There were no bombs – no obvious ones, at least. No giant spiders. No assassins hiding behind curtains. Irene prowled silently through the house, looking for traces of someone trying to kill her. Her heart jumped into her throat at every noise from the street outside. Finally she had to admit that either the house wasn’t primed to murder her, or the trap was so well prepared that she couldn’t find any infernal devices.

Perhaps I’m looking at this the wrong way. If Lord Guantes is back, and given what a devious, gloating, overly intricate plotter he is, what would he do?

When she put it that way, the answer was obvious.

Her private study was as quiet and apparently undisturbed as the rest of the house. But, as she’d partly expected, there were two letters on the desk, in sealed envelopes. One was in Catherine’s handwriting. The other . . . wasn’t.

Gripped by a sense of urgency, she ripped open the letter from Catherine first. The peace treaty could be over if Catherine walked into a trap and ended up dead. But her first concern was for the safety of her apprentice. Catherine knew the situation was bad. She didn’t know how bad.

The scrawled note inside – clearly written in haste, using pen and ink from the study desk – was brief: Irene, I’m going to check out Kenneth and Ruthcomb, the bookseller which helped arrange the Merlin sale. I’ll meet you back at the hospital. Catherine.

Irene suppressed her urge to tear up the missive and throw it in the bin. She forced herself to be fair. Catherine might be ridiculously careless of her own safety, but this was a reasonable line of investigation. The Fae had potential – if Irene could keep her alive long enough to realize it. Right now, Catherine couldn’t be that far ahead of Irene.

But there was also the second envelope.

She drew on her gloves as an extra precaution and carefully eased it open with a paperknife.

The letter inside was written on expensive notepaper, in a distinguished hand. She glanced at the end and was rewarded by the signature – Guantes. Irene suppressed pleasure at this useful confirmation of her fears and continued reading.

My dear Miss Winters,

You will have realized by now that I intend to bring down irretrievable ruin on you, your loved ones, your friends and associates, your workplace and anything else that comes to mind. Please don’t feel obliged to thank me. It is my pleasure entirely.

That was certainly Lord Guantes’ style – as grandiose as ever. She read on.

You have always struck me as an understanding woman.

Pure sarcasm. He hardly knew her. Besides, any discussion which began with how understanding she was, was likely to end with what she could do for them.

So I’m sure that you can appreciate quite how unpleasant it was for me when you foiled my plans and stabbed me. It also caused my wife a great deal of unhappiness. (She sends her regards.)

Irene felt the back of her neck crawl as she read, and suppressed the urge to check nobody had crept up behind her. These sentiments were usually expressed over the point of a dagger, or immediately after a target had drunk poison, or when the victim thought she was alone . . .

But as a reasonable man, I’m willing to propose a deal: if you hand yourself over, I will let the others live.

Just how stupid did he think she was? Even if the Fae had to keep their given word, a statement like that offered all sorts of opportunities for evasion. There were a great many things that could be done to someone while still ‘letting them live’. Things that Irene didn’t particularly want to consider.

I can hardly give you my address and expect you to turn up on my doorstep. However, we both know you’ll think of some way to track me down. So my offer is this: if you find me and surrender yourself, I will call off the hunt. Otherwise . . . well, I won’t go into details. It would be a waste of good paper.

If you don’t find me, you will die in any case. But you will be taking your friends with you to an early grave. Their blood will be on your hands.

Consider that, before you make any rash decisions.

Guantes

She didn’t think much of his attempt at emotional manipulation. Unfortunately, she was up against a melodramatic villain with no sense of proportion when it came to vengeance.

Irene pocketed the letter and left the house through the secret entrance. At the moment she felt like a juggler with too many balls in the air – Kai, Catherine, Sterrington, Vale, Singh – and the rest of London besides. She needed to at least catch Catherine before things became any worse.

The bottom of Irene’s empty teacup stared up at her. After a very significant first stop, which had eased her mind a little, she was now staking out her target from an inexpensive teashop. It was the sort that served factory girls, underpaid secretaries and teachers. She’d changed her clothing to fit the location, and she was reasonably confident that she’d lost anyone trailing her. This London might be foggy and wet, but its prevailing fashion for scarves and veils was convenient for escaping followers. And now she had a plan – at least where Catherine was concerned.

She’d been looking at this from the wrong point of view. She didn’t want to follow Catherine. She wanted to get ahead of her, but she needed to do it before the young woman threw herself neck-deep into trouble.

Catherine wanted to be useful, to show her worth to the Library. She’d been in on the hunt for the Malory book. Just as Irene had worked out their bookseller might have leaked information, so had Catherine. If only she’d broached this idea before Irene had left the hospital. Was it Irene’s fault Catherine was so desperate to prove herself?

No. Irene wasn’t going to take the blame for this. But clearly better communication was needed. Possibly from six inches away, while reading Catherine a lecture on common sense.

Irene would have to notify the Library of their findings so far, including Catherine’s disappearance – but she needed to find Catherine now, and Lord Guantes would be watching likely Library access points anyway. It was so inconvenient having an opponent who knew one’s capabilities. Although not quite as bad as going up against another Librarian. She thought of Alberich, and shivered.

The waitress was staring at Irene’s empty cup meaningfully. In a moment she’d be coming over to ask if madam would like anything else, with the implication that if madam didn’t want to order, then madam should be on her way.

But Irene wasn’t going anywhere – because she was waiting.

Bookshops crowded along Charing Cross Road in vertical stacks and horizontal huddles, and spread down the side streets and back alleys on either side. The ones on the main street drew tourists and casual wanderers, but the hidden ones were far more interesting.

Irene’s vantage point had an excellent view of the entrance – the only entrance – to one particular alley. This was why she’d picked it. A rapid change of clothing and a wig from her lodgings had left her looking plausibly dowdy, a visitor from the provinces without a sense of London fashion.

She was about to order more tea, when she glimpsed her target – a familiar gait and a glint of bronze hair underneath a cloak and heavy face-concealing hat. Irene made a mental note to go through basic principles of disguise with Catherine once this was all over. Voluminous clothing was not the best way to go unseen; it exposed you as someone who wanted to hide.

The Fae wasn’t carrying anything more than a handbag; she must have left the Malory suitcase somewhere else. Somewhere safe, Irene devoutly hoped. While Catherine occasionally paused to look in shop windows as she drifted along Charing Cross Road, she wasn’t taking any measures to shake off pursuit either . . .