Danvers couldn't sleep, and he was by no means alone. Half the inhabitants of Oxford had trooped out of their houses tonight. They were lining the pavements in hastily-donned overcoats, chatting to each other knowledgeably—because this was Oxford, after all—and jumping up and down to keep warm.

Perhaps nobody in the city was asleep except Jack. He had finished off Dr Petrescu's bottle of Schnapps and fallen asleep in his chair in the Faculty Lounge—while his true love was being chased over the rooftops by a salivating monster! It wasn't right. But then, so many things weren't right these days that Danvers wondered why he continued to be shocked by them.

Because there were people on the streets, there were also street sellers, doing a roaring trade in cocoa and hot chestnuts. The gas lamps had been lit, and crimson fires were just visible through the little holes in the chestnut-stoves. Everybody looked up, hoping to catch a glimpse of the living gargoyle and the strange girl. Especially the strange girl. There was a scandalous rumour going round that she was hardly wearing any clothes.

But it was hard to catch a glimpse of her, except for the moments when she dropped beneath the level of the rooftops and swung from the lampposts and tavern-signs, whipping right past the noses of the spectators. Some of these leaps received gasps—and even applause—from the assembled citizens. One or two of the ladies Danvers passed had fainting fits. His progress was slowed considerably by his efforts to revive them.

He made his way down Queen Street, where the crowds were sparser because the roofs were lower, and it was felt that no self-respecting gargoyle would want to chase a terrified woman over them. Eventually, he came to the Church of St. Ebbes, where there was only a solitary young lady in a bonnet, staring up at the rooftop opposite her.

Danvers followed her gaze idly. There was nothing on the rooftop to be seen, and yet she was gazing at it with an intensity that made him nervous. He also saw, as he got closer, that she was tensed and trembling.

The young lady glanced round at his approach. Danvers got a momentary glimpse of her face—and, more importantly, her hair—before she turned away again.

He would have leapt up and down on the spot if decorum had permitted it. He knew he'd seen that white-blonde hair on someone else in Oxford! And now, here it was—admittedly, tied up and covered by a bonnet—but unmistakable all the same.

"Excuse me, Miss—?"

Danvers floundered, unsure how to address her. He had seen her before, and something told him he should remember her name, but it had totally escaped him.

"Hope," said the woman, turning to face him again. "Emma." She had green eyes, and a heart-shaped face that was soft and friendly—though perhaps tinged with cynicism around the mouth.

"Oh," he said awkwardly. He recognized the name. She was the Police Matron's daughter—the one who had run away. "I'm so sorry, Miss Emma, I—"

"It's all right, Mr Danvers," she said. "I've been away for two years. The colour of my hair's changed. Even my mother hardly recognized me."

Danvers glanced from her bone-white hair to her gloved hands, and then back again. "How is your mother?" he enquired politely. "All the better for seeing you, I expect."

Emma Hope hesitated, and then smiled again. "Yes, she's very well, thank you. I'm just on my way back to her now. She didn't want me to go out tonight, but you know how it is." She waved her hand, in a gesture that encompassed the crowds, the crimson fires, the air of tangible excitement on the streets. "I just had to see it for myself."

"Perhaps you would allow me to escort you home?" said Danvers, removing his hat—which, he realized, he should have done when he first addressed her. The white hair had made him forget himself. "I would very much like for us to get reacquainted. And... if you would be so good," he went on, wretched but determined, "you could start by telling me how you came to lose your fingernails."