Jack swung the axe off his back and placed it in the special bracket he'd had made for it on the side of the carriage. Ellini drew the line at letting him carry weapons inside. The words she had used were, 'I want to be able to get close to you without worrying about cutting myself', which was a sure-fire way of getting Jack to agree to anything.

It hung on the outside of the coach while they were travelling – much better than those family crests the nobility emblazoned on their carriages – although Jack did have a coat of arms now. Ellini had had it made for his birthday last month: a painted wooden shield with a scroll at the bottom, on which was written a Latin motto that Jack hadn't been able to decipher.

The bottom two-thirds of the shield were blue, cut off from the white third by a jagged line that made him think of blue mountains, or the choppy surface of a lake. In the blue, seemingly submerged underwater, was a white dragon rearing upwards – Jack knew enough about Heraldry to know that this was called 'rampant'. In the white section, two single-bladed axes were poised in the corners. And between them, a yellow star, so big that it seemed to blaze above the scene like a sun.

"I know you don't have many good associations with the name Cade," Ellini had explained, while they were hanging it up on the wall of their living room. "And with your father's side of the family. But I thought this would remind you of your demonic heritage, which goes beyond your father."

Jack had pointed to the motto at the bottom. "What does it mean? 'Multum polluitur, sed tamen verum'?"

Ellini bit her lip, as if she wasn't sure how he was going to take this. "Much sullied, but still true?"

Jack laughed at this description of himself. It hadn't been funny the first time, but now it was perfect. "Oh, I'll take it," he said fervently.

"The dragon is snowball," Ellini went on, reassured by his smile. "Your gift from Prince Seere. And I thought the blue and white would remind you of his ice-world."

Jack looked at the jagged row of blue peaks that stretched across the shield. They did indeed remind him of the mountains in that snow-world – which he had grudgingly come to acknowledge were beautiful, for all that he'd been on fire to get away from them on his first visit.

They also made him think of the surface of the dark lake where he'd met Lily Hamilton, but he supposed that was a part of him too now. You couldn't have the silver dragons, or their perfect message in the sand, without the despair that had gone before.

"And the axes represent your axe," Ellini went on. "Not much symbolism there. And the star–"

"The North Star," he corrected her, because he knew exactly what it was. He had recognised it first out of all the symbols. He had told Ellini about the north star that had shone so constantly on Elsie's breast-bone – how it had represented the constant influence of her mother. It had made Ellini cry a bit, but in a good way, especially when he'd explained that she had performed the same service for him. That act of kindness she'd shown him at the age of eight – the merciful curtain of dark hair – had guided him all his life, making him want to be a better person.

"You'll think it's arrogant of me," she had said, her cheeks kindling, "to put myself at the centre of your coat of arms."

"Not at all. It's truthful." He interlaced his fingers with hers. "And I never want to forget it again."

She blushed still deeper, and then she blurted out, "You might not be the last person to bear the name."

"What?"

She waved a hand clumsily. "The name Cade – the coat of arms–"

"No, I understood you," he said, as patiently as he could manage. "I meant, what?"

"I think I'm pregnant."

"What?"

"It's sort of... personal..."

Jack stared at her. "Please don't make me say 'what' again..."

She gave a wretched laugh and looked down at the floor. "Well, you know my... monthly bleeds... stopped when Robin killed my family. I mean, they'd barely had a chance to get started, but they stopped, and – well, you know they never came back, as I got older..."

She trailed off, as if she was expecting a response from him, so he said, "Yes. I knew that."

"Well, I think they would have come back, after your 'Ring. Sister. Piano' spell, only... only then we had all that sex..."

Jack's jaw dropped open. He didn't have anything else. He didn't have any thoughts or plans or witty comebacks. He just had the astonishment, and the hope that it would carry him through the rest of this conversation – maybe even through the next eighteen years.

"It's hard for me to be sure, as you can imagine," she went on. "The only fail-safe indicator doesn't apply to me. But I had a month of nausea in April, and now I'm–"

"Hold on," said Jack, putting out a hand to stop her. "You're saying this has been going on since...?"

"Since March, I think. I'm three months in."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

She flinched. Maybe he had said it too loudly. He had literally no idea. He could hardly hear anything over the roaring in his ears.

"For the reasons I've said," she replied. "I wasn't sure. The nausea went away, and I sort of forgot about it."

"Forgot about it?" He was shouting now, he was sure of it. What he wasn't sure of was whether he'd ever be able to stop.

"And I didn't want to get my hopes up," she murmured.

Jack's anger deflated, as if he'd been punched in the gut and all the air had rushed out of him.

Yes, that made sense. She wouldn't have wanted to get her hopes up. He had never asked her how she felt about the fact that she apparently couldn't have children. It had always been one of those things he had tried not to draw her attention to.

He knew how women could feel about it in general, though. As if they'd failed at being women.

He had never thought of Ellini as someone who particularly liked children, but he realised now that that was because she'd always done her best to keep away from them. They had reminded her too much of what she'd lost – first Sita, then her hopes of bearing children herself, then Elsie. God, how could she have allowed herself to think of another child when she was still mourning Elsie?

He took a deep breath through his nose, trying to be calm, trying to keep his mind blank. Pretty soon it was going to occur to him what a perilous process childbirth was, and then he wouldn't know another moment of peace for six months or more.

"So... you're sure now?" he prompted.

"Yes," she said, giving him a queasy smile. He could see how much it was costing her to say 'yes' like that – as though it was a certainty. He could see how hard she was fighting the urge to shrug or laugh or toss her head. "I've been to see a physician and a midwife this morning. And I did that because Sita came into my room just after you'd gone out, as calm as you please, and said, 'Leeny, do you know you're going to have a baby at Christmastime?'"

Jack pursed his lips to keep from saying 'What?' again. But, as there didn't seem to be anything else to say – at least, nothing decent – he turned on his heel and went looking for Sita.

She was in the dining room, stretched out on the hearth rug, her chin cradled in her palms, her legs absent-mindedly kicking the air. A book was lying open on the rug in front of her, and she was not best pleased when Jack yanked it away and dragged her upright.

"I don't see what you're so worked up about," she protested, when she'd had the situation explained. "It was a nice vision! We were all crammed into Leeny's room, and she was sitting up in bed with a baby, and she let me hold it, and it curled its whole hand around my finger!"

Jack fired off questions like a siege battery. Who was crammed into Leeny's room? Was it her room at home? How did she know it was Christmas? How did she know it was this Christmas? How did Ellini look? How did the baby look? Was there a doctor or a midwife in the room?

Sita answered as best she could, screwing up her eyes in concentration. "I'm... I knew it was Christmas because everyone was drinking sherry – except you, of course. And it looked like we'd been opening presents, because there was a mess of ribbon and brown paper everywhere. I suppose we'd all felt sorry for Leeny, missing the Christmas festivities, so we'd brought them up to her. And I knew it was this Christmas, because her hair still hadn't grown long – it wasn't even down to her shoulders. And no, it wasn't her room at home, now you come to mention it. I'm not sure where it was. But there was a big fire in the grate, and everyone seemed really happy."

"What about the doctor?" Jack repeated. "And how did Ellini look?" It was physically impossible for him to ask just one question at a time.

Sita bit her lip. "I don't remember seeing any doctors, now that I think about it..."

"Why weren't you thinking about it before?" Jack burst out.

She opened her eyes and glared at him. "I don't know what you think a vision is," she said, with great dignity. "But it's not like having a leisurely time at the theatre, watching the scene unfold. It's flashes and feelings."

"But you say the feeling was positive?" Jack persisted, shoving his hands in his pockets so she wouldn't see him balling them up into fists.

"That's what I was trying to say. Leeny looked pale and tired, but happy. So did you. The baby looked... well, like a baby," she said, waving her hand. "I couldn't tell if it was a boy or a girl. It was just a little, red, wrinkly thing wrapped in blankets. And everyone was there, even Mrs Darwin – but the baby cried when she tried to hold it, and Leeny seemed only too glad to take it back!"

Jack breathed out. In truth, he was comforted by Sita's account. It was frustratingly incomplete, and parts of it didn't make any sense at all, but he had learned to trust her visions – odd as they always appeared at first sight. After all, there hadn't seemed to be much sense in Jack waving an axe and calling himself Ishmael, but it had come to pass just like she'd said.

He'd soon found out why Ellini hadn't been in her own bed, anyway – and why Alice had been there. It was because Jack was frightened. And when he was frightened about things he didn't understand, he looked to Sergei.

He arranged for them to stay at the Faculty for the whole month of December, so that Sergei would be on the spot if anything went wrong. Unfortunately, Sergei being on the spot also meant Alice being on the spot, because she seldom left the place, in spite of her grand, exalted position.

"I take it you're not expecting me to actually deliver the child," Sergei had said, when Jack had outlined this plan to him. "I'm not an obstetrician, and I'm certain Ellini would find it hideously embarrassing."

"No," said Jack, hunching his shoulders. Ellini had made it clear to him that she would be having an experienced midwife to deliver the child, and would not be swearing, sweating and displaying her privates in front of Dr Petrescu. "I just want you there. I just... I always feel better when you're there."

Sergei's lips twitched behind his moustache. "That's very sweet of you, Jack, but shouldn't we be concentrating on making Ellini feel better?"

Jack flinched. In all honesty, this hadn't occurred to him. He didn't see how Ellini could possibly be as frightened as he was. But then, Ellini never did seem frightened, when it came to her health or her endurance.

He decided to consult Manda. Maybe Ellini wouldn't talk to him about her worries, because she didn't want to increase his own, but she could be frank with Manda. Manda would know what to do.

She and Sam had their own house now – well, half a house, above the tea-rooms in the High Street. It was close to the University Church, so Manda could still visit the mourners. In fact, she did baking and laundry for them, in addition to the invaluable service of being a sympathetic listener.

Jack felt as though Manda performed that service for half the town. She would jolly them along, point out the bright side – or just distract them with other news, if there was no bright side to be pointed out.

It didn't leave her much time for housework, so Jack paid Mary Carmichael from the Academy to be her housemaid. Manda was too valuable to be tied up with chores.

She hadn't mentioned Jack's promise to be her slave for life, but he hadn't forgotten it. The wording had been a bit extreme, maybe, but he really intended to serve Manda and Sam for the rest of his life, in any way he could. If they wanted him to stand around fanning them and fetching grapes, he would find some way to manage it. But fortunately, it turned out that Manda had a more practical scheme in mind.

"We're not barbaric enough to hold you to it," she had said, when he'd invited himself round for tea and seedcake – made by the ever-reliable Mary. "Nobody should have slaves, and we're well aware that you only said it because you're over-emotional and prone to exaggeration."

Jack smiled, but said nothing. It must be nice, he thought, for an ex-mourner to level that charge at someone else.

"But if by 'slave', you meant 'guardian and protector', we might have a use for your offer."

She sipped her tea daintily, while Sam glowered in the corner, not touching his tea or seedcake. Thinking about it, he had been even more curt and bad-tempered than usual when he'd let Jack in. And that was odd, because he'd mellowed a lot since his marriage to Manda. He was still Sam, of course, but Jack had seen him moving down the street without stomping, listening to his officers without yelling, tolerating Jack's guards without gritting his teeth.

And now, something had happened. He was a tower of rage again. Jack couldn't help tensing in his seat. Perhaps they did want him to stand around fanning them and fetching grapes.

"I'm going to have a child," said Manda – and Jack heard Sam, who had finally picked up his teacup, splutter and slam it down again.

"So any debt you think you owe to me," Manda continued, ignoring this reaction, "can be transferred to our child. You can be its guardian and protector. And, just to make things official, you can be its godfather too."

The splutter from the corner turned into a choking sound. Sam wasn't happy about any of this. Jack wondered how much of it was coming as a complete surprise.

"Uh... have the two of you talked about this?"

Manda sniffed. "About the child, certainly. I could hardly have a baby without telling him."

Jack looked at Sam. For the first time, he recognised the red face and rage as the sign of a profound nervousness. He wondered if he had looked the same when he'd found out about Ellini's pregnancy. Was it worse for Sam? He hadn't suffered through the same trauma – he hadn't had his Manda wrenched from him so many times that his heart juddered whenever she walked away – but still... the thought of a child of Sam coming out of a dainty little creature like Manda was alarming.

"And, as for you being its godfather," Manda went on, "well, I'm allowed to be in charge of the children, aren't I? Even crusty, bearded Victorian patriarchs would allow me that."

Jack tilted his head, trying to smile. His worries had splintered and multiplied – he was going to have to find out so much about childbirth – but he couldn't help being amused at Manda's naivety. Women were in charge of the children when it was something the men didn't want to be bothered about, like coughs and colds and potty-training. But, when it came to matters of family honour, he suspected that the crusty, bearded Victorian patriarchs would expect to be very much in charge.

But fortunately, Sam wasn't one of them. Jack could see him calming down – as much as Sam ever did calm down. The choking sound had probably just been a symptom of the wider nervousness.

Still, Jack felt honour-bound to voice some of the problems. "You'd be courting controversy, having me as a godfather," he muttered. "But, for the record, I'm honoured, I'm happy to do this, and I'd be doing it anyway, because I think of you two as my family."

Manda shoved him in the shoulder and told him not to be so soppy. "And, if doing something I want is courting controversy, then it can't be helped," she added, with the certainty and simplicity he had come to love about her. "Oh, and Ellini can be godmother too, if she wants."

Jack waited to see whether there would be any spluttering, but Sam was silent at this suggestion. He probably thought Ellini was more stable and trustworthy.

"She'd like that," he said, thinking of the fairy-godmothers in the stories she loved so much. "And you'll be able to talk about everything together, because she's going to have a baby too."

For the first time, he said it with a throb of excitement, without the words leaving him cold. For the first time, he believed it. The warmth of that excitement, flaring up from the pit of his stomach and tingling behind his eyes, even drowned out Manda's delighted squeal. Sam stood up and shook his hand, with a shadow of respect – or a shadow of pity. It was hard to tell which. But certainly, he didn't seem annoyed anymore. As terrified as they might both be, they were in it together. There was a lot of comfort in that.

"Don't you think it's a bit aggressive," said Sergei, bringing him back to the here-and-now, "to hang a battle-axe on the outside of your coach?"

"Yes," said Jack calmly. "That's the idea. I want people to see it and remember who they're dealing with. I also want them to remember that I've got a bloody great dragon."

Sergei let out a breath that ruffled his moustache. "It's a mercy he's too big to be hung on the coach himself."

"Anyway," said Jack, "what do you think the crests on noblemen's carriages are for? It isn't just advertising, it's a warning. It says, 'The owner of this carriage has great tracts of land and enough history to leave you headless'."

"The heraldic equivalent of 'I've got a bloody great dragon,'" Sergei mused. "Yes, I see what you mean. But I prefer the subtlety of the crests."

Jack waved a hand. "Well, you know subtlety has never been my strong suit."

He took out his pocket watch. It was nearly half-past nine. The dance had been swirling on without him while he'd been reminiscing, and now he had to watch for the right gap to step back inside, or the dancers would roll right over him.

He turned back to Sergei. "Would you take Sita up to the Bodleian and collect Emma? You might have to take away her sketchpad. The coach will be waiting here for them at ten. Ginniver's going too, but she won't take kindly to being collected. She likes to preserve her anonymity until the very last moment. She'll probably sneak into the coach without you noticing – she's very good."

"I shall be only too happy not to interfere," said Sergei. He didn't like Ginniver. Jack had expected them to get along, because her fierce, impatient nature was quite like Alice's. But he supposed, if you already had one Alice in your life, there really wasn't room for more. "You are going on ahead with Ellini?"

"I'll be scouting the road with the new Professor of Eve Studies," Jack re-phrased, trying to suggest that it would be all business and no pleasure. Sergei raised his eyebrows, no doubt trying to suggest that he didn't believe a word of it. But he nodded and took Sita's hand, leading her back down Holywell Street, with Ginniver following at a discreet distance.

Ellini had never intended to become an academic. Her lectures were supposed to be confessional. Cathartic. Stories told to soothe the aggression of a bewildered public. She had been prepared to be called a liar, an over-emotional woman, a mother goose peddling fairytales. But somehow, evidence kept turning up.

It had started with the discovery that Robin had mailed her Faustus's journal before he died – the original sixteenth-century copy he had given to Myrrha as part of their pact. Ellini had shown it to a palaeographer at Merton, who had confirmed that the handwriting was genuine. Other documents in Faustus's hand had survived, and this one matched them perfectly.

Suddenly, historians had been battering down their door, begging for permission to study it. Monograms were published. The journal turned out to have many historical specifics that could be corroborated elsewhere. The Dean of Christchurch called it 'a boon to scholarship,' which was high praise, coming from him.

Ellini had gifted it to the University – well, to Dr Petrescu at the Faculty of Demonic Speculation, because she wasn't sure she could trust the rest of the University. Still, it looked as though she had gifted it to the University, so they had softened towards her.

They had even allowed her to lead an all-female expedition into the fire-mines to look for Faustus. They had found him dead in his cave – decapitated, in fact – although apparently the women had been more shocked by his nakedness than his headlessness.

Ellini thought he had died at the moment when Alice had chopped Myrrha's head off. Their pact had tied their lives together, so it stood to reason they would die at the same moment, and in the same way.

Still, they brought his head and body back, along with many artefacts and detailed sketches from the fire-mines. Ellini's story was gaining credibility.

And, as more people heard about the Master and his Order, and the way Ellini had resurrected Eve, other manuscripts had turned up – more accounts of what the Cardinal in his essay had referred to as 'the recurring blonde'. There was suddenly a great deal of evidence that Eve had walked the earth many times before, and that an Order of slave-takers had been suppressing all knowledge of it.

So people sent her documents and essays – sometimes whole, bound manuscripts on vellum, as big as her torso – and she became the first Professor of 'Eve Studies', which, as Jack understood it, was a bit like history, but with a side-helping of demonology, narrative theory and magical thinking.

Her first speech had been at Northaven, where half the town had been calling her a Scarlet Jezebel two months before.

Jack had been nervous about that one. He knew Ellini was strong – he knew her dark glow was unquenchable – but watching her stand in front of that crowd had been like watching a candle flame guttering in a gale. He had studied the plans of the building, he had checked lines of sight, he had damn-near searched everybody who went in, but he hadn't been able to shake that exposed, vulnerable feeling.

"At least Elsie managed to change my demonic symptom," Ellini had muttered, as they stood behind the curtain, listening to the sounds of hundreds of people taking their seats on the other side. "If they don't listen, we'll know it's because they're humming their favourite tunes under their breath, rather than because they're thinking lewd thoughts about me."

Jack waved away this attempt at consolation. He was shifting from foot to foot, toying with his pocket watch. "I'll be by the side doors," he said, closing the watchcase with a snap. "You leave any hecklers to me."

Ellini looked at him. "That sounds ominous."

"I'll escort them off the premises," he insisted.

"And what will you do with them once they are off the premises?"

He sniffed. "I haven't decided yet. It depends what they say to you."

He saw her licking her lips, trying to frame some kind of gentle remonstrance that wouldn't make things worse for him. He decided not to wait for it. "You will get abuse, you know that? Maybe not tonight, but eventually. Everyone in the public eye gets it. Think of all those conservative papers that called me a pirate, or a biter of virgins."

Ellini laughed softly. "Yes. But they always seemed to call you glamorous things that I suspect you never minded being called anyway. It will be different for a woman, won't it? If you're not an ugly old baggage, you're a whore. If you're not ageing and unsightly, you're mutton dressed as lamb. If you're not an air-headed bimbo, you're sly and manipulative."

Jack waved her into silence, his eyes clamped shut. "Don't-"

"I know," she said, reaching up to touch his face. "I'm sorry." Her hand lingered against his cheek, cool and gloveless. It reminded him that she was exposed, but it also called to mind everything she'd been through, and the bravery of going gloveless when you only had pink-white scars where your fingernails should be. She had chosen to leave herself exposed there, and she was doing it again now. Because, for all her softness, politeness, and general 'mouseness', she was tough as nails.

"I'm prepared for it," she told him. "They will not stop me from telling the truth to those who need to hear it."

But they hadn't jeered or heckled her. At first, Jack had thought it was because they were afraid of him. He had been standing in the aisle by the emergency exit, watching the faces of the audience, glaring at anyone who dared to meet his eyes.

But, as Ellini's words washed over him – as he saw their faces thaw from mistrust to astonishment – he realised he couldn't take any credit for it. It was her words; the breathy, confidential way she uttered them.

It was very personal, but it was also full of vivid, visual details that she told with such deftness and delight that they scrawled themselves across the inside of your eyelids. More than once, Jack found himself taking his eyes off the crowd to marvel at her.

He thought of the stories she had told him in the Indian room while they'd been reassembling that jigsaw. And, before that, her stories in the Faculty Lounge while they pieced together the clay doll – stories that had summoned Elsie to life and woven the inhabitants of the Faculty into a family.

He wondered what her stories were building here, in this draughty old theatre in Northaven. Peace, maybe.

Well, it might work for a while – in this charmed little bubble of gaslight and quiet – but it would be an endless task to keep it up. Once the people got home, stamped the atmosphere off their boots, once the papers got hold of her story and started arguing among themselves. Once academics and politicians and the proverbial man in the pub started weighing in, there would be no agreement, no consensus.

But Ellini would still be talking, in her quiet, bewitching way. Jack would still be there to watch her and advise her. They couldn't work miracles, but they could do a lot when they were together. And you only needed to listen to the hush of straining ears and indrawn breath in this room to know that this was important. Ellini had been right. People needed this.

And she looked so – so one hundred per cent Ellini when she was up there – flushed with nervousness, but also with the thrill of storytelling. She could be herself in these speeches, and he could be himself in organising the world to his satisfaction so that she could make them. Organising guards, travel plans, itineraries, watching for the wrong note, the unexpected element that would throw his plans into disarray and force him to improvise. All those things made him come alive.

Ellini had chosen a life that played to both their strengths. And it was also one that helped people. Right now, he couldn't think of anything better.

Well, he could – and that happened when they got back to their hotel.

It was technically their honeymoon – or anyway, it was the first trip they had taken since their wedding. And it was surreal to share a room at the Birdcage Inn and think about how much they had hated each other the last time they'd been there.

It had been a good night. Ellini had been drunk on adrenaline and relief. Her dark glow had been almost blinding – blindingly dark, anyway. Their room had been lit with reflected firelight from the dancing in the town square. The drums had got into Jack's bloodstream.

He had wanted to stay in their room all evening, but Ellini had dragged him out to join the dancing: hooves striking sparks against the cobbles, horned heads rearing against the lamplight.

People had come up to them – very respectfully – to ask Ellini questions about the Little Mother, or to tell her how much it had meant to them, to hear about her final moments. They had swapped theories about what was happening to her now – now that she'd been given a decent answer to the question of what she was. None of them seemed able to entertain the idea that she was just gone.

Jack didn't believe it either. Whenever he was sitting in the evenings with his little family, watching the rhythmic, in-and-out glow of his axe – it had a special bracket on the wall of the living room too – he knew that the demon world was alive somewhere, breathing steadily, and that someone was driving that life. It might not be Elsie anymore, but she could never really be gone while her world was still thriving.

Jack blinked, coming out of his reverie just in time to see Arthur scurrying up to the Faculty.

"You sent for me, Sir?"

"Yes," said Jack, trying to pretend he'd been waiting patiently instead of reminiscing. He took out his pocket watch, which always helped him feel businesslike again, and explained to Arthur about Kevin.

Arthur Jones, former police Constable, and one-time supplier of Jack with laudanum-laced tea, was turning out to be a very able second-Lieutenant. He hadn't been good enough for Sam's police force, but Jack didn't need his men to have much initiative. He needed them to do what they were told, tell him every little detail, and have an excellent memory for the instructions he was constantly barking at them

"Don't knock at the door. His mother will lie for him," said Jack, walking up and down in front of the Faculty while Arthur hastened to keep up, occasionally tripping over things because he was trying to scribble in his notepad at the same time.

"Sneak round the back and see if you can get in. If Kevin's sleeping happily sleeping in his bed, fine. If not, send a telegram to the office at King's Sutton – I'll check there when the carriage gets in. And when the next shift comes to relieve John and 'Kevin', tell them to look very carefully at who they're relieving. You're to watch all three of them – John, Kevin, and fake-Kevin – until I'm back, understand? And get them off the roster for guarding Mrs Darwin. I want them doing something completely inconsequential. Introduce them to the joys of filing."

Jack walked back to the Faculty, leaving Arthur still scribbling. Ellini was coming down the steps. And for a second, his own steps faltered. As well as he knew the dance, every time he saw Ellini, she made him wobble.

He was getting used to the eye-contact now, although she didn't give it to anyone else the way she gave it to him. At times – when she was shuffling her papers before a speech, or meeting some trail-blazing feminist speaker she'd admired all her life – she was still the old, nervous Ellini. Still the woman on whom the names 'mouse' and 'carpet inspector' sat so well.

But when she looked at him, it was ferocious. She met his eyes as though she wanted to climb inside them. It made all his composure evaporate. It made him lose his charming, careless smile. It made him want to tackle her to the ground – partly so he could shield her from anyone who might be trying to hurt her, and partly so he could have her all to himself. So they could be lined up, skin to skin, the way they were meant to be.

Her hair was pinned back for the journey, but it was almost down to her jaw now. He loved it when she wore it loose, and the dark hair curled around her cheeks and under her chin like tulip petals. All of a sudden, he remembered that they would be alone in a coach together for two hours this morning, and his heart sped up.

Still, the dance was waiting. Jack made an effort and stepped back into it. There was always something that could bring him down to earth, and this morning he found it in the shape of the telegraph slips she was clutching.

Somehow, people had worked out that Ellini was more likely to give a talk at their venue if they approached her directly. Jack was technically her manager, but he knew how to weed out the requests from penny-gaffs and back-alley dives where there might be trouble. Ellini was so soft-hearted and eager to help that she'd agree to perform anywhere.

Just like Sita, she didn't greet him with a good morning, but with a flood of the things she'd just been thinking about.

"Can we stop at York on the way to Newcastle? Dr Banner says the Archivist at the Cathedral might have found another Eve manuscript. And we'll be in London next month, won't we?"

Jack didn't confirm or deny it. He just narrowed his eyes and said, "Why?"

"I've been asked to give a talk at the Working Men's Club in Bethnal Green."

Jack passed a hand over his forehead. "Oh, I'm going to have fun organising the security at that gig," he moaned. But he wasn't being entirely sarcastic.

Ellini smiled at him. "Does that mean we can go?"

"Do you want to?"

She shrugged. "I don't see why the working men of Bethnal Green should be any different from the ladies of Girton College."

"You don't?"

She nudged him playfully. "Oh, come on. For every ten wolf-whistling idiots, there'll be one man who actually listens."

"How's he going to hear you over the wolf-whistling idiots?"

"Well, they won't be wolf-whistling the whole time!"

"They will find it hard once I've broken their teeth," Jack agreed.

Ellini gave him the look of fond exasperation he knew so well – the one which said, 'This is all very funny, but you should stop now.' Jack decided to heed it this time.

"Let me consult the diary," he said, appealing to a higher authority. She could argue with him, but she couldn't argue with an over-loaded diary. He just had to hope it was as over-loaded as he thought.

"Oh, that reminds me," said Ellini, as he took her hand to help her into the carriage. "Girton College wants us back in December."

"We are not taking any bookings for December."

"But I'm not due until–"

"We are not taking any bookings for December," Jack repeated, smiling sweetly. He had torn all the pages for December out of the diary. They were going to spend the month in quiet seclusion at the Faculty with Sergei Petrescu, all warm and safe and bored – well, warm and bored, even if they couldn't be entirely safe. Their only appointment for December, he insisted, was with the baby.

"Sita says we'll be perfectly all right," Ellini reminded him.

"And I would trust Sita with my life. With yours, I'm going to need some extra precautions."

Ellini sighed and settled onto the carriage seat, arranging her skirts around her. She didn't seem too put-out. She probably hadn't had very high hopes of persuading him.

As soon as she sat down, leaving the door invitingly open behind her, he wanted to step out of the dance – hurl himself onto the back seat, shout at the driver to set off, and stick his fingers in his ears until the clamour of people wanting something from him fell away.

But Arthur was still hanging around with questions. And Ted Warner wanted to complain about how Alice had been treating him. And Sergei was back with Sita and Emma – the latter looking sheepish and proffering a sketchpad, as if she was torn between apologising and showing off her work.

He spoke soothingly to them all. This was the tricky part of the dance – to bow out but still leave it turning – to send people spinning off in the right direction, with enough momentum to carry them through.

And then he was climbing into the carriage, closing the door gently but firmly behind him. No slamming, that was important. There was such a thing as style.

And he was turning to Ellini, who was waiting for him, smiling and gloveless, with pupils lurking somewhere in the velvety blackness of her eyes.

He snatched up her hand and kissed it: the palm, the fingertips, each separate knuckle, and the backs of her fingers, where her scars – delicate as apple blossom – spoke of her story and her strength. 

***

THE END