‘Vengeance. What else?’ Sterrington said.

‘Still . . .’ Irene picked her words carefully. ‘She’s a pragmatic woman, from what I remember of her. Pursuing personal vengeance for its own sake doesn’t feel like her style.’

‘Just because we don’t know why she’s doing it, doesn’t invalidate the hypothesis that it’s her,’ Sterrington persisted.

Irene hadn’t finished. ‘Could Lady Guantes be targeting the peace treaty instead, with a sweetener of personal vengeance on the side? Killing all three representatives would cause havoc. She and her husband did try to trigger a dragon–Fae war before, to benefit from the chaos that war brings. That was the whole point of kidnapping Kai.’

Sterrington nodded slowly. ‘It makes sense.’

‘I just wish we knew more about her,’ Irene said in frustration. ‘Lord Guantes was always the more flamboyant one. Or do you know something that I don’t?’

Sterrington shook her head. ‘It seems she liked operating in the shadows. The very opposite to her husband’s archetype. I don’t even know her original name.’

Irene nodded, a thought occurring. ‘Doesn’t the Cardinal have files on everyone?’

‘He certainly has files on Lord Guantes . . . Although, as we said, the lady is secretive,’ Sterrington added.

‘Could you share them?’

‘I suppose I could put in a request,’ she said grudgingly.

‘Thank you.’

‘In the meantime, there’s the question of Silver’s niece,’ Sterrington said, her tone a little too casual. ‘Now you’re a target, you could leave her with me. I’ll guarantee her safety. Then you can hunt down Lady Guantes – you and Prince Kai – without worrying about her.’ Sterrington’s barely hidden enthusiasm was disconcerting.

And give you full access to a Fae who might become a Librarian, a girl who is currently nervous, impressionable and off-balance, Irene thought. I really don’t think so.

Irene knew Sterrington could see the denial in her eyes. However, the Fae just shrugged. ‘The offer’s open. I’d keep her safe. It might be safer for you, too.’

‘In what way?’

‘Catherine has come out of nowhere: no references but Lord Silver, no backing, no personal recommendations, no previous employment records.’ Sterrington paused. ‘Who can be sure about her background? And who might she be talking to behind your back? People have been trying to shoot all of us, but not her.’

Irene wanted to write all this off as spite on Sterrington’s part because she wouldn’t hand the girl over . . . but it did mirror some of her own earlier suspicions about Catherine. ‘Given the savagery of Fae politics, I can see why Silver would keep young family members hidden,’ she said. ‘And so far she’s proven herself trustworthy. Also, they did try to poison her too in Guernsey.’

‘Oh, quite, quite.’ Sterrington leaned forward. ‘But I hope you’re maintaining proper objectivity. Sometimes I think you have a tendency to become . . . emotionally attached to your junior co-workers.’

Irene met Sterrington’s stare with her own best blank face. ‘I’m only interested in books,’ she said, and wished it was true.

There was a rap at the office door, then a young man burst in. The room must have been soundproofed, as Irene could only now hear screams and running in the corridors.

‘Madame,’ the man said, flinching at Sterrington’s glare, ‘forgive me, we need to evacuate. The building’s on fire.’

CHAPTER SEVEN

‘An accident or deliberate?’ Sterrington demanded. The screams were getting louder and Irene could smell smoke.

‘I don’t know, madam . . . But the fire alarms didn’t go off.’

‘Where’s the nearest fire escape?’ Irene asked.

The man looked apologetic. ‘I’m sorry, madam, but we discovered it was badly damaged. The lifts are down for maintenance and the fire has made the stairs impassable. We’ll need to get to the roof and take one of the zeppelins instead.’ He looked pale and his jacket was singed.

Sterrington quickly retrieved a few small objects from a desk drawer. ‘Come on, let’s move. No fire alarms, and the fire escape damaged? Clearly arson. Lead the way, Wickson.’

‘Where is everyone?’ Irene asked, following her into the now noticeably empty corridor. It had been bustling when she was ushered in but now just a few people were visible, disappearing at some speed down a corridor.

‘It’s lunchtime,’ said Wickson, as if that explained everything. Maybe it did. Lunchbreak was a sacred institution in these times.

Sterrington refused to catch Irene’s eye. ‘My personal assistant doesn’t need a lunch hour,’ she said, in an almost defensive tone.

They turned a corner. The fire escape door swung open, offering a view of a black iron staircase, a few stragglers climbing to safety and the opposite city block twenty yards away. Thick smoke curled between them and distant safety.

‘Isn’t the fire escape damaged?’ snapped Sterrington.

Flinching, Wickson said, ‘Yes madam, but only that section below. We can still get to the roof.’ It seemed the rickety rungs were their only hope.

‘To the zeppelins, then,’ Sterrington proclaimed, flinging herself out of the door and onto the stairs.

Of course Irene looked down, just for a moment. Ten storeys below, fire wreathed the building – and the blaze was at least three storeys high. Smoke billowed upwards, increasing with every passing moment, and the air was hot as she breathed it in. Through the windows of the building opposite she saw horrified faces. If only it were close enough to jump.

The metal steps rang beneath her feet as she hurried to the roof, following the fire escape in its zig-zag up the side of the building. She could hear people panicking above her.

Then there was a crash from above that shook the whole building. The stairs shuddered against the wall as though they were about to rip free, tossing them against the flimsy rail. Irene fell to her knees, clinging to the bare metal steps as they shivered under her. When she looked up, she could see that Wickson and Sterrington were braced against the wall.

Irene clawed herself to her feet again, and they all scrambled up the final section to the roof. There Irene paused, taking in the scope of the disaster.

One of the zeppelins had crashed in the middle of the landing space. The other, still anchored to the roof by a tether, was tilting in mid-air, the fans on one side working double-time while the other side faltered. The glass window at the front was shattered – and Irene caught a glimpse of a prone body inside. It began to lose height, also careening down to the landing area. The people on the roof screamed, scattering towards the edge.

No fire alarms, and the fire escape damaged? Clearly arson, Sterrington had said. And now the zeppelins were down too.

Irene pulled herself to her feet, assessing the possibilities. The building nearest to the fire escape was impossible to reach. The remains of the zeppelins were now piled up like a child’s discarded toys, gasbags deflated and girders bent, ropes flapping loose and their canvas torn. The zeppelins’ mooring gear lay uselessly beside them, cables still neatly coiled.