just two.’

‘What are these things?’ Tom said, as they closed the door behind them.

‘Glamours of memory, of desire, all sorts of glamours. He knows what he’s doing, Jack! I don’t know what we’ll find in the final room.’

‘What was in the others? What did you see?’

Zita went pink. ‘One day, darling boy, you’ll be old enough for me to tell you.’

The final room was under the eaves in the western corner of the house. Leana was sitting on the landing, as motionless as a stone statue of a dog guarding a doorstep. Only the very ends of her whiskers were twitching, as if she were sensing the air. Tom wondered if the dog were as gifted as Zita and Kit.

The door, like the others, was latched. Tom lifted up the latch quietly.

They stood for a second on the threshold, and Tom found his hand grazing Zita’s, and her fingers curled round his.

He and Zita went through together.

They found themselves in a darkened room. The curtains were closed, and the window too. There was a double bed tucked into the far side, and a heavy, ancient wardrobe.

Someone was asleep on the bed, breathing quietly.

‘Is that her?’ Tom moved closer. ‘Could that be the Captive?’

Zita looked nonplussed. ‘I just … I just don’t know.’

They edged nearer the bed.

Their eyes were growing accustomed to the gloom. It was strangely quiet, and Tom could not even hear the sound of traffic.

On the bed was a young man, lying on his back, in a deep sleep.

His features looked surprisingly like Tom’s.

‘My God,’ whispered Tom. ‘I can’t go any closer.’

‘Why not?’

‘I don’t know. It’s like there’s a forcefield around him.’ Then he realised: ‘It’s him. It’s Jack.’

Tom sent his mind out into the room.

Almost immediately he sensed something different.