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Frankie wriggled in Tom’s arms, and he bent to release her. As soon as she was down, she shot along the pier to where the Hathaways were set up with their card tables. A black cat trotted up to greet her.

‘Come on,’ Jamie said, starting to walk.

‘Where are we going?’ Joan said. ‘What’s this safe house?’

‘It’s a place up ahead on shared Liu and Hathaway territory,’ Tom explained.

Joan took that in with puzzlement. ‘I thought Liu territory was up near Covent Garden.’

‘It is,’ Jamie said. He drew a lopsided shape in the air that Joan guessed was meant to show the territory. ‘The main Liu house used to be on Narrow Street. This is London’s original Chinatown.’

‘Used to be bustling here,’ Tom said. ‘Big boats with cargo and passengers. Felt like the centre of the world for a while.’

It was pretty bustling now. Jamie led them around the marina, past half a dozen Keep This Path Clear signs. The Hathaways had ignored them; the walkway was full of deck chairs and card tables. Fresh fish and tomatoes and buttered bread sizzled and spat on portable grills. A white-haired man chopped parsley on a board. There were animals everywhere. Cheerful dogs jumped from deck to deck, nosing at snoozing cats. A sleek rat slept in a man’s pocket, and a bright bird sat on the top of a Hathaway flag and trilled. There was even a large snake curled snugly around a boat’s chimney.

Joan fell into step beside Ruth. Ahead, Tom and Jamie walked with Nick. Frankie bounced around Nick’s ankles, and he bent to touch her soft head. ‘She’s not a puppy,’ Tom said over the cheerful noise of the Hathaways—apparently answering a question from Nick. ‘She’s a toy bulldog—an extinct nineteenth-century breed.’ Nick seemed fascinated.

They passed a woman standing on the roof of a narrowboat, mopping around a sleeping cat with mottled orange and black fur. She whistled a short phrase, high enough to cut through the cacophony on the walkway. The string of seven notes was full of sharps and oddly unmusical.

A few boats up, a big man with a heavy brown beard sat on his deck. He would have been intimidating, but as Joan watched, a cheerful-looking black dog trotted out from the interior and settled so that the man could lovingly brush its woolly fur. Without stopping his task, the man repeated the woman’s unmelodic whistle.

And now the tune jumped across the walkway to a group of people chatting under an umbrella. They stopped their talking just long enough to echo the whistle in a mismatched chorus.

‘It’s a language,’ Ruth said before Joan could ask, ‘but not a complicated one. They’ll just be saying that there are strangers coming in with Tom and Jamie.’

‘A language like the Hunt hand signals?’ Joan asked. Did all families have a secret language?

‘Yeah, but ours is better,’ Ruth said so seriously that Joan had to bite back a smile. Apparently, the rivalry between monster families extended into every corner of their lives.

Up ahead, the others had pulled out of earshot with their longer strides. Joan watched Frankie dart under a card table to investigate a morsel of dropped food. She darted back out again, a bit of buttered bread in her mouth.

‘Hey …’ Joan said to Ruth tentatively. Part of her was afraid to ask, and part of her wanted to know desperately. ‘How’s my dad?’

Ruth’s eyes went soft. ‘He’s okay. Gran told him some of the truth.’

‘She told him about monsters?’ Joan said, shocked.

‘Not all of it; just enough to explain what happened to you.’ Ruth took Joan’s hand and squeezed. ‘He was trying so hard to find you himself—to start this big campaign in the media. She had to tell him to keep you both safe.’

Joan took a shaky breath, near tears suddenly.

‘I can tell him you’re alive,’ Ruth said, ‘but you can’t go see him; you can’t talk to him. You’re a fugitive—we can’t risk it. We can’t risk him.’

Joan knew it, but she couldn’t bear it. ‘How is he actually?’

‘He’s sad,’ Ruth said honestly, and Joan swallowed hard. ‘He’s doing okay. He’s still in the same house. He met someone last year—Elsa. She moved in with him last spring.’

The thought was so strange—Dad with a woman Joan had never met. A woman named Elsa living in their house. It was hard to imagine Dad living six years of life when Joan had only seen him yesterday.

‘She’s nice,’ Ruth said. ‘She’s a music teacher. She’s teaching him to play the piano.’

And that was hard to imagine too. ‘I want to talk to him,’ Joan whispered.

‘Joan …’

‘I know,’ Joan said. She closed her eyes for a moment. Ruth squeezed her hand again. ‘I know I can’t. Thank you for keeping an eye on him. Thank you for keeping him safe.’

‘Don’t be stupid,’ Ruth said. ‘He’s our family like you are.’