The moment Jack crashed through that window, he left the civilized world of the past four months behind him.

People were shouting, throwing inkstands, scurrying for the doors. Papers were flying everywhere. Without thinking, Jack seized one of the scurriers by his starched collar and smashed him against the wall, where his head cracked a picture-frame.

He had to not kill them. He had to be gentle. But they looked so much like the orange-faced old man that it made his fists itch. And they had framed pictures, antique vases, tasselled lamps and sage-green leather. He couldn't believe how comfortable it all was—how they could sit in here looking at art while they tallied figures that represented human beings!

There was a thud that shook the floorboards up ahead. Two of the clerks had found crossbows and overturned a desk to shelter behind while they shot at him.

That was a good sign. Terrifying as it must have been to see a man crash through your office window and saunter up to you with bits of glass still spangling his coat, they wouldn't have fired on him so quickly unless they had something to hide.

Jack jerked backwards when one of the arrows smashed into his right shoulder. It couldn't pierce his skin, but he still felt the air rush out of his lungs. He reeled for a second, but kept his feet and kept on going.

He walked forwards under the hail of arrows in a state of dreamy awareness. His senses wanted to take in everything—every crunch of broken glass, every grimace, every swear-word the clerks hurled at him.

The sight of him mechanically striding forwards with an arrow sticking out of his coat must have unnerved them even more, because one of the clerks shouted down the stairwell in a harsh, guttural language that could easily have been the one the orange-faced man used to call the gargoyles.

For a moment, everything slowed down. A feeling that was half-dread and half-exhilaration crept down Jack's arms, making all his hairs stand on end.

Would it be a gargoyle who answered the call? He hadn't seen one since the night of Ellini's death. He wasn't sure he could control himself if he saw those eyeless sockets, those filthy claws.

But then, he wouldn't have to control himself, would he? Only Alice could kill them. That was a silver-lining. He would have preferred something he could maim, but at least he wouldn't have to worry about being gentle.

Still, the brief flare of excitement died down almost as soon as it had come. The footfalls on the stairs were too light to belong to gargoyles. When the assassins rushed up, muffled in their black robes, and stood bunched at the top of the stairs like a knot of reluctant school-boys, Jack nearly laughed out loud. Only the memory of the throats they had recently slit could stop him.

There were ten of them--unless there were others lurking on the ground floor, waiting for the stairs to clear. For all the vases and soft furnishings, the office was small, and any well-trained fighter would know that numbers could be a disadvantage in small spaces. 

He beckoned them forwards, but they raised crossbows and revolvers instead—and these men had a much better aim than the clerks.

Jack was driven back by the rain of projectiles, his feet slipping and sliding on the broken glass. Nothing hurt, but if they muscled him back towards the window, they would push him through, and he realised he had no idea if his bones were still capable of breaking. Even those geriatric clerks would get away if he had to limp after them.

He ducked and launched himself forwards, crashing into the assassin at the front of the group. He wanted to make them topple down the stairs like a line of dominoes, but they were too well-trained for that. The ones still on the staircase simply vaulted over the bannisters and got behind him.

They lashed out with feet and fists, trying to keep him down, but Jack seized a handful of the nearest man's robes and flipped him over, sending him crashing into his colleagues.

He heard cracks, crunches and curses—he was almost forensically aware of their injuries, because he knew exactly where he had to stop.

But he hadn't got there yet. Not yet. For this tiny, precious sliver of time, he was all free and all vengeance.

He jumped up and seized the next man's head, driving it hard into his knee. One of them tried to grab him from behind and pin his arms to his sides, but Jack vaulted backwards, so that the man on his back landed beneath him in the broken glass and howled.

Jack kicked out as the others tried to pile on top of him. The more he struggled, the more the assassin underneath him was ground into the glass.

Oh, it was wonderful. He wanted to stretch out this moment forever. He was suddenly glad he wasn't allowed to kill them, because it would all be over too quickly if he was.

Still, he couldn't quite let go. It was like stealing glances at Ellini in the dream-room, and then hunching back over the jigsaw pieces, trying to pretend he wasn't dying for her. It was the most frustrating indulgence in the world, but it was something. 

The ten assassins were easily dealt with. Jack threw three of them out the window, because it was only the first floor, and Brandt hadn't said anything about broken legs.

He was pleased to see a group of Constables when he glanced down there, furtively investigating the crumpled heaps of black robes that were the fallen assassins. Brandt himself was nowhere in sight. He would probably hang back until Jack had dragged every last man out onto the street. That was how seriously he took his warrants.

Now there were just the clerks, and only one of them was conscious. Jack seized him by his head and pushed the side of his face against the wall, whispering into the one exposed ear.

"There were three women," he said, as slowly and clearly as he was able. "Abducted from their homes. I don't expect you know their names, except for record-keeping. Perhaps you've even numbered them – I wouldn't put it past you. Where are they? Have you locked them up? Have you put them back to work?"

"What work?" spat the old man, with a kick at Jack's shins which was probably intended more to relieve his feelings than free himself. "There is no work anymore. You've already ruined everything! Eve has awoken, the gargoyles are useless. Hundreds of men have been made redundant, you do realize that? All we were trying to do was sell up stock and close the offices with some semblance of professionalism. What's that to you? We built this compa-"

"Fuck your company," said Jack, pushing the man's face even harder against the wall. "Fuck your men and fuck their jobs. Where are the three women?"

"You sound just like him," the old man spat. He was talking out of the side of his mouth now, because one half of it was pressing into the plaster, but you could still hear his bitterness.

"Like who?" said Jack.

"You know who! He's got your confounded women. Take it up with him. You're both of you barbarians without an ounce of business-sense. You should get along famously."

Jack loosened his grip on the old man's head, turned him round and drove a knee into his stomach. He hadn't expected remorse, but this was ridiculous.

"The master, yes?" he said, while the old man wheezed and tried to straighten. "The owner of this company? Where is he?"

"He's only the hereditary owner," said the clerk – still bitter, even without breath. "He did none of the wo-"

"Where is he?"

The man cast a look at his stricken colleagues, as though to check that no-one was conscious enough to overhear.

"I can't," he rasped. "We swore an oath. Our tongues jump down our own bloody throats if we give away his name or his location."

"I'd like to see that," said Jack, pressing his forearm against the man's neck and forcing his head back. "Give it a try."

"The gar-gargoyles can name him!"

"And where are they?"

"Back in their filthy mines. But I can—I can help you get them. If you've got a woman we can use."

With a lurch of disgust, Jack brought his knee up and drove it into the old man's groin.

"I've seen how you use women," he growled in his ear. "And I'm pretty damn sure you won't be doing it again, ever."

A stream of swear-words and spit-bubbles burbled on the old man's lips. "You're a fucking philistine," he gasped, at length.

"I take that as a great compliment, coming from you."

Jack pushed the old man's shoulders back against the plaster, so he could see his eyes. "Tell me what your master wants with these women, if he can't put them to work."

"-doesn't want them," said the old man, in a kind of surly choke. "Wants her, doesn't 'e? Charlotte Grey."

"But they were all-" Jack stopped, and tried to get a grip on himself. "You mean the one he was chasing in Oxford? The brunette? She's dead."

"Oh, sane enough to believe that, are you?" the old man crowed. His accent was degenerating with every sentence. "Well, he aint. We showed 'im the papers – even sent in spies to check on her body in the morgue. He won't believe it. Says 'e can feel her. Knowing him, it's best not to enquire in too much detail what 'e means-"

But this was too much for Jack, whose eyes were blurring in and out of focus with a combination of rage and panic. He drew back the arm that was pinning the old man to the wall, and then punched him with it – so hard that his head crashed into the plaster, and left a little trail of blood as he slid down the wall.

He turned away sharply before he could do anything else, and listened to the broken glass crunching beneath his boots. 

This was fine. It was fine. Everything was going to plan. He hadn't killed anyone, nobody had escaped, and he was standing in a room full of filing cabinets, each one probably stuffed with papers that could lead him to the Master and his missing girls. 

It was just that the bastard had sent in spies to check on her body. He was still invading her privacy, even after her death. Jack could imagine his dark, lecherous thoughts pawing over her, using her to fuel his paranoid fantasies--or maybe just his regular fantasies. 

No. No. Stop thinking, Jack told himself, squeezing his hands into fists. There's nothing you can do right now. And this room is full of prone, unconscious men you're not allowed to kill. Remove yourself from temptation. 

He stomped down the stairs and unlocked the front door, giving the Constables outside a bright, cheery smile that wrenched his cheek muscles. 

"All yours, boys. No need to be too gentle." 

***

On the train back to Oxford, his mood degenerated even more. Yes, it was nice to be finally doing something – making somebody else suffer – but what did it actually achieve? Were his girls any less scarred? Was Ellini any less dead?

There was always a slump after the battle. His spirits always sank until they were circling the drains. He had never understood why. He'd got everything he had been planning and struggling and fighting for, and now there was nothing to occupy his thoughts but the dark chasm opening up beneath his feet.

Was it that he thought he didn't deserve to win? Well, the slave-girls deserved to win, even if he didn't, and he'd been doing it all for them, hadn't he? They were safer now. It was just that Ellini was still dead.

He couldn't have said at what point he'd fallen asleep. He wasn't even sure he'd reached the Academy, much less his bedroom, because, when he opened the door, it was the dream-room, with its beloved, Indian furnishings, and its latticed windows looking out towards the Jal Mahal.

Ellini was there too, in a severe, blue-grey dress that buttoned up to her throat. The jigsaw pieces were lying, disassembled, on the table-top, as though she had thought it would be bad manners to start putting them together without him.

For perhaps the first time in his life, he wasn't pleased to see her. Her presence – in fact, this whole room, with its stupid, desperate nostalgia – was more evidence that she was dead. He headed for the bed without acknowledging her presence, and flopped down face-first onto the pillows. She was the one who spoke first.

"Jack, you can't go on like this."

Without raising his face from the pillows, Jack held up his wrist so that the bracelet was clearly visible. "Yes, I can."

She sighed. "All right, I daresay you can withstand it physically. I was thinking of the mental strain of working yourself to death like this, sleeping for only two hours a night-"

Jack thought this last objection was fairly spurious. He only slept for two hours a night because she only stayed for two hours a night. If she had lingered in the dream-room for eight hours, soothing his soul with her stories, he would have got many a decent night's sleep – although it would have been harder to keep the jigsaw puzzle incomplete.

In fact, now that he thought about it, all her objections to him killing himself were spurious. She knew exactly how to relieve the strain he was under. So he said, in a voice that was still muffled by the pillow, "Come back to me."

"What?"

"If you're so concerned about my welfare, you know how to improve it. Come back to me."

"But I – but dead is dead," she said, in a voice that was more agitated than he'd expected.

"Well, that's just your excuse."

She seemed relieved that he didn't have anything more reasonable to say, because she changed the subject very quickly.

"At any rate, I'm not sure that even your physical welfare is guaranteed. I'm worried that, when the bracelet's taken off you, your flesh might... remember the wounds it's received."

Jack finally lifted his head from the pillow. He had a dozen questions about this extraordinary pronouncement, but the one which made it to his lips first was: "When the bracelet's taken off me? What do you think--your French girl is just going to undo the clasp and walk away? Maybe give me a short lecture and a slap on the wrists? And you thought that would be the end of it? I'd feel bad for a while, and then I'd get over it? This interlude with the bracelet – it's supposed to be a short punishment to teach me the error of my ways, like making a child stand in the corner?"

When she jerked her head sheepishly, he said, "No? Then what the hell did you think?"

"I was bleeding to death at the time," said Ellini, colouring. "Perhaps I wasn't thinking too clearly."

"What do you really think is happening to me?" said Jack, raising himself from the pillows. The motion seemed to startle her, because she stood up and took a few steps back, the annoyance on her face dying down to its customary coldness. Oh god, he hated it – all that poisonous courtesy. Why couldn't she fight him? Why couldn't she acknowledge, just for a second, that she cared?

"What do you think happens between these nice little interludes with the jigsaw puzzle?" he demanded. "You're angry and upset, but you're not stupid. What do you think my days are like down here?"

"I should leave you to sleep," she said, taking another heart-chilling step towards the door.

"I am sleeping!" Jack shouted. "You wouldn't be here if I wasn't sleeping – do you think anybody's more aware of that than me?"

"I don't think this can be restful for you."

"Oh yes," said Jack. "You always know what's best for me when it involves running away, don't you? Well, go ahead. Run away. Just don't insult me by pretending it's for my benefit."

And she did run. The echoes of his words had barely died away when the door slammed shut behind her.

Jack slumped back onto the pillows, blinking back agony, trying not to think about the implications of what he'd just done. He could feel the ground shifting underneath him – he could see the trapdoor of despair yawning to swallow him up – but he didn't fall down yet, because he was too angry.

The part of his mind that was still rational knew that this was bad. Last time he'd offended her, she had disappeared for three months. And, the more often he offended her, the less likely it became that she would ever come back.

Oh fuck. What if she never came back?

Well, she'd be proving him right, wouldn't she? He hadn't said anything that wasn't true – she was always running away to spite herself and pretending it was for other people. She could have told him about the threat to his life in India. She could have let him kiss her in Oxford. She could have let him stand beside her and take the consequences. But she was obsessed with suffering alone.

And that wasn't surprising, he added, as another sad, lonely thread of rationality came back. Even that creepy old man with the orange skin had understood it. She had watched one family member after another die because of her. At fifteen. She thought it was her fault. Was it surprising that she'd do anything rather than let someone she loved suffer for her again?

He had just never expected it because he'd never really believed that she loved him.

***

The next day was one of his darkest. He shouted at Manda, Danvers, even the slave-girls. 

He had beaten up a dozen men, and he still didn't have the master, or his captured girls. He wanted to be fighting someone – doing something – but the only way forward was to go through the mounds of paperwork they'd taken from the building in East Dulwich.

Brandt and Danvers were already hard at work on this, but Jack was too desolate to make it to the end of any sentences. Reports and receipts and columns of figures swam under his wretched gaze, and he couldn't make sense of any of them. He couldn't even get them to stop wobbling.

He couldn't make it through another three months without her. And the idea that it might be worse – that she might never come back at all – was almost enough to make him black out over the paperwork.

But he was still back in the dream-room that night, morosely fitting jigsaw pieces together. Where else was he going to go?

He didn't look up when he heard the door open. He assumed it was some cruel trick of his subconscious, trying to make his heart leap one more time. A stupid trick of his subconscious, because his heart was too battered to even stir. The only way it could have leapt would have been if someone picked it up and threw it. 

So his eyes were still fixed disconsolately on the jigsaw pieces when someone put their hand on the back of the chair opposite him.

It was a gloved hand, but he wasn't going to let that fool him. Still, without the slightest hope, or the slightest expression, his gaze was drawn nervelessly upwards.

It looked as though her coming had been a last-minute decision; it looked as though she had run here. Her chest was rising and falling rapidly, and she was dressed in a nightgown rather than her usual, tailored and corseted finery. Her hair was loose and, as she came to a halt in front of the jigsaw-table, she tucked a lock behind her ear, with a motion that was half-nervous and half-defiant.

Jack stared at her. But she wasn't looking at him. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes fixed on the tabletop.

"So the next story in the Arabian Nights – or the version I read anyway – is the Adventures of Prince Camaralzaman and Princess Badoura," she said shakily. "You should like it. The hero ends up with two wives, and they share him amicably, because they're the best of friends – although I prefer to think they're actually lovers, and the husband is quite superfluous."

She sat down then, and she might have looked at him, but Jack couldn't tell, because he was staring determinedly at the jigsaw puzzle, his eyes burning with tears.

She had come back. He could tell she wanted to run – every nervous motion, every glance towards the window, broadcast her eagerness to run. But she had come back. Why? Because she'd realized he was right? Was this an apology? Or was she back here because she couldn't live without him, just as he couldn't live without her?

Either way, it was more than he deserved, and it took him a long time to get his vision back under control. When he was finally able to look up, he had a mad urge to fling himself at her feet and kiss the hem of her nightgown – or scoop her up in his arms and call her his beautiful, merciful Ellini. But any sudden movements would have frightened her, and it was obvious that her return was contingent upon not talking about it. They had to go on as they were before, but suddenly that didn't seem like such a hardship.

With trembling hands, he reached for the jigsaw pieces, and started putting them together.