For a few hours that day, while the chores piled up, and the county cricket match went on without him, John Danvers sat at the kitchen table below stairs, staring at the glass of whisky he had poured himself, and wishing he couldn't remember his mother's lectures about 'the demon drink'.

He had never allowed himself to have more than the odd glass of sherry at the end of a meal, but now, it seemed, would be a good time to descend into drunken debauchery, if he could only forget his principles and lift the glass to his lips.

Like every sportsman, he had a horror of unfair contests, and, to his mind, contests didn't come much more unfair than John Danvers vs. Alice Darwin.

Despite what Dr Petrescu might think, Danvers wasn't stupid. He had never considered Mrs Darwin to be a harmless woman—just a good one. On all the numerous occasions when she might possibly have been insulting him, he hadn't decided she wasn't because he hadn't thought her capable of it. He knew how clever she was—and knew, too, that she was so far above him in grace, nobility, and intelligence that she was almost entitled to insult him. He had just always assumed that her goodness was as bountiful as these other characteristics.

And he still believed that, despite the things he'd overheard while he'd been stationed in the servants' corridor. Of course, it was hard to understand how a good woman could knowingly take away a man's memories of his loved one and refuse to give them back. Especially when the man in question was Jack—the most affable fellow you could hope to meet—and the loved one in question was the charming, timid Miss Syal.

But it was just as Dr Petrescu had said—she had seen something that she thought was more important than goodness. She had become so absorbed in her work that she had lost all perspective... and human decency...

Well, whatever she had lost, it didn't make her a bad person. Let he who is without sin cast the first stone, and all that. And surely the best way to atone for somebody else's sins was to ensure they didn't do any actual damage.

If Jack's memories of Miss Syal had been stolen away by chemistry, then presumably the solution also lay in chemistry—in some kind of potion or antidote. But how was he to even ask the University's chemists for advice, when Mrs Darwin was friends with them all? She would find out instantly if he started asking questions. And then perhaps she would steal away his memories. Or dispense with his services, which would be just as bad.

It wasn't until Sarah came in with a set of freshly laundered table linen, and started gossiping to the cook about Dr Petrescu's new research paper, that a kind of solution began to occur to him.

The academics were not the only people in Oxford who cared for science.

Sarah could gleefully name all the demon artefacts in Dr Petrescu's collection. All the scouts and porters in the city had an opinion on the research being carried out within the walls of their particular college. The servants often knew as much about a professor's work as he did.

And Danvers knew the servants at the Chemistry Faculty extremely well. In fact, he had run one of them out at a match last Saturday. There was no better way of getting to know someone than that.

***

Sundays in Oxford were neatly divided between heaven and hell. The mornings were for church, and the afternoons for the Little Mother.

There were no hymns or sermons. The new-breeds and their friends simply milled around the field in which Eve's glass coffin stood—gossiping, exchanging pleasantries, admiring each other's children, and insisting that they took after the human side of the family. Everyone dressed in their Sunday best and paraded around the field, showing off their frockcoats and pleated gowns to full advantage. It was the kind of solid, traditional, respectable scene which made Danvers feel heartily glad to be an Englishman.

He climbed the stile that led into the field, tipped his hat to a few acquaintances, and scanned the crowd for servants from the Chemistry Faculty.

He spotted Yelavitch smoking a cigarette beside a clump of elder bushes in the corner of the field, and headed in that direction, giving him a cheerful wave, which was not returned.

Yelavitch had big hands and thick, dark, sarcastic eyebrows, like stubs of liquorice. He was often raising them at Danvers—in derision or disbelief—but Danvers took this in good spirits. A chap couldn't help having expressive eyebrows.

"How are the children?" he asked, standing beside his old friend, and trying to tactfully wave away the cigarette smoke.

Yelavitch had three mischievous little boys. He only ever deigned to notice them when they misbehaved, so they misbehaved a lot.

Yelavitch snorted. "They're idiots. They want me to get you to sign a cricket ball for 'em."

"I'd be most happy to—"

"Don't encourage them, Danvers. They're going to learn to read and think, not whack balls across a field."

"I daresay they could do all three," said Danvers.

Presumably, this was too stupid to merit a response, because Yelavitch said nothing. Danvers started toying with his cuffs and cleared his throat. "I say, Yelavitch, I've been wondering... You wouldn't happen to know of a compound—" He used the word 'compound' because it sounded both scientific and vague. "—for removing memories, would you?"

Yelavitch had assumed a mocking smile at the sound of the word 'compound', but it now froze on his lips. "Good God! Even I'm not supposed to know about that one! How did you—?"

"Oh, you know," said Danvers airily. "One hears things."

"Yeah, if one stands with one's ear pressed against a professor's door!"

Danvers would normally have bridled at a suggestion like this, but, since it was partly true, he didn't feel qualified. Instead, he said, "Who's working on it?"

"Carver," said Yelavitch. "But you won't get much sense out of 'im today. He's talking to your Alice Darwin, and she always makes his brains gush out of his ears."

Danvers was too busy shuddering at the sudden mention of Alice Darwin to shudder at the image of Professor Carver's brain gushing out of his ears. He gave a guilty start and turned to follow Yelavitch's gaze across the field. Alice was standing in front of Eve's coffin, with Miss Syal beside her.

She was curtsying to Professor Carver, who had always reminded Danvers of a villain in a melodrama. He was continually swishing his robes, peering suspiciously over his shoulder, and fiddling with his thin, waxed moustache. He gave the impression of lurking even in places where he had a perfect right to be.

Through the fog of uneasiness, Danvers became aware that Yelavitch was still talking, and turned just in time to hear him say: "If you want to get an answer you'll understand, I'd try asking her."

He pointed with his chin to the small but perfectly formed maid holding a parasol over Carver's head. Carver was one of those new-breeds who'd inherited an allergy to sunlight from his demon ancestors—another reason why he tended to lurk in dark corners.

The maid had a pretty face—although it was slightly pinched from scowling—and hair of a bleached, bone-white colour that you didn't often see in England. Danvers knew her as the most infallible test of his good humour that the world had so far been able to construct, but her full name was Violet Pike.

It wasn't her fault, he knew that. She was an orphan. She had no family, no friends, no fortune. And, because she had always been alone in the world, she had trouble remembering that other people had feelings. She seemed to think they'd been put on the earth just to persecute her. She complained of beggars looking at her in funny ways after she'd kicked them. She made up horrible lies about her fellow servants and then wailed about their coldness when they avoided her.

She didn't seem to have taken a liking to Miss Syal, either. In fact, when Miss Syal curtseyed to Professor Carver, she narrowed her eyes and flushed scarlet, as though she thought somebody was playing a trick on her. But then, she always thought somebody was playing a trick on her.

Danvers sighed heavily and started to move in the direction of the terrifying little group. "Well, I'd better... if you'll excuse me..."

"Wait a minute," said Yelavitch, grabbing hold of his arm and pulling him back. For once, his eyebrows were not raised. They were hanging ominously low over his eyes, like impending storm clouds. "If Violet tells you anything—and I doubt she will, but you can never tell with her, once she starts fluttering her damn eyelashes... Anyway, if she tells you anything, don't go getting... outraged by it."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean don't go running to the papers or telling the lads down the King's Arms that it's a disgrace. The Chemistry Faculty might be full of snobs and ingrates, but it's where I work, and its reputation is important to me."

"What are you talking about?" said Danvers, pulling his arm free. "What's a disgrace? Taking away people's memories? There are some who'd call it a blessing."

"No," said Yelavitch reluctantly. "That's not the worst thing about it."

"Well, what is? Is it bad for you? Are the ingredients toxic?"

"The whole method is toxic..." He sighed. "Look, do I have your word that you won't tell anyone? Your word as a gentleman?"

"Of course," said Danvers, getting annoyed. "My word is my word as a gentleman. You don't stop being a gentleman just because you've got an interesting piece of gossip to divulge."

"It isn't chemistry," said Yelavitch. "It's magic."

Danvers stared at him. "Impossible."

"Just as you like," said Yelavitch, with a contemptuous shrug. "Doesn't matter if it's possible or not, does it, because you gave me your word. As a gentleman."

Danvers felt as though he'd better not argue. With his head spinning, he gave Yelavitch a short nod, and moved towards Alice and Professor Carver.

It couldn't be magic. To tamper with a man's head and rip out his memories was one thing, but to do it by magic?

And if it was... Well, it couldn't be... But if it was, Alice couldn't have known. Magic was the province of the demons, and they were gone. Without them, it couldn't be controlled. It was, according to the Professors, an extremely reactive substance, and tended to explode when brought into contact with human nature.

He moved towards the group, plunging his hands in his pockets, and trying not to let verbs like 'creep', 'sneak' and 'spy' cross his mind. The field was dotted with bushes, trees, and a whole canopy of parasols, so it was easy enough to approach them without being seen and stand next to them while they talked. Probably everyone in the field was overhearing something, he thought, in a vague effort to console himself.

"—to meet you," Professor Carver was saying, as he bowed to Ellini Syal. His expression was strangely predatory, even though it was wrapped up in layers of disdain. "I've heard a lot about you, of course, but then, in cases such as yours, probably the more one hears, the less one knows. Tell me, do you drive all men out of their senses?"

Danvers risked a glance at Miss Syal and saw her raising her eyes from the ground with some reluctance. "Oh no, sir," she muttered. "Only about two-thirds, in my experience."

"And is it very trying," said Professor Carver, "to be the object of so much unwanted attention?"

Ellini gave him a slow, puzzled smile. "Yes, sir. It's very trying."

"I shouldn't w—here, you're standing on my robe, girl!" said Carver, elbowing Violet in the ribs, and causing her to retract the arm which had been holding the parasol over his head. "And be careful with that," he hissed, snatching the parasol from her, and retreating back under its shade. "Don't you know you could kill me?"

He turned to Alice and Ellini for support. "Servants are getting stupider by the second, my dears. Never trust them with anything! This one—" He gave Violet a look of pure venom. "—was born with two left feet and two left brain-hemispheres."

"I'm sorry, I don't understand," said Ellini. "Why can't you hold your own parasol? Is there something wrong with your arms?"

Professor Carver coloured slightly, but his disdain was soon back in place. "I daresay, in prison, one has to do everything for oneself, my dear. But out here in the civilized world, it's proper for certain tasks to be performed by servants."

Ellini half-shrugged and bobbed another curtsy. "Would you excuse me while I pay my respects to the Little Mother, sir?"

She detached herself from the group and moved towards Eve's coffin. Alice and Professor Carver raised their eyebrows at one another but said nothing. They made their way to the stile at the edge of the field, the air between them crackling with unexpressed thoughts. And Danvers knew he should be following them. He knew he should be straining his ears for any mention of memory-suppressing potions, or—even better—their proper antidotes, but some sportsman's instinct—the kind that told him to quit while he was ahead because he was about to be run out at any moment—made him follow Miss Syal instead.

Well, it was partly that instinct, and partly the fact that Violet had slipped away from her master and was moving towards Miss Syal with such purposeful strides that he could see the marks made by her heels as they cut into the turf. The little, white-blonde curls which hung down from her bun were jolting with the force of those footsteps, and Danvers thought again how strange her hair colour was. It reminded him of a picked-clean carcass in the middle of the desert.

When Violet reached Miss Syal, she had to stand there, scowling silently, for a few moments, because Ellini was busy choosing a paper leaf for her message to the Little Mother, and wouldn't look up. Violet had to clear her throat meaningfully twice.

"I don't need you to fight my battles for me like that," she hissed at last, losing patience.

"Good," said Ellini, selecting a sycamore leaf. "It made me feel very sick. I wouldn't like to try it again."

"He'll be picking on me all day now!"

"Oh, you're a sweet girl for trying to cheer me up, but I'm afraid I still feel sick." She selected a fountainpen from the racks beside the paper leaves and started to write, without removing her gloves.

Violet was silent for a moment, peevishly kicking up clumps of grass with her boot. "How did you get out?" she said at last, in a small, sullen voice.

"The same way you did."

"He'd never let you go."

"I didn't say he was happy about it."

"He'll come after you," said Violet, almost hopefully.

"You're probably right."

"What if he finds me?"

Ellini gave her one of those mild smiles she employed so often. "Don't take this the wrong way, Violet, but I don't think he remembers who you are."

Violet gnawed on her lip for a moment, and then gave the argument one last try. "You'd never leave the others."

"And yet here I am," said Ellini. She spread her hands, and Danvers saw her eyes sparkle, as though she was a little girl confronting some delicious mystery. "What can it all mean?"

Violet obviously didn't feel qualified to make a suggestion, so she fell back on what she knew best—malice. "Was Jack happy to see you again?"

Ellini gave a deep sigh and went to tie her leaf to one of the dead trees beside Eve's coffin. She seemed to savour Violet's cruelty, as though it was a rare delicacy—a finely-crafted sugar sculpture of spite.

"You'll put me in danger—" Violet started, but she never got to finish, because, without warning, Ellini suddenly reached for her hand. The girl tried to jerk her arm away, but not in time. Ellini caught it and twisted it round, gently but firmly, until Violet's long, scarlet-painted nails were catching the light.

"Does it hurt," she said softly, "when you glue those on?"

Violet looked as though she was torn between bursting into tears and spitting in Ellini's face. She settled for mumbling a resentful "Yes."

"I thought so." Ellini let the hand drop and went on tying her paper leaf to the branch as though nothing had happened.

Violet displayed all the physical symptoms of a child on the verge of a tantrum—she swung her arms, bit her lip, started to storm away, and then came back again. "I know you're here to kill me," she whispered heatedly. "But I won't let you. I'll tell the police about you."

"Good," said Ellini absent-mindedly, staring at her leaf.

Violet also looked at it—probably just for something to glare at—but whatever she read seemed to distract her from her tantrum.

"Hey," she said suspiciously. "Thirty days to go until what?"