She was wearing a black-and-white striped dress, with sleeves that ended at the elbow in dangling bunches of lace. She was dipping the toes of her boots into the washing-pool. Ellini could see drops of water beading on the well-oiled leather.

Water again. She would not be able to set any fires. Perhaps the end of Fabienne's cigarette holder blazed a little brighter than it should have when she drew a breath, but she was otherwise unaffected by Ellini's temper.

She didn't know what to do. Half of her wanted to be cool and menacing, and the other half was still smarting from the bruises and the thought of what she'd just destroyed. She sank into a clumsy curtsey, her fists clenched against her cloak. Then she blurted out, "You made me destroy beautiful old things."

Fabienne waved the hand holding the cigarette holder. It sent a coil of smoke over her shoulder, like a lasso. "It was Myrrha's idea. I didn't think you'd really do it."

Ellini lifted her head. "But she did," she said, suddenly understanding. "She wanted me demoralized before I faced her. She didn't care what would happen to you. Haven't you noticed a pattern emerging? Hasn't she let a lot of your colleagues die, or lose their ability to speak, without lifting a finger to help them?"

Fabienne picked up a rifle from the bank beside her. It looked absurdly clunky in her hands, after the cigarette-holder. "I'm not defenceless like the others were."

"You are," said Ellini. "But it won't help you."

She was talking as though she knew what to do. And she realized suddenly that she did – both what to do, and what the result would be. She hadn't realized how angry this woman had made her – how horrible it had been to read Helen of Camden, and then see its sentences crystallizing in other people's eyes, affecting the way they viewed you.

It was funny that she hadn't allowed herself to think about it much. Where had she been when she'd first read Helen of Camden? In the fire-mines? In the cell at the Cherry Hinton gaol? Had she cried?

No, she hadn't been able to cry back then. And afterwards, there had been more important things to cry about.

Still, it had been cruel, to see the worst moments of her life turned into entertainment. It struck her that it had been a little like the story-telling contest with Mari Lloyd. Fabienne had twisted her story, using it to serve her own ends, and it had been hard – very hard – to wrench it back. Perhaps, in most people's eyes, she hadn't.

"You turned me into a villainess from a cheap sensation novel."

"Oh please," said Fabienne. "I was more realistic about your character than you were. And certainly more logical. One should be a manipulative villainess after having one's family murdered!"

"Oh, I am," said Ellini, "just not in the way you think."

She felt as though she had stumbled onto a path that hadn't been there an hour before--not just a path, but a perfect knowledge of where it went and how you had to walk it. The only trouble was, she didn't like where it went. Her stomach cramped at the thought.

They had curtseyed to each other – well, Ellini had curtseyed, and Fabienne had inclined her head. It would be enough. They had already entered into a contract. The battle had been joined, and there had to be a price now. How big a price depended on the co-operative attitude of Fabienne Desault.

Without betraying any of the misgivings she felt, Ellini said, "I won't take your life. But you must pay me the penalty of your magic. I need a symbolic gift, to ensure you never conjure again. If you like, I'll take that cigarette-holder. If not..." She tilted her head and shrugged, as if to say 'It can't be helped', but the shrug was too much for Fabienne. She whipped up the rifle-butt and struck Ellini across the face.

Ellini swayed, and then straightened. Already, there was something else keeping her upright. She could feel hundreds – thousands – of eyes in the treetops around her, and she was seeing with them, and balancing with them, and siphoning off the pain that shot through her until it fizzled out in the wide, dark, populous night.

She did know the songs within their breasts, and she didn't have to utter them.

She thought of the elemental, trapped in its cage of flesh. She thought of her own cage, of sweaty granite. She thought of the nights of rooftop scampering, drunk on exhaustion and all that space. And suddenly she thought that it had always been this way – that the only creature she could ever have understood would be a bird, because she knew the sheer, mad joy of freedom, of hurling yourself at the air and trusting that the air would catch you. And, even if it didn't, at least you would die doing what you loved.

She stretched out her arms in the scarecrow-like pose of the woman from the manuscript.

And down they flew like black snow – like the little flakes of soot that drifted down from the sky in London – but mad, careening, chittering like bats. For all their frantic motion, they managed to miss her. Only one, silken black feather brushed her cheek, as if in greeting. Otherwise she was the calm eye at the centre of the storm.

They settled on her arms – she could feel the prickle of their talons through her sleeves, gripping but not tearing, like a cat when it was feeling playful.

"Give me the cigarette holder," she said.

Fabienne raised the gun, and they took off again – not scattering in fear but diving towards the weapon, and the woman's face.

Above the wingbeats and the croaks and chitters, Ellini heard the sound of the rifle going off. Fabienne couldn't hope to hit them at this close range, but perhaps she was trying to scare them away.

Ellini felt their panic surge up in her, but she smoothed it down like a wrinkled dress.

There was no time – and no space – for the woman to reload. They were diving down, pressing close, buffeting her this way and that, as if she were a one-woman herd, and they a thousand-strong sheepdog.

Somehow, through the chaos, Ellini could see clearly. Perhaps she was using the dark, beady eyes of the birds, or perhaps they were leaving a tunnel clear for her to observe it.

She would have to watch, she realized. Part of her was exultant about that, but another part – the majority, perhaps – just felt queasy. Even in full-blown sorceress mode, she would have to be herself. There was no escaping it.

Fabienne's dress was already torn. She was lashing out at the birds, scooping them out of the air in a frenzy. She had one gripped in her hand, its wing half-torn off. Her face was streaked with crimson scratches.

"Last chance to give me the cigarette-holder," Ellini called. She could feel a prickle of pain from the bird in Fabienne's hand, and another from the one she now caught by the wing and dashed to the ground at her feet.

Ellini was losing focus. It was too hard, keeping them all intent on Fabienne, while at the same time keeping them from killing her. There was a bird at her neck, and it wanted to strike deep, to plunge its beak in like a needle. Anyway, the woman couldn't hear her. Perhaps the last chance had been a long way back.

She leaned forwards and urged the birds to dive. She didn't need to say anything – in bird-language or otherwise – because they were thinking with her mind now, and they knew the fairytale tropes as well as she did.

It was a particularly gruesome variant of the Cinderella story – the same one where the ugly stepsisters cut off their big toes in order to fit into the glass slipper.

She had taken Mari Lloyd's voice, and she would take Fabienne's eyes.

Now the birds had tasted blood, they wanted more. It took all her concentration to urge them back. She pushed out with her hands. Her hair crackled.

They finally dispersed as if a strong wind was blowing them away. Ellini was on her knees by now. She was surprised to find that her face was wet.

She didn't want to look at Fabienne, but she knew that would be cowardly, so she groped her way over the muddy bank and turned her over.

She was unconscious – and, in truth, not bleeding that much. The birds had been very precise.

Ellini's stomach heaved, but she closed her eyes against the nausea, the smell of blood.

She is not dead, she thought. And she didn't give you any choice.

She thought how lucky she had been to just stumble through her encounters with the other Wylies, defeating them but never quite being the one to kill them. One had been shot, but she hadn't been the one to pull the trigger. Three had been hanged, but she hadn't had to watch it. One had lost her voice, which was bloodless and quaint, and made you think she was just going to be suffering from a mild cold for the rest of her life.

But this was on her hands. She hadn't used her hands, true enough, but the birds had been an extension of her body for those brief, bewildering moments. She had thought, and they had acted.

It would haunt her dreams for a very long time, if she lived long enough to dream them.

She was still on her knees when she heard the steps behind her, but it was too late to do anything about it then.

She half-turned, raised a hand to the figure, but she felt the crack on her head before she could even register who it was. Red lightning-streaks of pain shot across her vision, and then settled down into the deeper red of unconsciousness.

***

She dreamed of a country lane at midsummer. The hoof-prints and carriage-tracks had dried and cracked and blistered in the heat, but everything was still blindingly green.

There was a man shuffling along the side of the road, bent over like a beggar, seizing a handful of the hedge every now and then to steady himself.

He was bare headed, but his clothes might once have been fine: a well-cut jacket, now tattered at the sleeves, a shirt half-untucked and half-unbuttoned, a velvet waistcoat that was going bald. He was muttering to himself, but cautiously, quietly. Ellini couldn't make out the words.

And, for a while, that was all there was to see. Ellini didn't know where her muscles were, but the sound of birdsong and the chirrup of crickets relaxed them, until she felt limp and easy as a willow. Even the man and his muttering seemed like a perfect piece of the landscape.

But then the sound of hoof-beats and trundling carriage-wheels could be heard behind him. The man didn't look up, but stepped closer to the hedge – so close that the thorns pressed into his neck – and waited for the carriage to pass.

It got a few feet beyond him, and then halted. After a moment, the driver got off his box and opened the passenger door.

He helped down a lady who was finely dressed, but whose skirts were of the mid-calf length usually worn by teenage girls.

Still, the beggar-man did not move, did not glance upward. The thorn pressing into his neck was starting to draw blood.

She said something to the coachman – probably dismissing him, because he stepped back a few paces, though he didn't go far. His eyes lingered darkly on the beggar.

The lady almost skipped up to him. Her tread was as childlike as her skirt, but she wasn't a girl, Ellini felt sure of that.

"I'm curious," said the lady. "How far did you think you could get? On my land? Without a coin in your purse or a decent shirt on your back? Where were you planning to go?"

The beggar-man was still looking at the ground. He had flinched at the sound of her voice. "Disoriented," he said thickly.

"Oh yes? Looking for me, were you?"

"'s," said the man.

She slipped her fingers under his chin and drew his head up. It co-operated, but jerkily. Ellini could almost hear his sinews screeching.

And now her vision wavered, as she realized she knew him. But no, not exactly. With the inconsistency of dreams, he was both a stranger and Robin, just as the woman was both a stranger and Myrrha.

"You're still my husband, Robin," she crooned. "I still care about you."

She raised her hand and showed him a silver ring, shaped like a tentacle, on her finger.

For a moment, again, the scene wavered. For a moment, it seemed that the delicate silver tentacle had lengthened and wound about more than her finger. It was twisted, like Charlotte-Grey ribbons, around her hand, her arm, even up to her throat. She was bound up in suckered silver like a spider's next meal.

But then the wavering calmed, and it was just a ring again.

Ellini couldn't decide whether Robin had seen what she'd seen. He was staggering, queasy – there were prickles of sweat shining on his forehead – but he had looked that way before the wavering.

"You – I was dead," he croaked. "I remember..."

"Oh, that's unfortunate," said Myrrha.

"You – did you – bring me back?"

"I preserved your body and kept your spirit from departing."

"But not that? Not brought me back?"

Her eyes narrowed, as if he was asking too many questions.

The coachman drew closer, alarmed by the physical contact between them. "If you'll take my advice, Miss, you won't encourage that kind of-"

Myrrha whipped round and raised a hand as if to strike him. It didn't connect, but he still doubled up, gasping, clutching at his throat. His struggles went on for a few moments, in an otherwise total silence. Even the birdsong had petered out. Robin's gaze wandered over to a patch of nettles, as if he was bored.

Finally, when the man's face was as dark as a thundercloud and flecks of spittle had appeared on his lips, starkly white against the blue, he collapsed.

Myrrha pulled her skirts away from his body and turned back to Robin. "I know," she said sympathetically. "You're wondering if I'm going to do the same to you."

"Actually, I'm wondering who's going to drive you home."

He was calmer now, almost smiling. Perhaps, for a man like Robin, the sight of violence and death would put you at your ease.

Myrrha waved a careless hand. "Fabby's good with horses."

As she said this, a tall, dark-haired woman got out of the carriage, glared poisonously at Robin – as if this indignity was all his fault – and climbed up to the driver's box.

"We're not here to take you back, my love," said Myrrha. "If that's not what you want." Her caressing voice hardened. "But you have something that belongs to me."

She held out a hand, and Robin stared at her, uncomprehending, for a moment. Finally, he said, "It was a gift. You said so. A present."

"If you want to be free of me, you'll have to be free of my gifts," said Myrrha.

With another snake-like, darting motion, she reached into his belt and drew – oh god, that knife – the one he used to finger and brood over in his quiet moments, the one that reflected his hellish smile back at him. The knife called Gram that was more of a lover than Ellini had ever been, and more of a friend than anyone had ever been.

Robin rocked back on his heels as it was snatched away. His lips were pressed together.

Myrrha examined it for a long moment, prolonging his agony. "How he sings for you, my pet! Can you hear him?"

Robin looked away. There was another long silence. Ellini could see a column of smoke rising up into the air above the driver's box. Fabienne must have lit up her trusty cigarette-holder.

At last, Myrrha sighed. "Poor Robin. What will you be without me? Without Gram? Without your so-called family, who stabbed you in the stomach in Paris just to get away from you? I think you'll probably die. You know I could never stand to see that, whatever the differences between us. I'd probably have to preserve your body again and see if Fabienne had any-"

"What do you want?" said Robin, with a hissing breath. "You see I'm at your mercy. I always am. What do you want me to do?"

She giggled and bit Gram's blade lightly, as if she was debating something in her head. "I'll give you the knife," she said, "and your freedom, if you do one last job for me."

Robin, still looking determinedly at the hedgerows, smiled.

"You don't believe me?" said Myrrha.

"My freedom?" He repeated the word as if it were some exotic, far-fetched beast.

Myrrha spread her hands innocently. "Of course. I won't watch you. I won't help you. I'll let you sleep with as many sluts as you can handle."

"You always did."

"And, in return, you do a job for me. It's a good one, Robin. It involves all your favourite things: charming a woman, torturing Jack..."

Robin looked up. His expression was tightly reined-in, but Ellini thought she saw a glint of greed there.

"And the woman I want you to charm is one that you've always had an inexplicable fascination with. She's in London right now, heart-broken that Jack forgot her and stabbed her through the chest with an arrow-"

Robin stared.

"-and all I want you to do, my darling, is to comfort her, convince her you're a reformed man-"

"Convince her I'm-?" Robin repeated, hypnotized with wonder.

"-and, at length, bring her to me in Edinburgh. She'll want to come. I've already planted the idea in her head." Myrrha smiled her girlish smile. "She's going to get revenge on me," she said, as if the idea delighted her.

Robin was breathing hard through his nose. He took some moments getting himself under control before he risked speaking. "London's a big place," he said, in a would-be casual voice. "Where-?"

"I'll tell you exactly where," said Myrrha. "And exactly when. I'll even send some greasy-palmed idiot to harass her, so that you can save her and be the hero of the hour. I'll do all this if you'll swear on your soul to help me."

Robin burst out laughing. "On my soul? You mean on that?"

He nodded towards the knife. Myrrha raised it to her lips coquettishly and took another nibble. "Will you swear?"

"I will," said Robin. 

***

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