‘What are you going to do?’ Catherine asked. ‘You’re not going to rip out your own intestines with a pin and arrange them to make words in the Language? Because if you are, I may throw up.’

‘Have you considered a career as a horror novelist?’

‘No – but if I had, being around you would give me lots of inspiration,’ Catherine muttered. She followed Irene’s instructions, and the hairpin rolled towards her. ‘What are you going to do?’

‘I’m going to get symbolic.’ Irene tested the hairpin’s point against her fingers. It was one of the brutally sharp variety, the sort which scraped the scalp. Good, that’d make what she was planning easier.

She deliberately avoided dwelling on what she was about to do, and shifted the hairpin around in her hand, bracing the point against the bare wrist below it. This would have been much easier if she’d been able to bring her hands together, but she’d just have to cope.

‘Don’t do it!’

Irene blinked. ‘What?’

‘Don’t commit suicide!’ Catherine dropped to her knees so they were both on a level, leaning forward urgently. ‘Look, please, there has to be some way out of here, we can think of something, you’re good at thinking of something—’

‘Stop that.’ Irene decided not to admit how she’d almost resigned herself to death just a few minutes before. ‘I have a plan. And it involves me staying alive, you’ll be glad to hear. I’m going to try to draw some blood and break the circle.’

‘Oh,’ Catherine said, looking rather embarrassed.

‘We both need to stay calm.’ Which may be harder for you than me. ‘Keep talking to me while I work. Tell me something.’

‘Tell you what?’ The thought of making a meaningful contribution seemed to steady Catherine.

‘Tell me about your family. Not Lord Silver. Who were your parents? Where were they from?’ Irene began to push the hairpin into her wrist, bracing her hand against the floor.

‘My mother was Lord Silver’s great-great-niece, or something like that,’ Catherine said, her hands clenching nervously as she watched Irene. ‘Lord Silver is several generations older, but because he’s powerful he hasn’t aged the way humans would. She grew up in Liechtenstein, where he has a branch of the family who never really went large – if you know what I mean? They didn’t try to make something of themselves or gain power. They were just . . . people. Nearly human. Father was from Brazil. They fell in love.’

‘There was an accident while they were travelling, you said,’ Irene prompted. She could see her flesh dimpling where the pin’s point dug in. She could also feel the pressure of time ticking away as they talked, seconds hissing into oblivion like sand running through an hourglass. She visualized an imaginary sundial, a ray of dark light tracing its way towards midnight – the moment Alberich would arrive. She hadn’t lied to Catherine, though; this casual conversation was keeping her steady, giving her a focus other than her own fate.

‘Yes, that was what Uncle told me.’

‘Why did he remove you from the rest of your family, after they died, to have you brought up in a lonely manor house?’

Silence. Irene looked up to see Catherine duck her head and hunch her shoulders stubbornly. Well, she knew of one reason why a Fae might hide a vulnerable young relation. ‘Was your parents’ death due to some feud?’ she guessed. ‘And not just an accident?’

Catherine sighed. ‘That’s what I think. He wouldn’t tell me. And I wasn’t old enough to protect myself, or walk between worlds. I’m still not powerful enough to travel between worlds on my own . . .’

Irene wouldn’t normally expect Lord Silver to have any interest in protecting innocents – or innocence. He was a libertine, a politician and a spymaster, and he lived up to all three archetypes with enthusiasm. To protect a young dependant and shield her from unpleasant realities was . . . out of character. If a Fae departed from their chosen narrative and archetype it weakened them. It reduced their power and longevity and drew them back towards the common mass of humanity. Silver’s actions here seemed a flaw in his character, an off note in the perfect symphony of his immorality.

Then, between one heartbeat and the next, the hairpin bit in and drew blood. Irene’s first reaction was a natural human response to pain – she wanted to snatch her hand back and get that point out of her flesh. Instead she set her teeth and forced it deeper, still bracing one end against the stone, dragging the pin sideways in an attempt to widen the wound. Blood trickled over her fingers.

‘Ow,’ she said, finding some relief in the word, a diversion from the fact she’d just torn her own wrist open. ‘Ow, ow, ow, bloody ow. This had better work.’

‘Why does Alberich hate you so much?’ Catherine asked, apparently feeling that it was Irene’s turn to do some sharing. ‘Couldn’t he just kidnap any Librarian, if he wanted to take one over, rather than going after one as difficult as you?’

‘Thanks for the compliment.’ More blood dribbled from her wrist. ‘I think it’s personal. Very personal. I’ve opposed him multiple times. I stopped him from securing a unique first edition which contained a secret about his Librarian background; I destroyed his plans to ruin or usurp the Library; I burned his private store of rare books—’

‘You did what?’

Irene sighed. ‘You know, that’s pretty much the way he reacted too. I wasn’t exactly happy about it either.’ The hairpin dropped from her fingers, slippery with blood, but the wound was deep enough; it wasn’t going to close of its own accord. She shifted position again, wriggling so that her right arm was as near the edge of the circle as possible and cupped her hand to catch the trickle of blood running into it. ‘Catherine, step back a bit – I’m not sure what effect this will have.’

‘What about you? You’re right next to it.’

‘Your concern is noted and appreciated,’ Irene said through gritted teeth. She’d already thought of that. ‘Don’t worry – if an explosion knocks me out, you can drag me to safety.’

Catherine took several steps back. Then, at Irene’s glare, a few more.

Irene took a deep breath, readying herself, and shook the handful of blood in her palm towards the edge of the circle. As it fell, she spoke in the Language: ‘Warding circle, break!’

Where her blood hit the circle, it flowed over the writing like mercury or like oil in a hot pan. She watched in fascination as the droplets moved, keeping their coherence rather than soaking into the paving. The calligraphy dissolved as her blood rolled across it, draining her energy until she sagged forward in her chains – barely able to keep her head off the floor. Words blurred into incoherence, sentences snapped midway, and still her blood ran around the circle. It overlaid the dark brown lettering, leaving a brighter ring of colour which continued to seep towards the outer boundary of the warding.

The line of blood seemed to hesitate for a moment – and then it surged forward, breaking the final line of text. The circle’s power ripped apart with an audible snap, and cold air rushed around Irene as though a door had been opened.