‘Can’t you just use the Language to order it out of my body?’ Catherine asked.

‘I might if it had gone in via a wound,’ Irene said. ‘But if you’ve eaten it, that’s more difficult. And right now we can’t stop for help.’

Then Irene looked at Catherine – really looked at her, for the first time that day. The young woman was genuinely shaken. Poisonings and gun battles weren’t an everyday risk to her – and wasn’t that a depressing reflection on her and Kai’s lives, she reflected bitterly. No, this needed to be handled carefully, with empathy.

This was why Irene wasn’t keen on students. She didn’t like being empathetic. She would much rather be businesslike. Lord Silver had assured her this was the life that Catherine wanted, and Catherine had agreed . . . but at this precise moment, her student seemed to be reconsidering her choices.

She sat down next to Catherine and put an arm round her shoulders. ‘I’m sorry this happened to you,’ she said. ‘This was supposed to be an easy pickup job, getting us away from assassins and kidnappers. But right now, I need you to stay calm and keep things together.’

Catherine wriggled round to look up at Irene. She hadn’t had a chance to adjust her hat and veil, and raindrops lay like mist on her bronze hair. ‘This isn’t just some sort of joke?’ she said, not very hopefully.

‘No. I’m afraid a trap was set, and we very nearly all walked into it.’ Irene tried to think of something suitably encouraging to say – something to reassure the topaz-eyed young Fae who suddenly seemed so terribly fragile. ‘If I had known this job would be dangerous, I’d have left you back in London. I’d have sent you to your uncle to keep you safe.’

‘That wouldn’t have been very safe.’

She had a point. But while Lord Silver wasn’t the most reliable of people, he did have a lot of money, and money could buy a lot of guards. ‘Well done on getting the book, anyhow,’ she said. ‘Now we wait. We’ll be on our way home soon.’

Kai settled himself next to her, the firm strength of his body a comfort against the cold rain, and folded a hand around hers. She returned the grasp and watched the countryside go past. The occasional farms and houses were granite or whitewashed, and some had seats set round the chimneys – to stop the witches, other passengers informed Irene. Roadside stalls promised fresh vegetables, cows grazed in fields, and enormous greenhouses appeared in the middle distance. It all looked so safe . . . but Irene had no way of knowing who might be chasing them. She felt like a mouse scurrying across an open field, with birds of prey circling above. They had no allies here, and they were dangerously exposed.

And what if this whole affair had been calculated to make them run for the zeppelin port? Irene wouldn’t put it past Lord Guantes . . . while he was alive, at least. She’d seen him die twice now, and she wouldn’t put money on him staying that way.

‘We’re coming up to the port,’ another passenger said, helpfully pointing to a couple of small airships tethered behind a metal fence. ‘But not many will be flying today. The rain, you know.’

‘I know,’ Irene said with feeling. She disembarked with Catherine and Kai. A couple of locals clambered down from the carriage, but none headed for the zeppelin port, making their way towards the main road instead.

‘Kai,’ Irene said quietly, as they trudged towards the airfield entrance, ‘can you do anything to clear up the weather? I’ve seen you cause a storm before.’

Kai was already rather pale, and the rain sleeked his hair, enhancing the bone structure of his face till he looked positively consumptive – though, as usual, in the most handsome way possible. ‘It’s easier to call a storm than stop one,’ he admitted. ‘My affinity with water makes it possible to invite the rain and turn it loose at a chosen moment, in the right conditions. But stopping the rain and wind . . . no, not really. Maybe when I’m older.’

‘What a pity we don’t have years to wait,’ Catherine said, her temper not improved. ‘Irene, why can’t we just find a hotel and stay there till the weather’s better, and deal with the poison there? Even if someone saw us get on the tram, they won’t know where we got off. We can go cross-country and hide.’

Irene swallowed the objections that came to mind, such as the difficulty of going cross-country over winter fields on foot in the rain. Catherine was doing her best to make a helpful contribution, and Irene was sure she’d made similarly ‘helpful’ contributions during her own training. ‘We have a problem.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Someone knows too much. Someone knew that Vale was going down into that submarine base. Someone knew we were planning to buy that book. We can’t be sure how much else they know, or what other plans they may have in motion – which is why I want us off the island and well out of their reach. And I want you two to receive proper medical care as soon as possible.’

‘What about Vale?’ Kai asked.

‘Already here,’ said the man slouching next to the gates. To all appearances, Vale was a local engineer in canvas trousers and one of the island’s heavy knitted sweaters, with heavy boots and flat cap, nursing a cigarette. ‘Don’t react. Just keep going, then turn right and head for the small zeppelin with two yellow stripes at the far end. I’ll follow you.’

Irene jerked her head in a gesture that might have been shaking rain off her hat and veil – though Vale would understand it as acknowledgement – and kept on walking, as did Kai. Catherine hesitated, then hurried to join them.

The zeppelin with the double yellow stripes hung above them in the sky, pivoting in slow arcs but anchored by ropes and ladders to the ground. Irene felt her shoulder blades tense as they approached it, as if she had a target painted on her back. She suppressed the urge to look round in case someone was following them. At least in the open field, nobody could sneak up close . . .

‘Stop right there!’ someone shouted in French.

Irene cursed fate, timing, and everything that thwarted escapes by ten seconds. ‘Help Catherine up there – I’ll handle this,’ she told Kai, shoving the laptop into his hands. Before he could stop her, she turned round, adopting an air of mild confusion.

Half a dozen men were running towards them, wearing the uniform that Irene had seen elsewhere on the airfield. It sported more braid and buttons than were strictly necessary to inspire confidence. ‘May I help you, gentlemen?’ she enquired in French.

Out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of Vale, still disguised, heading for their target zeppelin at a brisk jog. Good.

‘Madame,’ said the man with the most braid and the heaviest moustache, ‘you and your companions must come with us at once, to answer charges of murder in the high street. Your companions also—’

Irene held up a hand to interrupt him and shifted to the Language. This one rarely failed her. ‘You all perceive that we are not the people you’re looking for,’ she commanded.

She saw the belief take hold as the Language adjusted their perceptions, and she relaxed – just in time for the resulting headache to hit hard. She winced and was about to add something along the lines of You perceive they’re actually at the other end of the airfield. Then a bullet whipped through the air inches from her skull.