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‘If you know everything, you need not ask.’

‘Not that,’ Linette says. She nods to the handkerchief. ‘That.’

Julian’s smile is the most genuine one she has ever seen him give her. It is sinister, wicked, and Linette realises then that she has been too hasty, should have found another way, and in the split-second she decides to run he moves from the desk so fast that she does not even get a chance; within seconds he has her in his grasp. Linette struggles against him but despite the anger that propelled her – despite the fear that has replaced it – Julian is stronger, is pressing the handkerchief to her nose and mouth.

The last thing she sees is the grimoire, the raised symbol of Berith on its cover, before her vision turns black.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

He wakes to the unmistakable smell of sulphur and a room as black as pitch. His mouth is dry as quarry stones, his teeth pitted against the rough plane of his tongue, and Henry blinks wide-eyed into the dark.

Something is wrong.

Henry does not know how he knows, cannot explain this feeling of surety. The room is cold, the noxious smell of sulphur so strong he must sit up and cough, and it is in that moment he realises the bed is empty.

‘Rowena?’

Nothing.

‘Rowena!’

‘I’m here.’

With relief he turns in the direction of her voice. She is silhouetted in the frame of the door, looking out onto the landing. Rowena wears only her shift, red hair spilling down her back in long flowing curls.

‘What is it?’

She half-turns, beckons him. ‘Can’t you hear?’ Her voice carries on it the edge of fear. ‘Someone is downstairs. I … I think I can hear voices.’

Henry swears, fumbles on the floor for his breeches and pulls them on, searches for his boots, his shirt, joins Rowena at the door. Like a frightened child she leans in to him, and Henry puts his arm around her shoulders.

‘Listen,’ she whispers.

There are voices, or what he thinks are voices, but the sound has a strange undulating rhythm to it, a cadence not wholly natural.

Not wholly natural.

His stomach lurches. Henry knows instinctively what those voices are, knows exactly to whom those voices belong: Julian Tresilian. The Order.

It is the sound of chanting.

Henry tries to think. The candle burnt down hours ago, and he left the tinderbox downstairs. There are no weapons in the bedroom, nothing to defend themselves with. And yet he cannot ignore it. Will not ignore it.

Something must be done.

‘Go up to the house,’ Henry says, putting on his boots, his shirt. ‘Get Powell to send for help.’

‘I’m staying with you.’

‘You’re damn well not.’

‘I am,’ Rowena insists, looking up at him. In the dim light from the landing window her eyes are large, her heart-shaped face set, and in frustration Henry sighs.

‘You’re growing as stubborn as Linette. Very well. But stay behind me at all times. If you have to run then do not hesitate, get as far away from here as you can, do you understand?’

Rowena nods. ‘I understand,’ she says, and Henry takes her small hand in his.

They cross the landing, make their way slowly down the stairs. The treads do not creak and for that he is thankful, but it occurs to him when they reach the bottom that it does not matter how much noise they make; Julian has called to them deliberately, has made sure Henry has heard.