…

Granted, she should have known even before signing the tenancy agreement. She should have at least suspected. The day she told Jaxon she'd never work for him again, she booked a viewing with the first rental that caught her eye: cramped, unfurnished, in every way like an asylum cell with a mattress in it, but far from I-4. Relatively cheap, too. Perfect for an ex-gang member in hiding. She'd been too relieved to question her good fortune.

In her defense, Jaxon had just threatened to kill her.

You may have a day's head start, Paige. I am nothing if not generous. He'd turned away carelessly, pushing back an oiled lock of hair that had unpeeled from the rest. Nothing else in his appearance gave away the fact that he'd just slammed her into her own wardrobe. But starting tomorrow, you are a trespasser in I-4. If you ever set foot in the section again, I shall take it as a direct provocation. And you will be dealt with as all traitors are.

That aside, Paige definitely should have been suspicious when she arrived for the viewing that afternoon. St. Pancras House was tucked against a hollowed-out, abandoned church, with a row of Edwardian townhouses on its other side. And the street was deserted. No parked cars, no passersby. They might as well have hung a horror-movie-style sign declaring, DEFINITELY NO REPHAIM HERE! NOPE! NONE AT ALL! But she was too distracted trying to figure what she was supposed to do next to remember what ancient, grandiose architecture and a lack of humans had in common.

A young unreadable answered the door. Without a word, and without so much as a look at the backpack and duffel she had slung over each shoulder, he showed her through a cozy foyer and into a back parlor, furnished tastefully with curtains over the windows, a few couches and a fireplace full of ashes. There was even a piano against one wall, positioned so that the waning daylight fell on the sheet music propped up on the stand. Then he handed her the contract and left the room.

And though she read through it twice, her eyes managed to skip the line of fine print that forbade the landlord from feeding on his tenants.

Later, she would curse herself for signing the thing. She would pace back and forth in her spartan bedroom, racking her brains for another option, not because she knew she'd be living with a Rephaite but because she knew she'd just tied herself to London for another twelve months. The smart thing to do would have been to leave the city altogether. Go back to Ireland, maybe, like she'd dreamed of doing for the past six years. Instead, she'd shackled herself to the syndicate's territory, where Jax would inevitably find some way to pay her back for her betrayal.

The Rephaim were the absolute farthest thing from her mind.

So when she woke early that first morning and sensed a stranger's dreamscape in the building, she was puzzled. No human dreamscape felt like this. Cold and dark, like the depths of a frozen well. Armoured as stone. Impossibly ancient.

Understanding struck. She launched herself off the mattress.

It must have been a rogue. Rephs didn't usually stoop to breaking and entering, but it wasn't like they respected human boundaries. If this one was hungry, it would find her and drain her dry.

Barefoot, in her pajamas, she cracked the door open.

Nothing. The house was silent.

She padded down the landing and scanned the foyer below. Apart from a plain black umbrella tipped against the front door, everything looked exactly the same. Neatly arranged. Immaculately clean. Music strained softly from somewhere below, muffled but entirely recognizable.

"… non … rien de rien …"

Paige descended slowly, angling her body to run. She could pinpoint the Reph dreamscape on the ground floor, its immense emotional defenses like nothing she'd ever encountered before. Not the slightest ripple came off it, no impression of turbulence or hunger.

"… non … je ne regrette rien …"

By the time she reached the second-floor landing, she was no longer convinced that her first impression had been the right one. Michael's dreamscape was dormant. Surely that wouldn't be the case if he'd already been fed on. And what kind of Rephaite turned up in people's houses just to listen to their music? This song belonged on the radio, on Wikipedia, on one of the records stacked in her room back at Dials. Not here, in this strange house. Not in the same room as a Rephaite dreamscape.

"… c'est payé, balayé, oublié …"

All the lights were off on the ground floor. The voice of Édith Piaf, with her distinctive trilling r's, issued from behind an unobtrusive door she hadn't noticed before, unmarked and slightly ajar. She crossed the foyer toward it and raised a hand to knock. Through the gap, she could just glimpse an old-fashioned gramophone tucked into a corner of the room.

"… je me fous du passé!"

What if it was a rogue? She had no proof it wasn't, apart from Édith and her jaunty little orchestra. In fact, she was still in her pajamas. Maybe she didn't want to face mortal peril while wearing a shirt with I'VE GOT SPIRIT and a cartoon ghost printed across it.

Too late. The door swung open, and a giant stood on the threshold.

He must have sensed her aura hovering just outside. There was no surprise in his expression as he looked down at her – far, far down. Whatever her own expression said, Paige had no idea. She was too stunned to react. Everyone had seen the grainy black-and-white photographs taken in the early twentieth century, when the Rephaim had first revealed themselves to the general public, but those were a pale mockery of the truth. This one dressed like a wealthy Londoner, in gloves, boots and a sweeping black greatcoat; the collar was done up to his throat, accentuating a strong jaw. His eyes shone a wolflike yellow in the gloom, set in a face hewn from something that wasn't quite flesh. Rough-spun brown hair had settled on his shoulders. None of this bothered Paige as much as the fact that he towered over her by a good thirty centimetres. She'd meant to make a show of being unimpressed, but she was forced to take a step backward just to look him in the eye.

The gramophone trumpeted out a spirited finale. There was a brief silence as they sized each other up. Finally, the Rephaite spoke.

"Paige Mahoney, I presume."

His voice was suitably deep for a colossus, quiet and measured, with what Victorian writers would have called a drawing-room accent. Behind him was a snug office furnished in a style similar to the parlor, with bookshelves and a desk positioned to the greatest advantage by the windows. Paige scanned the room, then looked back up at him, her brow creased.

"You're the landlord?"

If he noticed her tone – dubious, bordering on rude – he gave no sign of it. "I am Arcturus," he said, inclining his head. "Once Warden of the Mesarthim. I understand that you moved in last night, after your viewing."

She mustered her remaining composure. "That's right."

"You will find it quiet here."

"Good. Quiet's what I need." Also shoes. She could have definitely used a pair of shoes right about then. "Does anyone else live here, besides Michael?"

"No." He watched her coolly, clearly not in the least intimidated by a barefoot human in a nightshirt. "It is not my custom to take tenants. On that note, your rooms have been unoccupied for many years, and Michael may not have had the chance to ensure that the facilities work properly. If they do not, you may speak to him about it."

"Not to you?"

"I will be away more often than not."

"Right." Paige hesitated. "I'll just go back upstairs. Sorry to bother you."

She turned to go. He stepped over the threshold, into her space, and her spirit swelled reflexively against her dreamscape – he was following her, he intended to feed on her – but then he took out a set of keys from his own pocket and locked the door behind him. Paige flushed in embarrassment. He was going outside, that was all. Come to think of it, she'd probably been blocking his path.

"There is a courtyard where you may take the air, if you wish," he said, turning to face her. "Do you know how to reach it?"

"No."

"Then I will show you."

Mute, she followed him across the foyer and into the parlor, where a screen in the corner concealed an unobtrusive little door. Arcturus ducked through, and she kept up in bare feet. They walked down a narrow corridor that ran alongside the south wall of the parlor before ending in a door. When he pushed it ajar, a freezing gust of January air blew through the corridor, right through her flimsy nightshirt.

"I trust Michael gave you your keys." He scanned the courtyard, his profile touched by the wan light of dawn. "The silver is for the front door; the copper, for the back. A second stairwell was recently added for the tenants' convenience." He indicated another door. "It locks automatically from the outside. Be sure never to leave the premises without your keys."

Her fingers felt like ice. She balled them into fists, dispelling the temptation to wrap her arms around herself. "Got it," she said. "Thanks."

He seemed to take this for the end of their interview. With a final nod, he stepped over the threshold and let the door fall shut behind him.

She caught it by the tips of her fingers and peered surreptitiously through the gap. The courtyard was small and bone-grey, paved with cobblestones, with an empty stone fountain in the middle. A crumbling wall separated it from the townhouses on the right, the derelict church on the left and a rundown-looking building directly opposite. Her new landlord strode across the courtyard in his billowing black greatcoat to where a rickety wooden gate was set into the wall. His gloved hand lingered on the stones and vanished.

Paige let the door fall shut and tiptoed back to her rooms, pausing only to listen to the gramophone, which was still playing a record of Édith Piaf's greatest hits. It was surreal that a Rephaite had put it there. It was surreal that she'd spoken with one. Up until fifteen minutes ago, she hadn't quite believed they really existed. They were the stuff of myths and penny dreadfuls. They belonged to the shadows of the past, not to modernity. They were kingmakers and puppet-masters and keepers of the spirit world. The scourge of empire. The grief of Ireland. The æther incarnate.

That is, if certain voyant scholars are to be believed, said a silky voice in her head. Darling, I am positively green with envy. What I wouldn't give for the chance to observe one at such close range.

She went to her tiny bathroom and splashed her face with water, scrubbing the sleep from her eyes. Then she braced her hands on either side of the sink and gave herself a hard look in the mirror.

It didn't matter anymore what Jaxon thought. He cared for no one. If he'd taken her in when she was frightened and alone, if he'd made her his protégée and given her a name, he'd done it for the love of her priceless gift. If he couldn't lure her back to the Seals – which she'd made abundantly clear during that last, awful fight – he'd try and make her sorry she'd ever left. He'd take a sadistic pleasure in forcing her to crawl back to Seven Dials and then refusing to pardon her treachery.

Then again, maybe not. Jaxon was as inventive as he was petty. He'd think of something that would never occur to her, and then he'd impale her with it and twist the knife.

The one thing he wouldn't do was turn her over to the authorities, which would doubtless offend his cultured criminal sensibilities. Having her beaten up was fine, of course. Having her killed might raise a few eyebrows. But giving her name to the London police and then dusting off his hands would be cheap and pedestrian. The syndicate took care of its own in more than one sense. He'd never leave any delicious personal scheme of retribution in the hands of the metropolitan bureaucracy.

At least, probably not.

Curiously, she saw neither hide nor hair of Jaxon's appetite for justice during her first weeks at St. Pancras. With barely a stitch of furniture in her new set of rooms, and with no funds to spruce it up with, she busied herself finding little odd jobs online. Eliza had tipped her off about web content translation in bilingual companies, so Paige created a profile on a few different job seeker sites to offer up her French translation skills. It wasn't enough – she'd have to land another part-time gig if she was going to pay her bills – but it was better than nothing. And it kept her busy when otherwise she would have started climbing the bare, white-painted walls of her empty apartment.

"Are you talking to anyone on a daily basis?"

Nick's voice was tinny against her ear. She'd pressed her phone between her temple and her shoulder, and was attempting to open a pre-packaged frozen meat pie without giving herself a bloody nose.

"I talk to you," she pointed out, trying to work her fingers under the glued flap of the box. Dusk was falling outside and she hadn't replaced the dead bulb in her kitchen, which made it difficult to see what she was doing. "Don't I?"

"Not every day."

"Sure, every day. You're the voice of reason in my head. 'Paige, be careful with that knife. Paige, remember to turn on the heating.' It's great, it's like having a caring roommate."

"Paige," said Nick, in the exact same admonishing tone she'd just mimicked, "I'm pretty sure that's one of the first signs of insanity."

"Whisperers hear voices, too. They're not insane."

"You're not a whisperer."

"Fine. You're right. I'll … make sure to talk to someone."

"You should call Eliza. She's been worried about you."

Paige gave up on dealing with the box bare-handed and reached for the scissors. Stupid airtight packaging. "Maybe. But she's loyal to Jax. What if I let slip where I am and she tells him?"

"She won't, sötnos. You know her better than that." A deep sigh. He must have been exhausted after working in the hospital all day. "What about the people you live with? You must see them sometime."

Not necessarily. She ran into Michael every other day on the stairs or in the foyer, at which point her dearth of sign language skills would make a splendid comeback: he'd smile and nod, probably taking pity on her, and she'd smile and nod in return, roundly cursing herself, and then they'd go their separate ways. As for her landlord, he kept nocturnal hours and was nowhere to be found nine days out of ten. Occasionally Paige would hear the gramophone warbling away behind his office door as she hauled her groceries upstairs, or catch a glimpse of his coat as he vanished around the corner. That was it. Arcturus Mesarthim left his tenants to their own devices.

Which suited her just fine. Once the initial surprise had worn off, she'd had ample opportunity to recall why the Rephaim were to be shunned, not revered; if even half the things she heard about them were true, she sure as hell wouldn't want to make small talk with one.

"It's just the three of us here," she told Nick, using the scissors to cut through the box. "I don't see them much. The assistant – Michael – he reminds me about my rent if I'm late, but that's it. I don't even know if we count as one social circle."

"You do need one, though."

"I know. Who's in yours?"

The meat pie was protected by an additional layer of plastic, which she ripped free and chucked into the bin. She was about to check the box for cooking instructions when she realized that Nick wasn't answering the question. She stopped.

"Nick?"

"I work in a hospital. It's not safe to be around me right now."

"You're kidding. What was it you just said about talking to people on a daily basis?"

"I talk to you, don't I?"

There was a rueful smile in his voice; Paige could it as clearly as if he were standing right in front of her. She felt herself smile in response, even though he couldn't see. "You need a social circle as much as I do. You should come be in mine, actually. Problem solved. You have a social circle, I have a social circle, no one flips their lid."

"Oh, are you immune to COVID now?"

"I'm indestructible."

"And this Michael?"

"I barely know him. I don't even know where he goes most of the time." She pulled open the oven door and slid the meat pie inside. "Have you seen Zeke at all?"

"He asked. I … said no."

"Say yes next time."

"Paige, I can't. I might be infected and not showing symptoms."

She bit her lip, one finger hovering over the controls. Nick was right. She could joke about it as much as she liked, but as a frontline worker, he risked himself every time he set foot in St. Joseph's. Statistically speaking, he was more likely to pass the virus on to anyone he talked to. He'd be sick with guilt if he thought he'd put someone he loved in danger.

"Leave your masks on," she said at last, punching in the numbers. "Meet him somewhere you can social-distance. It'll make you feel better, Nick. Trust me." When there was no response, she tried another tack. "You have to take care of your mental health. If you break down, you won't be able to help anyone."

It wasn't the most inspiring pep talk she'd ever given, but it was the most obvious one. She heard him sigh.

"You're right. I know."

There was a heavy silence. Paige leaned against the wall, tucking her free hand behind her back. Her kitchen, if you could call it that, had recently acquired a mismatched table and a set of chairs scavenged from a vacant tenement on the third floor. She'd asked Arcturus for permission – once she managed to catch him in his office, anyway – partly out of suspicion that he might want to let those rooms out to someone else, but he'd barely looked up from his paperwork.

Borrow whatever you like, he'd said. No one will be using those rooms.

Apparently, he was content to keep two tenants in a house that could easily fit five times that number. And why shouldn't he be? Between the concept of money and the prospect of keeping human company, it was difficult to tell which the Rephaim spat on with more fervor. The only mystery was why he bothered keeping tenants at all.

"What's he like?" Nick asked, breaking the silence. "The Rephaite."

A startled laugh broke out of her. "I thought oracles couldn't read minds."

"Mm, nope. Not last I checked."

Paige hummed into the receiver, buying herself time to think. What's he like? Nothing seemed adequate. She might have called his skin a darkly radiant gold, and his eyes like unearthly light behind stained glass. She might have said that he carried himself with the inimitable self-possession of a creature with nothing to fear from this world or the next. She might have mentioned the well-worn books on English, French, Greek and Romanian she'd seen on his shelves, and the gramophone that sang with the voices of people who hadn't drawn breath in a hundred years.

She might have just as truthfully told Nick that Arcturus Mesarthim showed little interest in humans, and so she couldn't have had much opportunity to see what he was like at all.

"Like five different British stereotypes all standing on each other's shoulders and wearing a trench coat," she finally said, making Nick laugh. "You know, last Monday I asked him how often he drops by his office, and he said – I kid you not – he said 'every sennight'?"

"Every seven-night?"

"Yeah. Pretentious, isn't it?"

"Well, they learned English from upper-class Victorians."

"But that's like Shakespeare-level nonsense." She leaned against the counter, grinning to herself. Gossip wasn't one of her habits, but in her landlord's case it was completely, one hundred per cent warranted. Sennight. Honestly. "He did let me borrow one of his books, though."

"Really?"

"You should see his office. Books everywhere. Also, candles."

"That doesn't seem safe."

She glanced at the scuffed paperback lying on the scavenged kitchen table, dog-eared where she'd been too lazy to find a real bookmark. On the cover was a black-and-white rendering of Count Dracula in his billowing black cloak, swarming down a sheer castle wall. "No," she agreed. "But he never leaves them unattended, so I guess he's still exercising fire safety."

Jaxon had a copy of Dracula somewhere in the den – a first edition, naturally – which she'd somehow never found time to read. Now that she'd forfeited her place at Seven Dials, everything in it was lost to her. All the old records, the rare books, the antique paraphernalia … Every time she thought of it, she felt a vicious pang of regret.

So when she'd spotted a familiar title tucked beneath the gramophone, she hadn't been able to resist.

("Dracula?"

Arcturus glanced up from his desk. Paige, hovering on the threshold, could just catch a glimpse of his work: he appeared to be transcribing an archaeological textbook into strange glyphs, sheet after sheet of them in bold black handwriting. Having already asked for permission to commandeer his parlor furniture, she wasn't sure if it would be rude to ask for more, but she couldn't bring herself to leave. The little book under the gramophone had an almost magnetic pull. Not just the tantalizing lure of monster literature, but of reclaiming, in part, what she had abandoned at Dials.

Also, she was out of reading material and really bored.

"I didn't know the Rephaim liked to read," she added, when he made no reply. "Our books, I mean."

"Most Rephaim do not care for the human arts," he admitted, following her gaze to the novel pinned under the gramophone. "But I find your languages interesting, and your literature diverse. It passes the time."

"That it does," she said, striving to hide her surprise. She hadn't expected him to volunteer even that much. "Could I borrow it? The libraries are all shut down."

"Be my guest."

"Thanks."

She pulled the book from beneath the gramophone and ran the pages beneath her thumb a few times, relishing the familiar motion. There was nothing quite like the weight of a book in your hand, the satisfaction of turning the final page. Sensing his watchful gaze on her, she turned back at the threshold and held it up.

"I'll return it soon."

He nodded once and went back to his glyphs.)

"Paige?"

She broke from her reverie. Nick's voice was still in the phone beneath her ear, the meat pie slowly cooking in the oven. It was almost full dark outside, and consequently, she could barely see the battered novel on the table in front of her. "Sorry, what?"

"I said, have you found any work?"

"Nothing permanent." She switched the phone to her other ear and massaged her shoulder. "Just freelance jobs on an hourly basis."

"Can you make rent?"

She bit the inside of her cheek.

"You know that if you need anything –"

"I know. But, Nick, I need to do this. I can't always rely on people. If I get in trouble, I'll let you know, but I've got to be able to support myself. Just give it time."

"Okay," he said softly. "Be safe, sötnos."

"You too."

They said their goodbyes and hung up. Paige rooted around for a pen in the couch cushions and managed to scrawl FIX LIGHT on the inside of her left arm. Then she slid Dracula off the table and took it into her room, where she'd affixed a desk lamp by her bed. She had some time to kill before the meat pie was ready.

As she read, she curled up next to the lamp, her shoulders hunching as darkness crept into the room. The insane Renfield, who ate flies and vermin to absorb their life force, had been killed; now Mina Harker was tearfully describing to her horrified friends how the Count had attacked her and forced her to partake of his blood. Paige's fingers found a crease on the page where another, stronger hand must have gripped it. She wondered what it was like to see more of oneself in the monster of the story than in its human players.

"Oh my God! my God! what have I done?" Mina wailed, as her husband wept and a red dawn grew in the eastern sky. "What have I done to deserve such a fate, I who have tried to walk in meekness and righteousness all my days? God pity me! Look down on a poor soul in worse than mortal peril; and in mercy pity those to whom she is dear!"

…

Sure enough, it was another sennight before the gramophone piped up again, this time with the piano and a sweet, trilling soprano: "The ballroom was filled with fashions throng / It shone with a thousand lights / And there was a woman who passed along / The fairest of all the sights …"

Paige, who'd been prizing apart an orange in her kitchen, paused to listen. The melody was familiar as anything: "A Bird in a Gilded Cage," another one of Jaxon's favourites. If it were a human in the office downstairs, she would have thought they'd chosen it ironically, to serenade the quarantine, but she doubted the Rephaim had anything resembling a sense of humour. Besides, they were immune to human sickness. Why should they concern themselves with a worldwide pandemic? They already had one of their own to contend with.

The song was a bitter reminder that she'd escaped one prison for another, but it filled her with nostalgia too. Nearly three months had passed since she'd quit the Seals. And although her rooms looked a bit more lived-in now – less like a place to lose her mind in – it wasn't Seven Dials. Part of her just wanted to put a mask on and catch a train back to I-4, COVID regulations be damned – back to her own gilded cage, back home.

Instead, she set aside the orange, dried her hands and picked up the copy of Dracula waiting on her kitchen table.

The foyer was a black abyss. She was forced to keep one hand on the banister as she picked her way downstairs, trying to think of a tactful way of asking Michael if he could please leave one or two electric lights on before he went to bed. These blackouts usually coincided with the gramophone coming awake, so maybe he did it for Arcturus's benefit. She hadn't been kidding when she'd told Nick their landlord was fond of candles. But would it kill him to get a night-light or something, for safety's sake?

She'd have to invest in some tapers; there was a pharmacy three blocks away that sold them by the dozen. If she had to walk around with one hand cupped around the flame like a gothic heroine in a nightgown, so be it. Better that than bounce off all the furniture every time she wanted to go downstairs.

Molly Watson warbled out one last measure ("She's a bird in a gilded cage!") just as Paige reached the foyer and stole across the carpet on sock feet. The unmarked door had been left ajar, seeping candlelight through the dark. Not exactly a welcome sign, but if he didn't want to be disturbed, then he shouldn't play the Rephaite equivalent of a boom box at 3 A.M. She knocked and let herself in.

The giant-sized armchair behind the desk was vacant. A dozen tealights had been placed strategically around the room – tiny, pocket-sized candles you could cup in your palm – and they guttered when she came in, as if she'd stepped into a crypt or a buried library. Arcturus Mesarthim stood in the shadowy recess with the gramophone, holding a chalice, gazing into the courtyard as if something there required his solemn attention. She couldn't see a thing at this angle, just his figure reflected darkly in the glass. For a moment neither of them moved. Then he glanced over his shoulder, and she caught the glint of a coldly luminescent eye.

"Evening," she said.

"Good evening."

"I brought this back." Paige held up the book, a tad shabbier than it had been when she'd borrowed it. "Thanks again."

He watched her stretch out and place it on the edge of his desk. "If you would like to borrow another," he said, "you may do so."

She stopped, already half-turned toward the door. Another? She didn't particularly want to borrow things from him, but she could still feel the depressing emptiness of her rooms upstairs. "Are you sure?"

"While I am here, yes. In my absence, you will have to rely on your local library."

If he was being funny, there was no way to tell. "Thank you," she said, a little warily.

The gramophone fell silent. She knelt by the shelf on the left, keeping him in her peripheral vision, and set about finding a way to read the titles without tilting her head at a painful angle. Arcturus swirled his chalice, slow and pensive. Tonight he wore a knee-length, embroidered coat that cleaved to his throat and chest, with a brooch fastened over his heart: a flower with eight red petals, glinting in the candlelight. Even half-turned away from her, on the other side of the room, he managed to loom over everything. In fact, he was of a height with the bookshelves. She couldn't work out how he didn't knock his head on every lintel in the house. Maybe that was why he stuck to the first floor, where the doorways were taller. The better to preserve his precious Rephaite dignity.

One of Fred Astaire's lullabies came on, low and soothing. Paige's questing fingers stopped on a familiar name.

"Charlotte Brontë?"

There was a breath of laughter in her voice. She wanted to ask what a Rephaite could possibly find interesting, much less edifying, in a Victorian romance; surely it was all just human nonsense. But when she looked up and found him watching her with those chilling eyes, the question died on her tongue. She shrugged and turned away. "Some people think she might have been clairvoyant."

"A theory I have not heard before," he replied, after a moment. "Is there any particular reason?"

"Just that she talks about the spirit world in one of her books."

There was a pause. When he spoke, it was with a slow, almost hypnotic cadence, like an old record being rewound for the thousandth time.

"'Besides this earth, and besides the race of men, there is an invisible world and a kingdom of spirits; that world is round us –'"

"'– for it is everywhere,'" she murmured, her voice overlapping with his. Arcturus watched her pull the book out and flip through to the right page. It had been years since she'd read Jane Eyre, but she remembered reading those words, and how they had raised the hair on the back of her neck. There were dozens of academic essays out there arguing that Brontë had been referring to the æther, but it was difficult to separate nineteenth-century Catholicism from the real thing. She slipped the book back into place. "I'm surprised you never heard of it."

"The Brontë sisters were religious," Arcturus said, echoing her thoughts. "She spoke of angels and of God in the same breath. If there is no better proof, one must assume that she was only repeating the beliefs of her time."

"Maybe."

They lapsed into silence. Paige found herself relaxing, lost in the meditative pleasure of browsing his collection. Only a fraction of the books were written in English or French, which she knew; among those, she found a smattering of scientific disciplines, a score of novels and several treatises on political theory. How anyone could have time to read so much, she had no idea – but as soon as she opened her mouth to say so, she realized how stupid it would sound. Of course he had the time. He could have read them all a hundred times over and then a hundred times again, if he wanted to. This creature was ageless. He would never die of heart failure or disease; he was incorruptible, immune to the ravages of the corporeal world.

Unlike her. This human kneeling on the floor was a blip in his timeline. The books on his shelf were dust. Even London – beautiful, immortal London – would one day collapse like a sand castle eaten away by the high tide, and in the meantime, Arcturus Mesarthim would simply continue to exist until something killed him.

It was a ghastly thought.

"I have met many clairvoyants over the course of my life," Arcturus remarked, breaking the silence without preamble, "but never one with an aura like yours. May I ask what you are?"

She stiffened. "A cipher."

"I think not. Your aura is red, similar to that of an oracle, and exceptionally potent. Either your clairvoyant gift has not been identified by the combined wisdom of humans and Rephaim, or it is a gift previously thought to be hypothetical."

He was referring to On the Merits. Even the Rephaim had taken to Jaxon's so-called hierarchy of gifts. "I'm a cipher," she said firmly.

He seemed to take the hint. After a pause, he asked, "Have you made your choice?"

No. But if he'd got it into his head that her aura was potent, she didn't want to linger. Impossible to forget what he lived on. She took a book at random and stood, her knees popping from having spent too long in one position. "This one, I think."

He glanced over at her, detaching his gaze from the windows. "Which one?"

"Uh –" Shoot. She looked down at it. The title was printed across the front in a plain, unassuming font. Leviathan.

He caught sight of it from across the room. "Thomas Hobbes," he said. "Are you interested in political philosophy?"

Paige frowned down at the book in her hands. This Rephaite's tastes were uncannily like Jaxon's. And, by necessary extension, like her own. Setting foot in this office was like seeing someone wave to you across the street, and raising your hand to wave back, only to realize they'd been waving to someone behind you. A sense of unease. An irrational resentment. Not that she'd ever thought about it per se, but she'd always assumed that these books, this music, belonged to humanity as a collective; in the hands of a being outside that collective, they became spyholes rather than mirrors. She felt like this copy of Leviathan was something he'd borrowed from her, not the other way around.

"Paige?"

She tore her gaze up from the book. "Sorry, what?"

"I asked if you were interested in political philosophy."

"Not the theory," she said, after a moment's thought. "Not necessarily. Just what people do with it."

"Few political actors refer to a single philosopher to justify their actions. But classical theories tend to incarnate different perspectives on humankind, which are then used to justify a certain approach to government. One may share these perspectives without knowing the finer details." Arcturus turned his gaze back to the courtyard. "Hobbes is a well-known name among the few of us who read your literature."

Paige felt a bitter spark in her gut. She'd never read Leviathan, but she'd got the gist from Jaxon: human beings, according to Thomas Hobbes, acted according to their basest instincts, and if they weren't ruled by an iron fist – a leviathan government that inspired fear of brutal reprisal – they would abuse and murder one another like animals. How very strange that this perspective on humankind should appeal to the Rephaim.

"Of course it is," she said.

There was a poorly butchered orange upstairs with her name on it. She reached for the door, annoyed enough to make an unceremonious exit. At the last moment she paused, heroically rallied her good manners and said, "Thanks."

He nodded, not looking at her.

Without another word, she tucked the book under her arm and let herself out.

The candles guttered in the draft. Arcturus contemplated the courtyard below, dark and glazed with ice. A few scraggly birch trees clung to the stone wall, their branches netted black against the sky. And behind them, behind the wall, a shadow superimposed on a shadow: a giant in a London overcoat, eyes shining yellow like fireflies out of season.

Neither moved. They watched one another, as they had been for several minutes. A pair of statues confronting each other.

Arcturus raised his goblet, as if in salute.

The eyes winked out.

…