The cathedral was vast. She was so small compared with its immensity, a single human being in a huge silence that seemed to breathe. Strange lights behind the windows moved as though they were alive. They waxed and waned like distant moons, pulling up a tide of darkness to drown her. If she strained, she could just see doorways and stairwells leading to side chapels, crypts or who knew where – the shadows hid the details.

Her chains ran from the cuffs on her wrists to two bolts set into the stonework, far enough away from each other that she couldn’t bring her hands together or rise to her feet. The most she could manage was to rise to her knees, to take stock of the situation. Her mask and wig were gone. Her hidden knife had been taken as well. And someone had hung a pendant around her neck on a leather cord – too short for her to see the object properly, she could only feel it against her skin. Whatever it was, though, it couldn’t be good news.

But worst of all, surrounding her on the floor – a few feet out from the bolts which held her chains – was a circle written in the Language. It formed a single line, word flowing into word like some form of ancient calligraphy, scrawled on the black stone in dull brown paint. The vocabulary was mostly unfamiliar to Irene, though she thought she could make out words referring to binding, holding, chaining, repelling. What she could definitely make out was her own name – forming part of the circle directly in front of her, as though to taunt her.

Irene sighed. I might as well know the worst.

‘Locks, open,’ she commanded, and was not particularly surprised when her words proved powerless.

The circle of Language was out of her reach, chained as she was. Even if she lay down and stretched to her limit, her feet still couldn’t touch the writing. Her lock picks were gone, too. She forced down a growing sense of panic and tried to think. The problem is that I’m fighting someone who knows full well what Librarians can do. And he’s had plenty of practice at imprisoning our kind, which comes shortly before he skins his captive and sends a few spare organs back to the Library . . .

Irene was out of good ideas and was seriously considering spitting on the circle, to see if her saliva did anything useful, when she heard the distant creak and boom of a door opening. She could identify two separate sets of footsteps. I hope this is the start of visiting hours for prisoners – rather than someone here to do the dusting and change the flowers . . .

Lord Guantes came into view first, a spring to his step and a smile curling his lips. Even at a distance, Irene could see his enthusiasm as he approached her. After all, gloating over a defeated enemy was a key part of his archetype as a Machiavellian villain. But that gave her a grain of hope. People who thought they’d already won made mistakes.

And then the second person came into view, and Irene stifled a gasp of horror. It was Catherine . . . but changed.

She walked with her head lowered, eyes cast down, taking small obedient steps. Her shapeless dress was grey and utilitarian, covering her from neck to toe, and her hair was pinned back into a tight bun. Black gloves like the ones the Guantes favoured sheathed her hands. Her habitual expressions – irritation, annoyance, determination and curiosity – had been wiped from her face. It was as though someone had erased her personality entirely. Now she looked calm and patient, placid and unconcerned . . . and utterly unlike herself. Lord Guantes had turned her into an obedient little acolyte, one that he could twist around his finger and have her thank him for it.

They advanced down the length of the cathedral, and the glowing windows were now flooding the aisles with crimson light so the pair seemed to trail blood in their wake.

Lord Guantes came to a stop five feet outside the circle, with Catherine a pace behind. He looked down at Irene. ‘How pleasant, Miss Winters, to see you in a more suitable position – on your knees.’

‘My faith is a constant comfort,’ Irene said blandly. She could cope with this. He wasn’t Alberich. She could even, on some level, feel sorry for Lord Guantes – now a mere puppet in someone else’s show. But she really felt for whoever the original host had been, before ‘Lord Guantes’ was transplanted into his body.

He barked a short laugh at the obvious untruth, then beckoned Catherine forward. ‘I thought I’d introduce my new student to you,’ he said.

Catherine smiled in the sunlight of his attention. The expression seemed out of place on her features. Her face was made for fierce enthusiasms, not blind sheeplike adoration. ‘What would you like me to do, sir?’

‘I’d like you to tell Miss Winters here about your new position. And whether you like it or not, of course.’

Catherine looked down at Irene pityingly. ‘I’m going to look after Lord Guantes’ book collection,’ she explained. ‘I’m so grateful to Lord Guantes for giving me this opportunity, in spite of everything my uncle’s done to him.’

Lord Guantes was practically preening himself. If he’d been a peacock, he would have been spreading his tail to be admired. ‘I don’t like to see talent wasted, my dear.’ He patted her shoulder, but his eyes were on Irene, watching for her reaction.

‘Aren’t you grateful to Lady Guantes as well?’ Irene asked innocently.

‘I don’t think she really understands my role yet,’ Catherine said. She glanced uncertainly at Lord Guantes, clearly wanting to take her cue from him.

A shadow of discontent drifted across Lord Guantes’ face. ‘My beloved wife will come to appreciate you in time, Catherine. You simply need to be patient.’

Very interesting. ‘I hope that I’ll have the chance to see Lady Guantes again before I . . . well, before anything happens.’

‘Why?’ Lord Guantes asked curiously. ‘Have the two of you formed some sort of secret bond while I wasn’t around? Do you send each other letters in code and meet up to drink tea on alternate Fridays?’

‘Absolutely not,’ Irene said hastily. ‘No, I just wanted to apologize. They do say that a person should try to apologize to everyone they’ve offended before they die . . . and I’m not going to survive this, am I?’

‘Let’s discuss that later,’ Lord Guantes said, in tones that suggested he’d enjoy it rather more than Irene would. ‘But why do you feel the need to apologize to her?’

‘For killing you.’

His expression froze. There was a momentary blankness behind his eyes – normally so keen and dominating. It was as if a record player had jumped a notch, missing a note in the music. ‘In case you haven’t noticed, Miss Winters, I’m not dead.’

‘Lord Guantes is dead,’ Irene argued, watching his reaction like an angler playing a fish. If she could reawaken this body’s previous personality, its true identity . . . ‘Tell me, how good is your memory of yesterday? Or the day before?’

Lord Guantes flicked his gloved fingers in casual dismissal. ‘You make no sense.’

‘Did Lady Guantes tell you something to explain any discrepancies?’ Irene asked. ‘Do you ever catch her looking at you as though you were her latest specimen in a zoological breeding programme? Tell me—’ She tried to put her will into the Language and make it work. ‘Tell me who you really are!’

But her words fell flat, drained by the circle which surrounded her. It was the sense of her words, rather than any power behind them, which made anger flare in his eyes. He stepped forward, raising his hand as though about to slap her, or something equally petty.