Zayanna considered, then shrugged. ‘Well, you were going to take me back to my hotel. I do remember that much. That was sweet of you. It would have been even nicer if you’d gone back for me after dropping us both in the canal - how did you do that again, by the way?’

‘Trade secret,’ Irene said firmly. ‘Sorry.’

Zayanna laughed. ‘I didn’t seriously expect you to tell me! Don’t be so silly. Clarice, this has been a wonderful evening, and as long as I don’t actually get into any trouble for it from the Guantes or anyone else, I think it is going to be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.’

The heat of exercise was wearing off, and Irene could feel the chill of the canal water settling into her bones. It made everything feel cold and distant, from her body to Zayanna’s smile. Aftershock, she diagnosed herself. Don’t let it get to you.

‘I wouldn’t mind that,’ she said, pulling herself together. And perhaps it could be true, after this whole business was settled and Kai was safe and everything was sorted out. Perhaps they could find a way to be friends, in spite of everything. But she’s Fae, her common sense hissed at her, as she tried to pull herself together. ‘But here and now we just need to get to the Gritti Palace.’ She heaved herself out onto the side of the canal. She was far less graceful about it than Zayanna had been and she knew that she looked far less attractive too. Her business suit had never been made for this.

‘Do look on the bright side, darling!’ Zayanna squeezed her shoulder comfortingly. ‘We got away! Now all we need to do is break into one of these houses and convince the inhabitants they should escort us to the Gritti Palace. Maybe they’ll even lend us some clothing, while they’re at it.’

All right, Irene thought, I have officially met someone who makes even more reckless plans than I do.

‘This could indeed be the beginning of a beautiful friendship,’ she agreed, and she couldn’t help smiling.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

In the end, sheer exhaustion forced Irene to spend what was left of the night in one of the Gritti Palace’s linen-cupboards. She’d had to curl up on a pile of blankets, in a stolen dress, smelling of canal water. It was not the most uncomfortable night she’d ever spent, but it was still far from being an ideal Venice vacation.

The sound of bells woke her. The noise came through the walls of the hotel, even penetrating into the tiny cupboard, and she woke up with a start, banging her head against the lowest shelf and blinking in the darkness. It took a moment for her to orient herself. And the bells were still ringing, settling into their own patterns of speed and tone, somehow harmonic in spite of their lack of unity. She tried to count the strokes, in the hope of guessing what time it was, but there was no way of telling how long she had till midnight and the auction.

By the time she and Zayanna had reached the Gritti Palace, after a couple of minor incidents involving the theft of a pair of dresses, she had been so exhausted that it was difficult not to collapse on the spot. The time had been two or three in the morning, but the hotel was still full of lights and people running to and fro down passages. It had only taken a few screams of ‘Dear God, my husband!’ and ‘Quick, hide behind the curtains!’ for Irene to recognize all the ingredients of bedroom farce. Possibly several bedroom farces, all going on simultaneously. She hadn’t wanted to go anywhere near Silver’s bedroom under those conditions.

She and Zayanna had separated, ostensibly to find their respective patrons. Irene suspected that Zayanna had been more interested in finding some more alcohol. She couldn’t blame her. She’d have been grateful for a glass or two of brandy herself.

Still. It was apparently morning. Time to sneak out of her little nest and find Silver, and hopefully get some more information out of him.

Once she was out of the linen-cupboard it became clear that, like most depraved aristocrats, these Fae did not rise early. And if there was a literary trope requiring an early start to fit in a full day’s worth of debauchery, Irene had yet to encounter it. The only people up so far were maids, manservants and lower grades of attendant, who were running around carrying trays of food and piles of clothing. This made it very easy for Irene to scoop up a pile of sheets, looking suitably urgent and harried. She blended right in. She felt harried. Her dress was dark and battered, someone’s Sunday second-best, and not even up to the standard of the hotel maids, but her bodice was laced neatly and her hair was finger-combed into a tight braid. She didn’t look anachronistic or otherworldly, and that was the most important thing.

The back-stairs were much the same as in any hotel. They were narrow, cramped and full of overburdened people running as fast as possible. Nobody bothered wearing masks back here.

One woman, blonde hair straggling in rat-tails down her back, grabbed Irene’s arm as she staggered past. ‘Have you seen the sausages?’

‘No,’ Irene said.

‘Merciful Virgin, the cook’s going to kill someone,’ the woman screamed, and ran down the stairs again.

Rich panoply of human experience, drama of a Grand Hotel, et cetera, Irene decided, as she hurried onwards.

She’d noted the servants Silver had brought with him the night before. Enough loitering back-stairs enabled her to spot one, and to follow him to Silver’s suite on the third floor. Irene waited until there was nobody else around, dropped her armload of sheets in a convenient window-seat and knocked on the door.

Johnson opened it, and his eyes widened. He grabbed Irene by the shoulder and pulled her into the highly decorated parlour, slamming the door shut behind her. ‘You’ll get my lord into trouble, coming here in public like this! What do you think you’re playing at?’ he hissed.