He found one of Alice's mantles in a cloakroom just off the pantry. It was long and black and trimmed with grey fur, and managed the great trick of all Alice's clothes, which was to look mournful and regal at the same time. 

Jack held his breath as he helped Ellini on with it, wondering whether she would ask where Alice was now. Admitting that he had sent her into the fire-mines to search for Matthi and had never heard from her again would probably spoil the prevailing good-will. 

He could say, in his defence, that he had given her Val for a bodyguard. He could say he felt sorry for any man or demon who came up against her, and that she was probably Queen of the Underworld by now.

But Ellini would still be angry. She didn't remember – or didn't count – all the little unkindnesses that Alice had done her. She only remembered that Alice had thrown hymn-books at that gargoyle to make him stop, when all her worst nightmares had been about to come true.

He put his own coat on while Ellini went to retrieve her bonnet. When he stuffed his hands in the pockets, they closed around a piece of paper. He took it out absent-mindedly, half his thoughts still on Ellini and the story she'd been telling. He unfolded it, stared at it without recognition for a moment, reread it, and then very carefully put it back. He wondered how long it had been lurking there, and why it hadn't presented itself for discovery before now. Had it been waiting until the time when it would make the most sense? Do him the most good? Was it another miracle?

She came back with her bonnet on, looking so pretty that he almost forgot about the paper. He offered her his arm, and she didn't refuse it this time.

There was no more snow coming down, but more than enough of it on the ground. Only the roads had been cleared – because they, after all, were profit-driven. There were carts waiting to get to market, and paying customers waiting for their goods. Clearing the pavements so that some citizen without a carriage could take their morning constitutional was a low priority.

Jack and Ellini walked beside the carts, picking their way through the shovelled heaps of snow – grey with coal-dust, brown with mud, yellow with horse-piss, although they were as pristine and new as his scarless skin, as far as Jack was concerned. And Ellini went on with her story.

He listened to tales of amphibious redheads who lured men back to their villas in St John's Wood with the promise of sex, and then chained them, half-naked, to the headboard. Of three girls bathing in a hot spring in the moonlight, wreathed in steam like the smoke from a cauldron, with the bones of their victims shining in the dark water, just out of sight. Of a school-mistress who had created a manless utopia in Northaven, and forced her friends to share it, but couldn't keep out the cold of her loss, for all her learning. Strangest of all, he listened to tales of Ellini wrestling with these women, arguing with them, making eye-contact with them, as if she considered herself their equal.

It was just like the stories she had told in the Indian room, except with a heroine she didn't like. Still, every once in a while, the sheer joy of storytelling would overwhelm her, and she would forget she disliked the heroine and talk about her quick thinking, or her fiery temper, or her beautiful, dripping, naked body outlined in flame. That was an image he wouldn't forget in a hurry.

It took a long time to tell him everything, especially to the level of detail he required. He was forever interrupting with questions like, "How did you know that? Why did you decide that? How did you get there? What was Robin doing?" And once, stupidly, "What were you wearing?"

Most of the time, she answered his questions briefly and impatiently, as though she thought he was trying to derail the story. But she was kind enough to give him a proper answer when he asked, in the mildest tone he could muster, "Do you really think you can trust Robin?"

For a moment she looked surprised, as if she was going to laugh, but then she turned thoughtful. "Well, I don't know if I can. But it's sort of immaterial, because I never do. I've enjoyed his company and appreciated his help, but at no point have I ever trusted him. I don't have it in me to trust him. He killed my family."

Jack stared at her so intently that he almost walked into the back of a cart. He had never heard her admit this before – or even allude to it without trying to defend Robin. It was as though she had never held him responsible until now. Was this progress? Was she finally coming to accept the fact that she had been innocent? 

At some point, without noticing it, they passed between the gargoyle statues that surrounded the Academy. Jack only realized they were behind him when he felt the crunch of the gravel-drive beneath his feet. He probably could have waltzed between them at any point in the past few days, but he chose to interpret this unhindered passage as a sign – another sign – that Ellini had drawn the venom out of him.

She hadn't remarked on the gargoyle statues. Perhaps she had been warned by Matthi to expect them. Or perhaps she was simply too wrapped-up in the story – although he noticed her trailing off and fidgeting with her gloves more and more as the red-brick building drew into sight.

When they reached the double doors under the ivy-covered clock, she trailed off completely, just at the point where the suddenly-speechless Mari Lloyd smashed her head through the glass case. But since he could conjecture the rest – and since she was looking so apprehensive – Jack didn't press her.

The doors were standing half-open and, needless to say, she had stationed herself behind the closed side. She made no move to go in.

"Let me guess," said Jack. "You're afraid the girls will be understanding?"

Ellini looked up at the thin strip of clock-face which was visible through the ivy – just twelve and six, with the hands nowhere in sight. "I don't want to be told I was a hero..."

"I felt the same after Delhi," Jack admitted. "I remember thinking how lucky I was to have fallen into the hands of the enemy, because they could be relied upon not to idolize me." He made a face. "Though they weren't as restrained as I'd hoped."

For a moment, she gave him that lovely, unwilling half-smile, and then it went out like a candle. "I didn't do it for the girls, you know. Any of it. I diverted the gargoyles' attention because I hated myself."

"Nope," said Jack happily. "Wrong." He saw her expression, and added, "Oh, I'm not saying it wasn't instrumental, you hating yourself. You just don't hate yourself as much as you love others."

He put a hand in his pocket, where it nestled against that intriguing piece of paper. "If we could, for a moment, return to Delhi – because you're always more rational when judging other people. I think my situation then was a lot like yours. I went to the Cantonment because I wanted to die, not because I wanted to be a martyr to the new-breeds. But I could have died any old way. There were quicker and less painful methods. And with the clarity of despair, I started making plans to salvage some good from the situation. I was going to shield Joel until they ran out of bullets. I was counting on the fact that they wouldn't bother reloading for a civilian, provided he was the only one left standing."

He shrugged, trying to pretend the recollection didn't sting. "As you know, it all went wrong. My friends died. And then I got saddled with a knighthood and a statue, and no way of telling people that it had all been a pragmatic suicide attempt. Now, you will tell me I'm not giving myself enough credit. You will say there was heroism in there, even if it wasn't the kind that everybody assumed. And I would say the same to you – with this proviso, my darling: at least your friends survived. And you didn't get a bloody statue."

Ellini, who had been watching him all this time with extra-shiny eyes – not full of tears, but full of awareness – suddenly leaned forward and kissed him. It was not an Ellini-like thing to do. Anybody might have seen. Anybody might have been hurt. Jealous scuffles could have ensued. There could have been blood on the snow.

It knocked him back on his heels a little. He was too startled to make the most of it. And she pulled away so quickly, with that rosy, self-conscious look, as though she knew how stupid her happiness was, but she didn't have the power to amend it.

"I am sorry I hurt you," she said, when she was right back where she had been, with only the glow on her cheeks to make him think anything had happened at all.

"Likewise," said Jack, when he could speak again.

"And I... well, I wanted to thank you. For being so understanding about Myrrha. For trusting me. I know you worry – I know you like to be in control of things. But it means a lot to me that you think I can do this on my own."

Jack said nothing, although he thought there had been a slight hint of a question in that last sentence.

He wanted to say, 'But there's no need! There's no need to do this. She's not on course to destroy the world. She's not threatening anyone we love. The game might not be fair, but we know there's a way to win it, because we won it. Myrrha might be a cheat, but she's not a tyrant'.

But if she had told him to leave the master alone, would he have been able to do it? This was important to her. She wanted to prove herself. It wasn't worth the risk, in his opinion, but then he was seeing it from a vastly different angle.

"I think you can do it," he said slowly. "I'm not so clear on why you're doing it, but we'll leave that question in abeyance for now. It... It's very difficult for me to trust you, do you understand that? Because you lied to save me in India, and you kept me ignorant of my own feelings in Oxford, and then you let me think I'd killed you for seven months – and I'm not saying," he added, raising his hand, because she had tried to interrupt him. "I'm not saying you didn't have your reasons, especially for that last one. It's just that your safety never seems to be on the agenda, if you see what I mean? I think it's different now. I think you're doing this for you – which, by the way, is not selfishness, but sanity. I just – it's difficult. That's all. I'm doing it, but it's difficult."

Again, he didn't leave a space for her to show him any sympathy. His practical brain just bustled onwards, trying to find a solution to the problem.

"How easy does Matthi find it?" he mused. "Is that an unfair question? I mean, she knows what you're like, and she still trusted you to go off and be tortured and-" He waved his hand, to try and encompass all the horrible things a Charlotte Grey had to do, in order to take the punishment for her sisters.

"But that's different, isn't it?" he went on, half to himself. "You were both Charlotte Greys. Asking a Charlotte Grey not to suffer for one of her sisters would be like asking a fish not to swim. No, it's worse than that – suffering is what makes you a Charlotte Grey. It would be like asking a fish not to be a fish."

He stopped, because Ellini was looking at him with a sort of suppressed smile. "I love the way the world seems to you. The way you try to reason your way through it in your head."

"Try to?" said Jack. "Are you saying it can't be reasoned through, or I can't reason through it?" 

"Oh, the first one. Although I suppose that entails the second..."

"And are you listening to my reasoning while you're so condescendingly enjoying it?"

"I think so."

"My point is that Matthi can trust you as one Charlotte Grey to another. What can I trust you as?"

"One survivor to another?"

Jack looked at her. He thought of pointing out that he had spent the past seven months thinking she was the complete opposite of a survivor. He had spent the past seven months thinking she was dead. And you could go through some pretty horrible things while still technically surviving – she had proved that over and over again. 

But it was... well, he could see it now. She was not easy to kill. She wouldn't lie back and accept it – which wasn't always necessary, because death could prise your fingers off the mortal coil no matter how tightly you were clinging on – but it helped. She was inhumanly clever – and, best of all, clever when she needed to be. The distance that settled on her like dust wasn't just a maddeningly frustrating personality trait. It kept her alive.

"Yes," he said at last, extending a hand to shake hers. "All right then. Let's try that."

The other side of the door opened while he still had her hand clasped in his, and Ellini jumped and tugged it back guiltily. Matthi was standing there – and she knew, too. Perhaps their cries really had carried across the city. Or perhaps Matthi had her own informants. Ellini was not the only one, Jack thought, who was inhumanly clever.

But her expression was soft when she looked at Ellini. It was only when she glanced at Jack, with half-narrowed eyes, that his heart sank. She was going to pay him back with interest for every pang of jealousy he'd caused her.

Ellini didn't notice. She was blushing and stammering out explanations. "I got snowed in last night – Dr Petrescu let me stay at the Faculty-"

Matthi raised a hand to stem the flood of guilty explanations. "I know. Sent Emma this morning to check where you was, dint I? She talked to some 'ousemaid called Sarah."

There was an uncomfortable silence. Matthi let it spiral on for a long time before speaking.

"Come on," she said, grabbing Ellini's hand – not the one that Jack had been holding. "The girls'll be waiting." 

She saw Ellini's expression, and went on, "I 'aven't called an assembly or anything. You won't 'ave to make any speeches. We'll just walk around the hall, and talk to anyone we 'appen to meet."

Jack watched them as they set off – or, rather, as Matthi towed Ellini across the Entrance Hall. Plenty of girls were there already, because the broad, open hall had become a sort of common-room – a communal space for women who didn't yet feel at home with privacy. They were loitering, and gossiping, and determinedly not staring. Jack felt his chest ache with sympathy for Ellini.

It was very difficult for her. She could only have done it with Matthi by her side. She might have been moaning blissfully in Jack's arms an hour ago, but it was Matthi she looked to for comfort now. Perhaps that would never change.

He watched her steer Ellini from one girl to another. They were, on the face of it, very solemn. Nobody seized her hand or knelt at her feet, or tried to kiss her. They knew her – and not as the shy, Oxford mouse, whose eyes were permanently trained on the floor. Perhaps her eyes had been trained on the floor in the fire-mines, but not with timidity – with flint-hard serenity, with an almost mystical detachment.

Jack was only just beginning to realize that she must have been quite an intimidating figure to them. She had suffered for them quite calmly, without a word of complaint – maybe without even a scream. She had been so untouchable that the hellfire hadn't bleached her hair. She had absorbed it, enfolded it, made it her own, the way she had with her pain, her self-hatred – everything.

Now and again, the girls looked at him, or hovered irresolutely nearby, as though they weren't sure whether they were allowed to speak to him. He spared one or two of them a smile when he could tear his eyes away from Ellini. He understood their confusion. They weren't quite sure of the loyal thing to do. Their two leaders had returned now – one of whom hated Jack Cade, while the other had been violently stabbed by him. It ought to be their duty to snub him, but he had taken care of them so long, and endured them so patiently.

Elsie wasn't bothered by any such reservations. She found him just as Matthi and Ellini had wandered out of the entrance hall. She identified him by walking those clamouring hands up his back, and saying, "Is it you? Is she here? Did you bring her?"

She was almost jumping up and down with excitement, and Jack, for all that he felt the same way, carefully took her hands off his shoulders and said, "Yes, I've brought her. I've brought you some advice too. Would you like to hear it?"

"Of course."

"Don't scare her. She doesn't like it when people are kind to her, and she gets downright alarmed when they worship her, so you might want to rein-in your enthusiasm."

"But..." The little frown-lines above Elsie's blindfold reappeared. "But don't you think she'd be happy to hear that her kindness brought me back to life?"

"Ye-es," said Jack. "She just has to hear it in the right way. Keep it factual. Don't praise her. Don't say her kindness brought you to life, say her stories brought you to life – that's still true, isn't it?"

"But why is one better than the other?"

"Because one implies that she's a good person, which she doesn't believe, and the other implies that she's a good story-teller, which she knows with every fibre of her being. Choose your truths, Elsie, and you'll never have to lie."

This was so puzzling that it forestalled any further questions, and Jack was able to fit in one of his own. "How did you get on with that job I gave you before I left for Northaven?"

It was a moment before she understood him. "Oh that. Yes, I did that on the night you left."

"You found out about it?"

"No, I did it. It's done."

Jack stared at her. It was the biggest shock since his rediscovery of pleasure the night before. "You did it?" he repeated.

"You didn't notice? Well, I suppose you wouldn't, would you? It doesn't affect you. Haven't you noticed a difference in the behaviour of the men around her?"

"No," said Jack honestly. "I haven't."

"Oh well," she said, shrugging. "I told you the results might be disappointing. You see, the trouble is, she's lovely, and loveliness is loveliness whether there's magic behind it or not."

Jack was still having trouble coming to terms with what she was telling him. "Is it to do with...? I mean, is that why our scars are gone? Was that you too?"

"What scars?"

"My stab-wounds from Anna-"

But Elsie didn't let him finish. Curiosity had overcome her, and she scrabbled at his shirt-front, in an effort to see – or at least feel – for herself.

Jack sighed and helped her remove his neck-tie. "Why can't you just take my word for it? Why do you always have to verify everything with your hands?"

"Well, you'd try to verify it with your eyes!"

"Yes, but that's less invasive."

He unbuttoned his shirt and let her run her hands over his neck and chest. She was tentative at first, and then delighted. She gave a whooping laugh, as if she could feel how liberating it was – as if those scars had been shackles, and now they were gone, she could see for miles, and feel the wind in her hair.

"I knew there was something different about you!" she said, putting her ear to his chest, just as she had when they'd first met. "The pain's gone. No, not gone, transformed. All the time I've known you, there's been this horrible howling in your chest, and now it's – harmonious. Everything's clear and crisp and ringing. Resonant. Like – like when the conjuror makes those glasses sing."

Jack stared at her with his mouth open. They must have made a strange picture: her with her hands pressed almost pleadingly to his chest, and him with his shirt unbuttoned, gaping at her. If Danvers had been there, he would have reeled out one of his many 'un-' words.

"Yes," he said at last. "Yes, that's it exactly. Is it magic? Did you do it?"

Elsie tilted her head. "It is magic, but not of my making. It feels like your own – yours and hers – which I suppose means that nobody can take it from you."

Jack thought about this, gently extracting her hands and rebuttoning his shirt. He'd never thought he had any magic. He was coming to accept that Ellini did – the love and compassion she had shown him in the past day-and-a-half were magic enough all by themselves. But him? He didn't even have a definite demonic symptom.

"I need to learn everything about this," he told Elsie. "And I need your help with something else too." Once again, he put his hand in his pocket, where it brushed against the folded paper. But it wasn't safe to bring it out yet. He didn't want Ellini to get her hopes up – or, worse, tell him it was none of his business. "You can start by searching that gallery of lights on your skin for a new-breed named Myrrha."