‘I know you said I was supposed to hide,’ Catherine said, her steps slowing as she approached, ‘but I couldn’t just . . . keep my head down.’

‘Well done – you did a good job,’ Irene answered. It would have been totally unfair to complain that Lord Guantes had fallen for her string of lies and Catherine had messed it all up.

‘I saw he was trying to do the thing to you.’ Catherine waved her fingers dramatically, suggesting magical influence. ‘I had to help.’

‘I appreciate it. You provided the perfect distraction. Even though I’m not sure whether your archetypal librarian would have done the same . . .’

‘I think there may be lots of different types of librarian,’ Catherine said thoughtfully. She had the air of someone who’s seen a whole new range of possibilities and found she liked them more than she expected. ‘There’s the sharing librarian, and the motherly librarian, and the spinster librarian, and the archivist librarian, and the adventurous librarian like you – there’s nothing that says I can’t be a murderous librarian.’

‘True enough,’ Irene had to admit.

‘And I only dropped one book. Not every single book within earshot.’

Irene didn’t need the reminder. She was feeling guilty enough about what she’d done to those books. ‘Point taken,’ she said shortly. ‘Let’s just agree that you hit him where it hurts and leave it at that.’

‘Er . . . is he dead?’

‘He’s breathing but unconscious. There may be a skull fracture – I can’t tell. At any rate, he’s not a threat for the moment.’

Irene steeled herself and flipped open the pocket watch, half expecting some backlash. Instead of the usual mechanisms, it contained a needle, rather like that of a compass. This was centred above a circular piece of paper, inscribed with Irene’s own name in the Language. There were much smaller markings all around the rim – she couldn’t guess their purpose. The needle pointed directly at Irene.

‘Let’s test this,’ she said, passing it to Catherine and rubbing her fingers against her skirt to banish that odd tingling. She took a few steps to the right, circling the Fae, and could see the needle swivelling to track her.

‘This looks useful,’ Catherine said, with unwanted enthusiasm. ‘Can I keep it?’

‘No,’ Irene said, hastily taking it back. That was her name in the Language. Which meant – another Librarian must have supplied it. But who? And how? Her fears mocked her. Did she honestly expect the person who wrote this to sign their name on the back?

Of course, it never hurt to check.

She worked a fingernail under the piece of paper, easing it away from its metal backing and up towards the needle until she could see its back. There was something scribbled on the other side – in English, not the Language. She tilted it for a better view.

Triumph abruptly turned to a cold terror that clamped around her heart and dried up her throat. Ray, the writing read.

‘Irene?’ Catherine was right next to her, grabbing at her elbow. ‘Are you okay? Did it do something to you?’

Breathe, Irene told herself. Breathe and get through this one moment at a time. ‘It says “Ray”,’ she told Catherine, her voice the only sound in the silent Collection. ‘That was the name my parents gave me. A nickname. A private name. There’s only one person, besides them, who’d know it.’

Alberich.

Now Lord Guantes’ words from their previous encounter made sense – he’d mentioned the ‘man behind the Professor’ who wanted her personally. An enemy she’d thwarted twice now, both times nearly at the cost of hers and her friends’ lives. And now she was holding this token of his malice, a way for Lord Guantes to track her down . . .

Irene bit her lip hard. Panic could come later. She had to get a grip on herself – and on the situation. ‘We’ll hand Lord Guantes over to Vale and the police,’ she said, tucking the compass into an inner pocket, ‘and then—’

Someone outside knocked firmly on the library’s exterior door.

Irene realized that the building’s interior, strewn with books and bodies, might attract undue attention. ‘I’ll get that,’ she ordered. ‘Stay back for the moment.’

The short vestibule leading to the main doors would appear comparatively normal: there had been no men in the vicinity, so no one for the books there to target. She carefully slid open the small Judas window to look onto the street.

Lady Guantes was standing there, backed by a dozen more men. ‘Miss Winters,’ she said briskly. ‘My husband is in there. Will you bring him out to me, or shall I come in and get him?’

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

‘An endless stream of borrowers today,’ Irene muttered. The danger helped her to focus. Alberich was a huge – and terrifying – problem. But Lady Guantes was right in front of her, and suddenly seemed an almost welcome distraction.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Sorry – I didn’t think of you or your husband as regular library patrons, and yet here you both are.’ Irene was deeply grateful for the solid door between them. Lady Guantes was not one to waste time gloating. She was a practical woman who believed in disposing of enemies on the spot with overwhelming force.

Irene peered out of the corner of the Judas window, wanting to present as small a target as possible. Lady Guantes was dressed in the height of this London’s fashion. Her finery included hat and veil, midnight-blue velvet cape and a matching silk dress. Her signature gloves were of exactly the same pattern as her husband’s. How sweet, Irene thought caustically. Her dark hair was coiled into a bun, and although she was smiling pleasantly, her eyes were cold. The men behind her were more varied than Lord Guantes’ strangely synchronized minions. One hefted a mysterious crate, and all of them seemed to be carrying potentially lethal weapons under their bulky overcoats. (Irene was guessing about the weapons’ lethal qualities, but given how the day was going, it seemed wildly optimistic to assume anything else.)

Lady Guantes spread her hands self-deprecatingly. ‘Miss Winters, I’m unarmed. May I come in?’

‘Come on,’ Irene said wearily. ‘That wouldn’t have worked the first time I met you. It’s certainly not going to work now.’

‘You’re sounding rather hostile,’ Lady Guantes noted. ‘Have you been overstressed lately?’

‘Your husband’s assassination attempts have been quite stressful, yes. So the door remains closed.’

‘I do understand. But I have fresh intelligence, which might just change your mind . . .’ Lady Guantes seemed to come into focus suddenly, as though a camera lens had tightened its perspective around her, or a sunbeam had haloed her in light. ‘I’m prepared to declare a temporary truce, Miss Winters: I’ll even give you my word.’

Now that was interesting. Lady Guantes would phrase any promise to her advantage, of course, but Irene had played that game before. And Fae promises were binding.

‘What’s going on?’ Catherine called nervously.

‘Negotiations,’ Irene answered. She turned back to the window. ‘All right. What are your terms?’