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‘Have a fascinating night.’ Maria tossed me her lighter. ‘Here. In case you need a numen.’

‘Thanks.’

I collected my new satchel before I headed to the quay, where Noemi waited on the stern of a black gondola with pale accents. Now the sun had set, lamps were flickering to life across the city, gilding the water. Somehow I doubted the cemetery isle would have much light.

Noemi rowed a short way along the main canal, muscles working beneath her freckled brown skin. Curled up in the seat, I was too aware of the water lapping the sides of the gondola.

The boat slid between tall dwellings, past candlelit windows and colonnades. By the time Noemi stopped at a pier, the sky was deep blue, and all I could see was darkness below. There was a sharp edge to the breeze, making me grateful for the jacket I had packed. Noemi secured her gondola before we moved to a larger boat with the same colouring.

‘This won’t take long,’ she told me. I nodded and ducked into the upholstered cabin.

Noemi steered the taxi across the lagoon, to a walled island. I stepped on to a jetty. As far as I could tell, only birds and insects lay ahead of me. And spirits. There were plenty of those.

‘Be in this spot at sunrise. I’ll meet you,’ Noemi said. ‘Call Widow if you need help.’

‘Got it.’

As her taxi left, I took a torch from my satchel and switched it on, keeping its beam low to the ground, so it wouldn’t be seen from afar. No voyant worth their salt would be afraid of burial grounds, but since my torture, I had lived with a fear of the dark.

It didn’t take me long to find a way into the cemetery. I walked slowly, using my torch with more confidence now I was out of sight. The main danger would be poltergeists, and I sensed none. There were only revenants and wisps – and a single psychopomp,standing out like a shout among whispers. I could sense it, keen as a knife against my skin.

I passed walls of plaques, inscribed with names and dates, posies of flowers left between them. Tall evergreens guarded the memorials, tapering up to points. There were statues of angels with wide, feathered wings – not just remnants where they had been smashed off.

Most voyants spurned religion. We knew what came after death. But I had never been quite as uncharitable as Jaxon, who had sneered at the books and ritual objects collecting dust at the black market. I could understand why amaurotics clung to the hope of more. In any case, none of us knew what awaited us at the end of the æther, beyond the last light.

Still, I wasn’t going to pray or kneel. I had seen enough to be fairly sure that only the dead would come when I called.

I followed my sixth sense to the psychopomp. Once, these spirits had acted as guides, shepherding the dead to the Netherworld. Even though they had lost that role, they sought out places where death was common – hospitals, execution grounds – or where spirits might stand guard over their own remains, like cemeteries and morgues. The Ranthen had given them a new purpose as messengers, but they were exceptionally shy around the living.

Arcturus had told me more in Paris, as I taught him the finer points of cooking one evening, while I was trying to heal. He had said the psychopomps lingered with the recent dead to comfort them, so they weren’t alone and stranded when they first entered the æther.

Psychopomps may fear the living, but they would be drawn to a spirit like yours. I could almost hear his deep voice.You can dislocate from your body, even leave it. To a psychopomp, that would act as a summons.

It would think I was dying?

And come to guide you. A dreamwalker can dwell among the dead, and persuade them she is one of them.

It was a long shot. I could perform basic séances and invocations as a voyant, but sending messages through psychopomps was a Ranthen art, not meant for the likes of me. But if any of my alliesknew where Arcturus was, it was Terebell Sheratan. I couldn’t give up on him.

If I could pull this off, it would be faster and safer than sending a human courier to London. Assuming I didn’t botch the whole thing and summon Nashira to Venice, of course.

When I was ready, I sat beside a row of headstones. I would use my spirit as bait, to hook a wary fish. First, I took out the lighter from Maria, brass engraved with roses. She had been good to entrust me with this; a lighter was about as close as a pyromancer got to a favoured numen. I flipped the lid, so a flame snapped up, and planted it in the ground. Once I had switched off my torch, I dislocated my spirit, letting myself drift.

Whenever I moved my spirit from the middle of my dreamscape, it sent ripples into the æther. I kept them as soft as I could. As soon as they touched the psychopomp, I had its attention. It clung to its instinct to guide the dead, even if there was nowhere to lead them. I shifted my spirit back into place, then dislocated again. A fish splashing in distress.

For a long time, I held very still, my neck and sitbones aching. Moving a muscle could break the trance. Even the gentle kick of my heart might frighten a psychopomp.

Hours might have passed – hours of patient fishing – before it brushed my aura. It had darted away several times, no doubt confused by what it was sensing – this woman who was both dead and alive.

Now it circled me, sending cool prickles along my skin. This might be the first time in history that a human had ever got so close to a psychopomp. Without a medium, spirits had limited ways to communicate, but it was clearly trying to reassure me, so I would follow.

I can’t follow yet, I wanted to tell it.I still have so much more to do.

Time to take my chance, before the spirit realised it had been tricked. I glanced down at my phone, reading the message from Ducos. She had sent a few pointers on pronunciation.

Rephs spoke Glossolalia, the language of spirits. I couldn’t. But the majority of spirits could understand mortal languages, especiallyif their deaths had been recent. In this cemetery, I was willing to bet that most of them had a strong grasp of Italian.

‘Aiutami,’ I said very softly.