The back of her neck crawled. Though the room was empty, she felt that someone was watching her. Or more precisely . . . looking for her. It was like being in the path of a searchlight as it swept across a landscape by night. A glaring eye raking through the darkness – in search of a target it knew was there. Irene found herself holding her breath involuntarily, her shoulders hunching into a crouch as defensive as Catherine’s own. As if that could somehow help her hide . . .

She’d only felt something like this once before, when Alberich had been searching for her; but this was different. It didn’t have the same flavour of chaos and malignity to it, exactly, though she couldn’t put her feeling into words which would have satisfied Vale.

Her nervousness kept her steps quiet and slow, which was why she heard noises from the ground floor. They didn’t match the usual library whisper of rustling pages and hushed conversations.

She hurried to the central stairwell, dropping to her knees to peer through the banisters without risking observation. From that perspective she could see two receptionists and a security guard remonstrating with a group which must have just entered – a dozen men in dark overcoats. They didn’t look like researchers. It was hard to catch what they were saying from three floors up, but she caught the odd word. ‘Urgent . . . no warrant . . . immediate search . . .’

Right. Time to leave. She backed away and was straightening to her feet, when for some reason a small cloud of dust motes caught her eye. They’d glinted in the light from the overhead lamps as they fell. Some instinct for danger made her look upwards, and she caught sight of a shadowy figure on the other side of the stairwell. It was silently moving downwards towards her, and she didn’t know if she’d been seen.

There was at least one other person up there too, their movements as stealthy as Irene’s own. When Irene had signed in, she’d taken a glance at the visitors’ book, and she and Catherine had been the only ones present at that point. Were the men in overcoats and these shadowy watchers unconnected . . . or this was a deliberate pincer movement? If so, Irene and Catherine might be caught in the middle.

She was sidling back towards where she’d left Catherine when she heard a familiar voice from below, raised to carry. It was Lord Guantes. ‘Miss Winters? I suggest you come out, wherever you are. This library is now closed.’

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

There was a certain satisfaction to having one’s worst expectations confirmed. Admittedly this meant that you had to deal with the results, but at least you could tell your colleagues later that you’d told them so.

However, these pleasures had to be deferred in favour of immediate escape. Irene had to assume the worst – that their enemies were waiting both above and below. She could use the Language to force a window open. But climbing out of a third-floor window, above a crowded London street, came with its own risks – such as the difficulty of adapting one’s plan while halfway down the outside of a building.

Apparently Lord Guantes was giving Irene a few minutes to make up her mind. Catherine must also have realized something was wrong. She’d closed her books and was looking nervously from side to side. Irene put a finger to her lips as she approached, and beckoned her to follow.

The two of them made it to the book lift without being intercepted. It was an unobtrusive recent addition, and ran from the top to the bottom of the building. Irene swung the waist-high doors open. There was enough room inside for an athletic young woman, and Catherine certainly weighed less than a pile of some of this library’s books.

‘Wait here,’ she said quietly. ‘When you start hearing a commotion, climb inside and shut the door. That’ll keep you hidden. Then I’ll press the button on the ground floor to bring you down safely once the coast is clear. We’ll get out together.’

‘How?’ Catherine hissed, panic showing in her eyes.

Irene wasn’t sure which of her statements the how referred to, so she decided to leave explanations for later. Especially as her plans were better described as being in the formative, rather than the fully detailed, stage. ‘If things go wrong and you hear me being dragged off screaming, remember our plans for meeting up,’ she said.

‘You’ll scream?’

‘I’ll make sure I scream very loudly indeed.’ Irene gave Catherine a comforting squeeze on the shoulder, to offset any panic her words might induce, and headed back to the stairwell.

‘Miss Winters!’ Apparently Lord Guantes had grown bored with waiting. ‘I suggest you show yourself immediately, if you have any regard for the safety of this library’s staff.’

Irene peered through the balustrade’s pillars again. One of the receptionists, his glasses flashing in the light from the overhead lamps, was being shoved forward: two of the men in overcoats held his arms while a third put a gun to his head. The security guard and the other receptionist were watching in horror, oddly silent.

‘Very well,’ Irene called down, rising to her feet. ‘Don’t shoot. I’m coming down.’

She could hear footsteps above her now. She’d been right. They had been boxed in. She’d just have to hope she could find an advantage.

‘Come on down then, and don’t keep us waiting,’ Lord Guantes ordered. He gestured to his minions; the one with the drawn gun lowered it, but the two holding the receptionist remained in place, a clear message that his safety was conditional on her obedience.

Irene began to descend the stairs, her mind whirring with possible plans. A pity that so many of them ended up in And then he shoots me. ‘How has your day been so far, Lord Guantes?’

‘Improving by the moment, my dear.’ He stood looking up at her, all his attention on her. His followers copied his movements like hunting dogs, even the ones guarding the library staff. That could be useful. ‘If only you were always this obliging.’

‘Lord Guantes, I’ve had a stressful day. Under the circumstances I’m willing to grant you an interview, but please don’t push me.’

‘You’re talking as if you’re the one holding the balance of power here. Should I point out that I have three hostages, and this place is held by my men?’

A thrill of relief went through Irene. If he’d realized Catherine was here and that he could take her as a hostage too, he’d already be boasting about it. ‘If I think I’m invulnerable, have you considered why I’m bothering to surrender to you?’

He snorted. ‘A predictable concern for the lives and well-being of these useless pawns.’

‘Excuse me!’ one of the receptionists protested.

‘Oh, not my opinion.’ He faced the woman and smiled, and Irene knew that to her, he would be absolutely believable. Lord Guantes was a master manipulator – it was part of his archetype. ‘I simply meant that Miss Winters has childish moral views on the sanctity of human life and so on, which makes her easily manipulated.’

‘Oh, that’s all right then,’ the hostage said, and the other two nodded in agreement. Even the one who’d had a gun pointed at his head.

Fortunately Irene hadn’t been counting on any help from them. They would currently be rationalizing why they were fortunate to be Lord Guantes’ prisoners and threatened with death. ‘If I may just check something?’ she asked.