"You wouldn't believe it," said Jack as he stumbled into the kitchens, dripping blood and rain onto the soot-caked floor. "You just wouldn't believe it! If you said you believed it, I wouldn't believe you! There were at least fifty of them, all on horseback, all equipped with the kind of sabres that could have sliced your head off with a single stroke! And we were—what—twelve unarmed men? And yet we had them running and screaming and gargling blood inside of ten minutes! Robin's a genius!"

The little match girl, to whom he was babbling all this, didn't answer him. Her eyes flew accusingly to Robin.

"Is all of that blood his?"

"Most of it," Robin grumbled. "What he lacks in skill, he makes up for in enthusiasm."

Jack didn't let this derail him. In another time and place, he might have considered being offended, but that was impossible now after what he'd seen. He had all the humility of an apprentice who'd been permitted to learn at the feet of the greatest master of his craft, and could only feel a kind of fierce, incoherent joy that the master had noticed his enthusiasm.

The match girl was offended on his behalf, though, and protested—as vigorously as the little match girl could—that he'd only been there five bloody minutes.

Robin didn't say anything. Despite the fact that she lived in the grime of the fireplace, and always had a smudge of ash across one cheek or another, he seemed to listen to her.

The kitchen in which she spent most of her time was a cavernous stone hall—always hot, always steamy, with the occasional, merciful breeze which fluttered through from God-knew-where, making the bunches of herbs hanging from the rafters rustle like silk-clad ladies, whispering to each other behind their fans.

And though everything at ground-level made you feel as though you were in the stomach of some huge beast, with plumes of steam, and nameless fumes, and soot crunching and slipping beneath your feet, you could still look up to the rafters, where the fragrant herbs rustled, and a grating opened up to the Edinburgh streets. He had a feeling the little match girl did this a lot.

"He had us up on the rooftops overlooking St. Andrew's Square," said Jack breathlessly, seating himself on one of the long wooden tables which lined the kitchen and propping his feet up on the bench beneath it. "We tied ropes to the clock tower on one side of the square and stretched them all the way over to the rooftops on the other side, so when General Keller's regiment rode in, we could swing down and knock them off their horses. Robin kicked the captain off his horse, and actually managed to land with both feet on the man's chest! You should have seen his eyes bulge when two hundred pounds of new-breed landed on his lungs! It was amazing!"

"Hmm," said the little match girl, giving Robin a look of such concentrated venom that he muttered something about seeing to the horses and sidled out of the room.

Undeterred, Jack went on. "And another man was knocked off his horse straight on to the railings. He got impaled by the force of the fall. And then Macenroe started hanging all the other men he'd killed on the railings, to sap the spirits of the reinforcements when they came in. I'm telling you, these men think of everything!"

The little match girl didn't say anything. Her shoulders had sagged as soon as Robin left the room, as though defiance had been the only thing keeping her upright. And the motion of her sagging shoulders was exquisitely noticeable, because she was wearing her plain but magical blue dress: a long cotton thing which, from her shoulders to just past her hips, clung to her every curve like a coat of paint.

It stood out to Jack, even with the joy of violence still thundering through his veins. Every detail had intensified for him in the past couple of days—even the dull, boring, insistent details, like the pain from his cuts and bruises. He'd never tasted pain as refined as this. It was as though he'd become a gourmet overnight. He felt as though he'd been remade. As though all his senses were shiny and new and ringing with clarity.

The little match girl lifted the iron kettle from its hook over the fire and filled a wide, shallow basin with hot water. Steam rose around her face and tangled in her hair. And, unbelievably, Jack was now finding it quite hard to think his way back to the details of the battle.

"Are you listening?" he demanded.

"Mm," said the match girl, tucking a lock of errant hair behind her ear.

"We swooped down on them like birds of bloody prey!"

"It sounds very impressive."

This lukewarm praise was encouragement enough. Jack took up the theme again with gusto. "Robin's amazing, isn't he?"

The little match girl, who was now swirling a cloth in the bowl of hot water, gave a flinching shrug, and mumbled that he wasn't so great.

"Oh, come on! It's like... he adds his enemies up, so that the whole battalion is just one creature. And he knows exactly which sinews to cut in order to get it off its feet, and exactly where to stick his knife once it's down."

"Lovely," said the little match girl. She brought the bowl over and knelt up on the tabletop beside him, surveying his cuts and bruises. "Your blood really doesn't like to stay on the inside of your skin, does it? It likes to get out and see the world."

Jack supposed this was a reference to the night she had brought him in. He held his breath for a second, wondering if she was going to say anything about what she'd thought back then. Whether she'd recognized him. But she just wrung out her cloth and pressed it to his forehead.

"Is this too hot? I hope it is. Maybe if you learn to associate these healing sessions with pain, you'll start taking care of yourself in order to avoid them."

It occurred to Jack—all at once, and with an impact that nearly knocked him backwards onto the table—that this woman was beautiful. So beautiful that surely, any minute now, a stream of men would come bursting through the kitchen door and carry her away. He felt as though he should sit very still and breathe quietly in case he drew their attention to her.

He also felt as though he should say something very clever and funny in the remaining few seconds before she was dragged away, but all he could think of was, "What's your name?"

"You don't remember?"

Jack froze again but she continued. "I was the one who found you in that pool last week, bleeding to death—"

"Yes," he said, breathing out. "You don't forget a thing like that. But you never told me your name."

"It's Ellini."

"That's Greek, isn't it? Ellini?"

She could easily have been Greek—or Turkish, Arabian, even Indian. Her skin was a wonderful pale gold, with none of the pinkness found in European women.

"Yes, it's Greek," she said, "but I'm not. My father's employer named me. He had a fondness for Greek tragedies. Which turned out to be appropriate."

Jack wanted to question her about this, but he noticed her shoulders had tensed and her fingers had curled inwards, as if Robin had wandered back into the room. Something about it was causing her pain, so he let it go.

She started to dab at his cuts and scratches with the hot cloth. And again, he had that urgent impulse not to breathe, in case something bad happened.

"You know, they're not very deep," he managed. "I don't know why you're making such a—"

He stopped talking. He had been expecting the sting from the herbs and hot water. What he hadn't expected was the motion of the girl's other hand. She was walking her fingers around his cuts and bruises, brushing against his ribs, and stroking his cheek, without seeming to realize she was doing it.

If she'd been any other woman, he would have kissed her then. If she'd been any other woman, the fact that her hands were roaming freely all over his torso would have been a good indication that she wanted him to.

But she seemed so sweetly preoccupied in that moment, walking her fingers up his chest like incy wincy spider climbing up the waterspout. He was afraid she'd bolt if he made any sudden movements. He felt as though a little sparrow had wandered onto his outstretched hand, and it would have been the cruellest thing in the world to snatch her up.

Besides, it was a big thing to get wrong. He liked her a lot. Something this important needed thinking about.

"I listened to your music," she murmured. "Did you know that?"

Jack had to think very hard before he realized what she was talking about. His former life seemed like centuries ago. "Oh. Good. Um, if you'll forgive my saying so, you don't look like one of my usual audience members."

"Oh, I was listening from the outside. You can hear everything perfectly if you sit on the windowsill on the second floor of the Assembly Rooms. And I'm always climbing about. Edinburgh rooftops are beautiful."

"You know, you're supposed to pay to hear the music. It's how we make a living."

"I did pay," she protested. "I paid when I saved your life on Tuesday night. And I'm paying a bit more now, because these cuts could easily turn septic if you left them alone."

Jack smiled faintly. "I didn't ask you—"

"All right, I know," she said, wrinkling her sooty brow. "I just feel a bit... responsible for you."

"Why?"

"Because I brought you here. You might not have noticed yet, but it's not the nicest place in the world."

"It's brilliant!" Jack protested.

"Oh, I know," said Ellini, lifting her hand from his torso and raking it through her hair. "And I'm glad you think that. It probably means you'll do well here. But it isn't nice for everybody. Anyway, you play beautifully. You know, there's a piano here. In the ballroom in the West Wing. I think you're only allowed to play on it if you're a direct descendant of Balaal, but I'll see what I can do."

"You don't like listening to the descendants of Balaal play?"

"You haven't heard them," she said darkly.

"Well, I hate to disappoint you, little girl, but I don't want to play piano anymore. I want to do what Robin does."

Ellini didn't say anything. She just dabbed at a cut that didn't need to be dabbed at. Jack, mindful of the hordes of men who were waiting in the wings to snatch her away, said, "Very well. I'll play for you on one condition. You must persuade Robin to teach me how to fight like him."

"He'll do that, anyway. He promised."

"What do you mean, he promised?"

Ellini hesitated. "He said if I chose someone to look after me, he'd teach them to fight."

A slow grin spread across Jack's face, jarring the cuts and bruises. He liked the idea of being someone who looked after her, though he had no idea what it meant.

"No, listen," she said, getting agitated and raking another hand through her tangled hair. "I was to choose a companion, not a lover. He'd kill you if he thought you were my lover. In fact, I was supposed to choose a woman, but then—" She spread her arms helplessly. "—I heard you play. But Robin has to teach you how to fight, because anyone who spends a lot of time with me has to be good at fighting. And of course you have a say in it. If you don't want to—"

Jack laughed at her agitation. He even laughed at the idea that Robin would kill him for being her lover. She seemed to be saying she liked him. What could matter besides that?"

"Don't worry, little creature. I like you and I like fighting. This'll work out well."

She smiled, patted him nervously on the shoulder with the hot cloth, and then cleared her throat. "All right. Where else does it hurt?"

Jack didn't know where to begin answering that question. Every inch of his body was aching, but not from the beating he'd just received. If there was pain underneath all that need, he had no idea how to locate it.

"Nowhere," he said, after a while.

"Good. Now get some sleep. There's to be no fighting for at least three hours—and probably the best way to ensure that with you is to make sure you're unconscious."

As soon as the door closed behind her, Jack slumped back onto the tabletop, and stared up, unseeing, at the rafters with their bunches of dry, rustling herbs.

"Wow," he said, as soon as he felt like he could speak again. He wouldn't have thought it possible that there could be something he liked more than fighting and raids with Robin Crake, but here it was. Ellini.

Robin was going to kill him.

***

Jack couldn't believe how well he fitted in at Pandemonium.

He felt as though, all his life, he hadn't been right for people. He hadn't been right for his father, who'd wanted a witless punching bag. He hadn't been right for the schoolmasters at the orphanage, who thought all orphans should be sweet and grateful and silent. He hadn't been right for all those wishy-washy piano tutors, who had wanted him to be refined and delicate, and to stick out his little finger when he drank his tea.

And, of course, he had gone on being witty, ungrateful, and unrefined anyway. But always with a slight feeling of wrongness—always with a vague, half-realized expectation that everyone he met would flinch and shudder and be quite right to do so.

Now, he felt as though what Robin and Ellini wanted was exactly what he was. Robin wanted someone who would never turn down an opportunity to fight, and Ellini wanted someone who was cheerful and irreverent, and would distract her from her misery long enough to make her laugh. He felt as though he'd been made for them.

Of course, he could see where things were going to go wrong. He could see the loose threads from which the whole situation would unravel. He knew he felt more than platonic about Ellini—so much more than platonic that his feelings had stretched halfway around the world and were now approaching Platonism from the other side. And he knew that Robin would kill him for it.

He tried to envisage situations in which Robin wouldn't kill him, but somehow, none of them seemed very convincing. Jack thought Robin was the most amazing man in the world, but he wouldn't go so far as to think he wasn't insane.

And then there was Ellini, who was a mystery. She always seemed pleased to see Jack, at least. And she kept on with her tender, absent-minded caresses, as though he was a favourite pet. But she never, ever stroked his cheek or held his hand or even play-fought with him if Robin was nearby. And she was eerily good at telling when Robin was nearby. Jack supposed her nerves had been trained up through years of nasty surprises.

He didn't care. He couldn't even picture—let alone articulate—what he wanted from her. Becoming her lover was too farfetched to be contemplated, even though every inch of his body ached for her whenever she walked into the room. It was as though desire had beaten him the day before, and he was still tender and throbbing from the punches. He supposed he just wanted to be in the same space as her and have her look at him a lot.

It was something to do with the darkness. Jack associated bright light with his old life—with candlelight, white teeth and tinkling piano keys. He felt as if it showed him up, laid bare all the ways in which he wasn't like other people. But the darkness Ellini wrapped around herself made him think of acceptance, made him think he could be anything he wanted to be.

All this was brought home to him one night, about a month after his arrival at Pandemonium, when he'd been staggering back from one of Robin's intensive combat lessons, and had found her curled up asleep on the steps of the observatory.

This wasn't unusual. She fell asleep in odd places, and generally, Jack just tried to slip a blanket over her shoulders and drag her away from any paths where the servants might trample on her in the morning.

But, tonight, whether it was because of the adrenaline or the melodrama of young love, he started seeing things. He imagined her dark hair, which was spread across the marble like spilled ink, spreading further—pooling and flowing into the shapes of ships, dragons, palm-trees, windmills, waterfalls—all spreading out from her head as though she was dreaming them. They seemed to promise a whole world in dark, forgiving monochrome.

Later, he would feel as though that world of ink was all hers, and he would be lucky to get so much as a footnote in it. But right now, it seemed open to him. Right now, no doors were closed.