London, 1881: 

Ellini sewed, and imagined she was stitching all her wounds closed as she did so. She was sure it was doing her some good, because she was getting angrier, and she had a feeling that anger was like the itch of healing skin – all very irritating, but necessary, in the long run.

She was not just angry with Jack – although he was obviously the immediate focus. She was angry with the gargoyles, with their master, with Violet and Carver and Myrrha. It was as though, once she had stopped blaming herself, she had to accept the necessity of blaming other people.

It started with a restless, rootless fury against whoever had made the elemental – whoever had summoned it to earth, and captured it in a body that looked like hers, and made its life so miserable that it had been driven to write the words 'kill me' on the slate around its neck.

Then she had gradually – grudgingly – come to realize that this was a screen for her fury against the people who had mistreated her, which was embarrassing, because the case of the poor, hapless elemental was surely reason enough to be angry all on its own.

Most of all, for some reason, she thought about tracking down Myrrha, and the society of man-hating ladies who called themselves the Wylies. And, surprisingly, it was not because she wanted to join them, but because she wanted to put a stop to their crusade against love. She had only just now begun to appreciate that there might be other women like her, who'd seen their men turn into callous, indifferent monsters, and had been driven to despair. Less likely – and less important – there might be men out there who had been duped into forgetting their loved ones, and would be horrified by what they'd done if their true feelings should ever return.

For the first time in her life –or the first time since Robin, anyway – she wanted to fight somebody.

She looked up from her sewing, to see Mrs Gratton and a few of the other needlewomen clustered round the doorway, welcoming in some visitor. It couldn't have been a Sweater, because they were curtseying and giggling and being much too polite. It must have been one of the churchmen.

This one was – oh damn. Oh damn, damn, damn. She had seen this one before, hadn't she? She recognized the florid, austere face. He had white-blonde eyebrows and, because they were the only pallor on his pink skin, they looked like curved white scars above his eyes.

He was dressed like a non-conformist Minister, with a wide-brimmed hat, and a Bible pressed piously to his chest. He was – oh yes, Mrs Gratton had asked him to talk to the girls last week. About the importance of not supplementing their income with any street-walking. Some way through the sermon, his eyes had met hers, so she'd moved to sit beside Sarah Siddon, whose cleavage was always spilling over the bodice of her dress like the frothy head on a glass of stout. No-one could look at anything else when Sarah Siddon was in view. It reminded Ellini unpleasantly of Alice Darwin, but it had its uses. She hadn't seen the Minister glance at her again.

But now he was back, and had taken some care over his appearance. She could smell the pomade from his slicked-down hair as he took off his hat.

Mrs Gratton clapped her hands once or twice for silence, and the chatter died down to a few surly mutters. The girls hadn't much enjoyed the previous lecture.

"Girls, Mr Bedfield here has a wonderful opportunity for one of you. He has a space in his household for a kitchen maid, and he was so impressed by your virtue and industry when he came to talk to you last week that he's decided to choose the girl from amongst us. He says he knows you'll need training, but he's prepared to be patient with you. It's three shillings a week, with your own bed, and meals provided. I'm sure you'll agree that's a lot better than what we get here! He says he needs a hard-working girl who knows how to hold her tongue."

The surly mutters immediately ceased. For three shillings a week and their own bed these girls would be willing to take a life-long vow of silence.

"I was particularly impressed by the quiet, contemplative girl in the corner over there," said Mr Bedfield.

He was pointing at Ellini, but it took a while for anyone to ascertain this, because she was seated behind the largest woman she'd been able to find, staring determinedly at her sewing.

"That's Ellie Sanderson," said Mrs Gratton, who clearly thought she was doing Ellini a favour. "A very good girl, Mr Bedfield. I've never heard a cross word from her."

"That's 'cause you can barely get a word from her at all," said Maria Blackwood.

"You hold your tongue, girl!"

"Well, he ought to know, Mrs Gratton," said Maria, spreading her hands reasonably. "To be honest with you, sir, we think she's a bit simple. I daresay she's quiet enough, but if you want a girl with some intelligence-"

Ellini didn't say a word, didn't even redden. Perhaps, if she looked as though she didn't understand what was happening, he'd believe Maria and go away.

"I have found that modesty and kindness if worth a good deal more than intelligence, Miss," said Mr Bedfield. He snapped his fingers at Ellini and said, "Get your things ready, girl. If Mrs Gratton vouches for you, that's good enough for me. I'll be escorting you to your new situation in a hansom cab." He emphasized the last two words, as though he thought a hansom cab would be the most luxurious thing she'd ever seen, and all her friends would be jealous.

Silent and numb, Ellini gathered up her bed-roll and said goodbye to Mrs Gratton.

She didn't know what was going to happen. This was all taking place at the wrong time. She was too angry to take orders from a man again – especially one who was looking at her as though she was a juicy steak, and he hadn't eaten for days. She would hurt him, maybe. She would lose control. And it wasn't his fault.

She stood stock still, trying to remember why it wasn't his fault. Mrs Gratton even asked her whether she was feeling alright.

"I'm... yes," she said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ears. "It's just – a shock to be leaving so suddenly."

Mrs Gratton squeezed her arm. "You remember I told you to work hard and say your prayers, and God would know you'd led a good life? Well, he does know, Ellie. And he sent you this. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth, my dear. Three shillings a week and your own bed!" She threw her hands up and giggled, looking for a moment like a much younger woman. "I wish I'd caught his eye!"

Ellini mustered a weak smile and staggered down the stair-well. She had to remember why it wasn't his fault before he tried to put his hands on her. And they would be alone in a cab together! Would he be able to restrain himself, sitting so close? Stuck in London traffic, with her baleful influence at work on him?

She probably only had a few minutes to collect herself. If she got into the cab without remembering why it wasn't his fault, she might do anything. She might stab his eyes out with a hairpin!

Let's see... how was he different from the men who had trapped and abused her?

He didn't have a choice.

But none of them had a choice, and only a few of them had done deplorable things. Dr Petrescu and Mr Danvers had been affected by her curse, and they'd never tried to molest her. They had been selfless and kind – and, oh god, if only she'd been able to fall in love with one of them! But she couldn't, could she? She was only attracted to the stabbing kind.

Perhaps this man would be like Dr Petrescu and Mr Danvers. Perhaps she was doing him a disservice by even thinking these things. Perhaps he really did just want to help an impoverished seamstress to lead an honest life.

But, in her heart of hearts, she knew that a Dr Petrescu or a Mr Danvers would not have given her his bag to carry and led her down a deserted alley to find a cab. Cabs did not frequent deserted alleys, and Ellini knew from her wanderings that this one just led to more alleys, not to a busy commercial street.

He stopped when they'd gone far enough for the noise from the street behind to be muffled, and turned to look at her: all weighed down with bag and bed-roll, and wrapped in the cloak that Mrs Gratton had solicitously pinned around her shoulders.

"Perhaps you're wondering why I chose you," he said, with a kind of breathy contempt which was not making it any easier for her to remember why it wasn't his fault.

"Yes, sir."

"It's because you seem like the sort of girl who would be smart and keep her mouth shut."

"Yes, sir," said Ellini, not really knowing what she was agreeing with.

He reached out one of his hands – too dry to be clammy, but with a smell of pomade that made her stomach heave.

"So you won't talk about this, will you?" he said, touching the hand to her cheek.

His other hand hovered for a moment, and Ellini watched it warily, thinking that the whole course of his life might be determined by where he put it.

In the end – to her relief – it landed on her shoulder. But she didn't like the way he rubbed his thumb over the fabric of her cloak. 

And, as he leaned in for a kiss, she realized she had always been going to attack him anyway.

It was wonderful. She kicked and bit and pulled his hair, getting her palms greasy with all the pomade. For some reason, she wanted to smear it across her cheeks like war-paint.

He was doubled up and wheezing, and she wondered distantly whether she'd kicked him in the crotch. She wanted to giggle at her own daring, but sanity came back to her just in time.

You don't know how to fight. And, even if you did, you mustn't, because it's not his fault, and you could kill him. You've killed too many people in your life.

She tried to run, but he grabbed the hem of her cloak and pulled her back, cursing and spluttering.

"You bitch! You bitch–"

He shoved her sideways into the brick-work, and she hit her head. But, even with her eyes blurring in and out of focus, she went on hitting out at him, kicking his shins, clawing at his face with her non-existent nails. She even thought she landed a decent punch to his abdomen – the sort of thing Jack would have been proud of – but she never knew for sure, because he was wrenched off her and thrown against the opposite wall. He must have been knocked out instantly, because every inch of his body went limp, and he crumpled to the ground like a rag-doll.

His assailant – the man who'd done the wrenching and throwing – had his back to her, but he briefly knelt beside the Minister, perhaps to make sure he was still breathing.

He didn't sound very well himself. His breath was coming in ragged bursts, and there was something about the way he moved – a kind of reel that seemed almost, but not quite, to be about to turn into a stagger.

Ellini tried to say something to him, but he reeled off, without turning to face her, trailing a hand across the nearest wall to steady himself.

She stood still for a moment, watching the back of his head, with its matted, hazel-coloured hair.

She ought to run in the opposite direction. Nobody – or no man, anyway – would help her just out of the goodness of his heart. She couldn't go back to the slop-house, but she could find another one. Perhaps the Minister even had some money on him. Enough for a train ticket and a decent meal. She could be on the other side of the city in half an hour.

And, for a moment, she was so swayed by this logic that she knelt beside the Minister and groped around for his purse. But then she shut her eyes, trying to fight off her conscience, and looked back at the hazel-haired man with a groan.

No good could come of it. And if the Minister came round and found her in the same part of the city, he'd probably set the police on her. But he was in trouble, wasn't he? The stupid drunk idiot was in trouble, and he had saved her – or maybe saved her, because she wasn't quite willing to let go of the idea that her wonderful abdomen punch would have been enough on its own.

She found the Minister's purse, gave his recumbent form one last kick, and hurried after the hazel-haired man, who was threading his way so unsteadily through the crowds at the end of the alley.

She followed him through the city for the best part of an hour – keeping her distance, wrestling with her desire to run, expecting him to keel over at any moment. And, as she followed him, a horrible, impossible suspicion began to form in her mind.

She knew this man. The hazel hair, the broad, bony shoulders, even the staggering walk, were all terrifyingly familiar to her. The way people got out of his way, even though he was dressed like a vagrant. The way the women stared, even though he was filthy and unkempt and could barely stand upright.

He eventually came to a halt at the river-side and stood, swaying, by the parapet, as though he couldn't remember whether or not he could walk on water.

By this time, Ellini's suspicions had hardened into a kind of despairing certainty. It couldn't be real, and yet there was no mistaking him.

She approached him tentatively. He had both hands on the parapet now, and she wondered briefly whether he was going to throw himself in.

"Robin?"

His back straightened, but it was a while before he turned round. When he did, he was grinning roguishly, even if the overall effect was ruined by the swaying, and the sticky pallor of his face.

"Ellie," he said, taking one staggering step towards her, and then immediately reeling back. His speech was slurred but cheerful. "S'wonderful to see you again. I've got so much to tell you. Not sure I can stay conscious long enough for the whole story, though. Could you come back in the morning?"

And then he collapsed.