He ran, despite the screeching protest in his legs, his head, his heart. It was like tearing himself away from his own internal organs – like tearing himself in two, the way Rumpelstiltskin had.

What had been the likelihood of her coming back at all, and now he was leaving her? With a greengrocer. And an arrow through her shoulder.

But Elsie was just as important. In a way, she was Ellini's second body. If she could cough up smoke when Ellini was in a burning building, and receive a transfusion that saved Ellini's life, what would happen if she died? The equivalence would surely work both ways.

So he ran faster than he'd ever run in Oxford, pushing and shoving and scattering pigeons, ducking under shop awnings and splashing through puddles. Broad Street was broad, but it was always crowded, and most of the people were staring up at the woven vines above their heads, too astonished to get out of his way.

And then he tripped and fell on his face, and felt water soaking into his boots. Something gripped him, as if the water had hardened into hands around his ankles. He was pulled back along the cobbles, frantically trying to keep a hold of the letter and the glass phial.

The puddle he'd been splashing through had grabbed hold of his legs. And either the whole city was tipping, or it was deepening, pulling him down into a sodden pit that hadn't been there a second ago.

He risked letting go of the letter to try and get a better purchase on the cobbles. He was submerged up to the elbows now, and the grip that had hold of him was frantic. He could feel it slicing through the fabric of his trousers.

Oh, that axe would have come in handy right about now.

There was a kind of chittering in his ears, and a burning smell in his nostrils, in spite of the puddle-water soaking through his clothes.

"Where is it?" said the chittering voice – and it was Myrrha's voice, but no longer troubling to sound human. "Where is it?"

Jack could feel something rising in the water behind him, using his body to climb up, taking hold of his throat-

And then there was a gunshot, and something came scything through the air, striking at the creature.

The puddle surged up and spat him out, and suddenly he was lying on wet cobblestones, and Sam was beside him, choking on fury and the smoke from his revolver.

"What did you do?" he shouted. "What did you do?"

Jack was laughing weakly, but some slim, sane part of him made sure he picked up the phial and the letter – now crinkly and smudged from the dirt of the street.

"Keep it loaded now, do you?" he said, nodding at the revolver.

"I make a point of keeping it loaded," said Sam. "And every time I do, I imagine shooting you in the face, and it seems well worth the trouble."

"Thank you, Sammie," said Jack, getting to his feet and trying to slip away. But Sam had him by the collar.

"What did you do to my city?"

"Could I explain on the way?" said Jack, risking the bright, innocent smile that always incensed him. It would be hard to overpower Sam like this, even if he'd wanted to. He was still holding that gun in one hand – though the other was taken up with some long, wooden box, which was probably the thing he'd been thumping Myrrha with.

No, he would have to talk his way out of this. But he couldn't think. He couldn't stop laughing and shivering. The feel of those hands climbing up him—the memories they'd brought back—of being so angry and desperate, of her silvery shift dropping to the floor like the blade of a guillotine.

"On the way to where?" said Sam.

"Just the Faculty. Bit of an emergency. Ex-girlfriend trying to kill me. Got to deliver these to the little mother." Jack held up the letter and the glass phial – which he was well aware were not, in themselves, very persuasive arguments. "Myrrha," he added, inspiration striking at last. "Myrrha's the ex-girlfriend. Trying to kill us all. Please."

***

Elsie, Danvers and Sergei were taking tea in the Faculty lounge. Jack staggered into the table and nearly upended everything. The contents of their teacups sloshed into their saucers.

"Where's the knife? Robin's knife?" he demanded.

Danvers half-rose from his seat. Perhaps he recognized the look of a man who'd recently come into contact with Myrrha. "What's happened?"

"Where's the knife?" said Jack, slamming his hand down on the table and making everything slosh around again.

"It's on my dressing-table upstairs," said Elsie.

Oh god. Right next to the mirror. He wheeled round and tore up the stairs, his breath burning in his lungs. Sam was behind him somewhere, summoning the servants, telling everyone not to panic, but it was bad advice – terrible advice – and from somewhere up ahead, Jack could smell burning.

He burst into the bedroom just as a long, charred arm was emerging from the mirror. It looked like a python, but blind, groping about, black and moist and flecked with strange colours.

Jack wanted to flatten himself against the wall, or turn and hurtle out of the doorway, but he made himself move forwards.

He couldn't see a knife, but there was a long box, black-lacquered and inlaid with ivory, like a complicated chessboard. He made a dive for it just as the hand was snaking over, feeling its corners, pulling-

He yanked the box away and ran back down the stairs. The angry chittering was close at his back, resounding in his ears, but he didn't stop.

The others had come out into the hall now, and he tried to think about how to fortify the place, how to protect them. His eyes caught on all the shiny surfaces – not just mirrors but glass-fronted cabinets, pictures, even the varnish on the old oak banisters. Were they all ways in? Or just ways for her to spy on them?

Sam was locking the doors, but that was worse, because he might be locking her in with them. Jack imagined her stepping out of the mirror onto the dressing table, crushing perfume bottles beneath her feet. Maybe little strands of silver would still be clinging to her, like egg white to the shell.

He hadn't felt this scared in a long time. No, that wasn't true. When he'd seen Val chasing Ellini, when he'd seen the barb of that arrow sticking out of her shoulder, his throat had been tight, his heart had been pounding. But now he was scared on his own account, not scared by the maddening vulnerability of his loved ones. Everything in his body revolted at that burning smell – every instinct told him to run from it.

Had it even been telling him to run in India, when he'd shared Myrrha's bed? But he'd been too drunk and miserable to listen to his body then.

The idea that he could have shared a bed with this terror and not realized he was terrified was quite surreal, and he wondered what effect a couple of whisky-shots would have on this feeling. But no, he wasn't going back there, whatever it cost him. Maybe terror was just another kind of intoxication, but at least it was one you couldn't blame yourself for. And, in theory, he knew how to manage it. He'd just never encountered anything this terrifying before.

***

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