'Should we come too?' Anji asked.

'I don't think so.' The Doctor shrugged into his coat. 'It might be a good idea if you paid a visit to our hostess of last night, see what information she has about the seance participants.' He hurried down the stairs.

'When are you going to tell us what the hell's going on?' Fitz called, but the only answer was the slam of the door.

Mrs Hemming lived in a pleasant house off Kensington Church Street, not a short walk from their quarters but not a terribly long one either, and they could go through Kensington Gardens and Hyde Park. Anji found walking through the streets of nineteenth-century London a complicated experience. On the one hand, she was fascinated to see the streets and buildings that were yet to be destroyed by the Blitz, as well as by the different look and deportment of the people and since no fires were burning in the warm weather the relative cleanliness of the air, which the Doctor had said was choked with coat dust in the colder months, a fact obvious from the blackened bricks of the buildings. She realised she had always associated London with exhaust fumes, an odour now replaced by horse dung and occasional whiffs of sewage or rubbish, of beer and frying food and human sweat, plus an odd, indefinable stony smell, impersonal and very old.

To her surprise, the pavements were frequently as crowded as they would be a century in the future, and the streets were often ludicrously congested in the more commercial districts, where teams of horses pulling huge wagons faced off while their drivers yelled at each other, omnibuses sided with ads for baking powder and chocolate edged around them, bicyclists wove past, men rolled barrels by, street urchins cut among the cart wheels, boys in red uniforms darted about collecting shovels of horse dung and depositing them in kerbside bins, pedestrians dodged across, and, near the markets, occasional small groups of sheep or pigs appeared, herded along by a farmer in country clothes.

She was amazed at the noise. She had expected a London without cars to be much quieter. But the clatter of the cart and cab wheels, particularly on the more roughly paved streets, was a constant din. Though Oxford Street, along which the first part of their journey lay, was much less rowdy, she was still relieved when she and Fitz finally reached the park, with its stately pedestrian paths and soothing green, though even here they had to make way for cyclists.

Even in the less-populated park, she remained self-conscious. It felt strange to stand out so boldly. Anji had hardly been unmindful of being a dark-skinned citizen of a mostly white country in the late twentieth century, but at least there were other Indians around around. Here she saw almost nothing but white faces, the occasional exception a Jewish businessman, an Italian costermonger, a Chinese man on some undeterminable errand stood out startlingly. She hadn't seen a single African or West Indian. At least the glances given her were curious or, in the cases of some of the men, admiring, and not hostile. She looked exotic in her sari rather than threatening. Angrily and with some shame, she found herself grateful for Fitz's anchoring, 'normal' white male presence.

Fitz would never have admitted it to Anji, or even to the Doctor, but he wasn't feeling so normal. Usually he found pretending to be someone other than he was liberating, even weirdly relaxing, in spite of the problems it inevitably led to. But this pretence was too close to reality he was hemmed in, with little room to manoeuvre or improvise. Everyone accepted that Anji had studied English at an English school, and the Doctor's educated voice passed muster easily enough. But no one could place Fitz's accent it didn't quite 'do', but it wasn't familiarly declasse either. No one was outwardly rude about it, but he felt the curiosity. He didn't like this focus, the way everyone was waiting to discover who he really was.

Fitz was finding Victorian England depressing in general. There was no decent music. There were no ways to meet girls. You either spent chaperoned time with young ladies of your own class, to whom he had nothing to talk about, or you patronised streetwalkers, which was a bit raw even for Fitz, or you sordidly hit on servants who were either too cowed to refuse you or ambitiously hoping you were a way to escape their dreary lives, which wasn't his cup of tea either.

Also his shoes pinched his feet and custom demanded he wear a hat. He had balked at a topper or, even worse, a bowler (he could just hear Anji's giggles) and settled for a soft, wide-brimmed hat like the one the Doctor was wearing during this nineteenth century sojourn. After a surreptitious posing session in front of his bedroom mirror, he'd decided that he actually looked rather dashing, but he still chafed at having to wear the damned thing all the time if he didn't want to be stared at. It was fine being stared at by aliens who didn't look at all like him, but too much human scrutiny had the effect of keeping him nervously checking to see whether his fly were undone, even though, with all those buttons, it wasn't bloody likely.

In daylight, Mrs Hemming's home was a tall, handsome terraced house, its white walls covered with leafy wisteria vine, though once they were inside, the parlour that had felt nicely cosy the night before seemed underlit and too crowded with bulky furniture.

Mrs Hemming was pleased to have news of Miss Jane and relieved she was in Dr Chiltern's care. 'He really has an excellent reputation. Not all of the people at his clinic are... mentally distraught, you know. Many go there simply for rest or water cures.'

'So there aren't any really mad people?' said Fitz.

'Well,' said Mrs Hemming, a bit thrown by his bluntness, 'no, I can't say that. He has a ward for the... disturbed. People from good families, you know, who can afford something other than a state institution. It's very respectable. He set an example after all.'

'An example?' said Anji, trying not to appear too curious.

' "Example",' repeated Mrs Hemming. 'It means... oh dear, it's rather hard to define. You take a specific instance '

'How did he set an example?' said Fitz, coming to her rescue and averting Anji's slow burn. did he set an example?' said Fitz, coming to her rescue and averting Anji's slow burn.

'Oh.' She was apologetic. 'I didn't realise you didn't know. It's common knowledge. His own brother is a patient.'

'Oh my goodness,' said Anji in an impressed tone she hoped would invite further confidences.

'Yes,' Mrs Hemming nodded solemnly. 'He brought him there a few months ago. It was quite tragic. The brother, that would be Sebastian Chiltern, went mad and attacked him.'

'Do they know what's wrong with him?' said Anji, not sure that an answer would be meaningful to her in this particular place and time. Were they even using the word 'schizophrenic' yet?

'He's quite delusional.'

'What?' said Fitz. 'You mean he thinks he's Napoleon or something?' He stopped at Anji's look, struck by the ghastly notion that he'd misremembered his history and Napoleon hadn't happened yet. No, it was all right 1815, Waterloo, he had that straight.

'Well,' said Mrs Hemming, looking at him a little oddly, 'no. He doesn't think he's someone else. But apparently he claims that the most nonsensical things are true.'

'What things?' said Anji brightly.

'Oh,' Mrs Hemming waved a vague hand, 'I'm afraid I don't recall the details. Impossible things.'

Dr Chiltern sat at his desk in the sunlight that fell through the windows behind him. The warmth felt good on the back of his neck. He had successfully staved off his migraine last night by resorting to his usual unpalatable remedy, but it was still there, teasing at his nerve endings, biding its time. If only he could get through the day. There was a meeting with the board of governors in the afternoon. And he needed to do what he could for Constance Jane. It was awkward, her being an American, with no close relatives or friends in England.

Perhaps, though, Miss Jane would be all right. She had been overwrought last night quite overwrought, in fact; he was glad he'd had Smith with him, the fellow seemed to have a calming effect on her but certainly in her own mind. This morning, the nurse had reported that she was sad but not agitated and had eaten a little breakfast. In Chiltern's experience, appetite was almost always a good sign.

He turned and looked out of the window. The sanatorium stood on the edge of Hampstead Heath. Behind a Victorian front of limestone-faced brick, it was a rambling, somewhat awkward mansion in a hodgepodge of architectural styles. Chiltern wasn't certain, but he believed the oldest parts dated back to the sixteenth century. The grounds had been laid out in the eighteenth and retained their spacious formality. He watched the patients, men in lightweight suits and straw hats and women in summer dresses with parasols, stroll and converse under the huge oaks. Some of the trees must be older than the house, he mused.

How civilised it all looked. Chiltern had done his share of work in public institutions, still spent two weekends a month in one in Southwark, and he was unhappily familiar with the squalor and misery too often attendant on the treatment of mental illness. Thank God for these new drugs. It had put an end to the binding and restraint of the poor sufferers, except for the most violent.

Would drugs help Miss Jane? He strongly doubted it. Did she even need help? It had been impossible to talk with her last night, and there was so much he didn't know. Did she often have these spells, in which another personality took over, outside the setting of a seance? Or was this the first time? If so, perhaps the instances of 'possession' were something she could handle and live with. Though the one personality had seemed malicious, and had deliberately set up a fraud with the tambourine, for which Miss Jane, who knew nothing of it, would be blamed.

She didn't remember... Chiltern put a hand up to his head and massaged his temples. He felt the pain gathering, like a dull, sullen heat. But the malicious personality did did remember. For both of them. Or all of them, if you counted the Indian guide, who seemed to have only a partial existence. It was an extraordinary case. Truth to tell, he felt a bit out of his depth. What a piece of luck that Smith had studied hypnosis. The practice was still associated with charlatans and quacks, but Chiltern had long suspected there was something to it. Perhaps even Sebastian... remember. For both of them. Or all of them, if you counted the Indian guide, who seemed to have only a partial existence. It was an extraordinary case. Truth to tell, he felt a bit out of his depth. What a piece of luck that Smith had studied hypnosis. The practice was still associated with charlatans and quacks, but Chiltern had long suspected there was something to it. Perhaps even Sebastian...

Oh, what was he thinking? What good would hypnosis do there? Did he expect he'd find the 'real' untroubled Sebastian hidden beneath the madness, the man he'd grown up with 'Ah,' he breathed involuntarily, as the pain tightened at the base of his skull. He sat still, eyes shut, taking deep breaths, and it subsided a little. When he opened his eyes, Smith was standing in front of him.

To his extreme embarrassment, Chiltern jumped slightly.

'I'm very sorry,' said Smith. 'I did say your name a couple of times. You must have been deep in thought.'

'Yes,' said Chiltern awkwardly. He'd had one of his spells, then, those small trances that periodically robbed him of a few seconds of time. Epilepsy, he had grimly self-diagnosed. At least it didn't appear to be getting worse. He stood up and shook Smith's hand. 'Dr Smith. Thank you for coming.'

'Just Doctor, please,' said Smith. 'I was glad to, though I'm not sure what you think I can do.'

Chiltern touched his elbow and led him back into the hail. 'You've studied hypnotism,' he explained as they walked. 'I have not, myself, and finding a hypnotist with any sort of medical background is quite difficult in this country. It's still thought of as mesmerism and stage shows. To be frank,' he sighed, 'we are not as receptive in England as we might be to new ideas from the Continent. Even the strangest theory may contain a kernel of something true.'

Dr Smith nodded. Chiltern found his request to be addressed only by his title eccentric, but he didn't mind complying. His profession had made him extremely tolerant of oddities, even fond of them. He half-suspected that his companion might not even have a medical degree, might simply be one of those brilliant dilettantes who on the Continent styled themselves as 'Professor', but he didn't mind. The man had clearly had a good effect on Miss Jane the night before, and if his hypnotism helped her, who cared whether he had learned it in a carnival?

They walked together down the wide, sunny hall. None of the large windows was barred, though, looking out of one, the Doctor spied a turreted wing of grey stone where the windows were encased in iron grills. A few patients stood aimlessly about the corridor. One scholarly looking man was patting his head over and over and over. The Doctor remembered the eighteenth century, when patients had been put on exhibit. Fortunately, tastes in entertainment had changed.

Chiltern stopped beside a nicely dressed, middle-aged woman who was sitting on the floor, arms clasped around her knees, rocking back and forth.

'Good morning, Mrs Paracle.'

She neither answered nor looked at him. He bent down to her, hands on knees, and said gently, 'Would you be more comfortable in your room? It has a bed, and a soft rug.' After a moment, still not looking at him, she slowly nodded. He helped her to her feet, gesturing to a nurse who came and led her away. Chiltern watched them go. 'She hasn't spoken in years. There's really nothing I can do for her. But the rocking seems to comfort her, so we encourage it.'

They came out of the main hall into a narrower corridor, with simple whitewashed walls and high, deep-set windows: an older part of the house. The Doctor guessed they were heading to the stone wing he'd glimpsed earlier. 'Is Miss Jane violent?'

'Oh no. Unfortunately, the only bed available was in the ward for the more disturbed patients.'

'Have you many of those?'

Chiltern's face clouded. 'Enough.'

They were walking on flagstones, now, and the ceiling was lower. The doors on either side of the passage were new and solid-looking, painted a glossy black and inset with small windows. From behind one of these, the occupant, hearing their footsteps, cried, 'I'm as sane as you are! Saner!' Chiltern ignored this and proceeded to the next door, on which he knocked. 'It's Dr Chiltern.'

'Come in,' a voice said faintly.

The room inside was simply furnished: an iron bed, an armchair, and a table with a porcelain basin and pitcher on it and a commode cabinet beneath. The walls had been plastered and whitewashed but bulged out unevenly over the stone foundation they covered, a disquieting effect that made the Doctor think of horror stories in which people were walled up alive. Miss Jane sat slumped on the bed, wrapped in a shawl. Her hair was loose, falling thickly past her shoulders. She looked at them bleakly.

'You remember Dr Smith from last night,' said Chiltern. She nodded. 'How are you feeling? The nurse tells me your night was quiet and that you had some breakfast.'

Her eyes shifted away, and she pulled the shawl tighter. 'I'm crazy, aren't I?' she said in her flat, American voice. 'That's why I'm here.'

'You don't appear crazy to me,' said Chiltern calmly, 'only upset.'

'I have blackouts.'

'That's not proof of mental instability.'

She looked up. There were tears on her cheeks. 'I thought I had a gift,' she said helplessly. 'But I was just sick.'

'Do you have family I can contact?' She shook her head fiercely. 'Anyone I can contact?'

'Do I have to stay here?'

'No,' said Chiltern, after the briefest pause. 'But you're welcome to until you feel better.'

'I feel better now.'

'Forgive me, but I don't believe that's entirely true.'

She began to cry openly and noisily, like a child. The Doctor went and sat on the bed beside her and took her hand. She fell against him, sobbing. 'I'm so sorry, so sorry, so sorry...'

'What about?' said the Doctor quietly.

'Everything.'

Then she just wept for a while. The Doctor held her, as Chiltern watched awkwardly, not entirely sure this wasn't a trespass in the name of therapy. Yet there was something impersonal in the Doctor's kindness, and nothing sensual in his embrace. After a few minutes, Miss Jane pulled away, sniffling, and wiped her eyes on the shawl. The men waited. Finally, she said, 'Did you meet her?'

'The angry one?' said the Doctor. 'Yes we did. Does she have a name?'

'I don't know. I don't think so.'

'May I talk to her again?'

She sat up and stared at him in shock. So did Chiltern this was rather pushing things! 'Why?' she asked.

'I'd like to find out what she thinks she's doing.' The Doctor's calm, his good will, were almost palpable.

She relaxed a little: 'I... I don't know how to... to bring her out.'

'I can call her, if you'll let me. There's no danger,' he said as she pulled back. 'She won't stay. Tell me,' he took her hand again, 'how long has she been coming out on her own, when you're not in a mediumistic trance?'

'I'm not sure,' she whispered. 'A few months. She... played some mean tricks on me back in Oneida. People began to say I was a fake. That's one reason I came here.'

'You're not a fake,' said the Doctor firmly.

She rose abruptly and glided to the corner of the room where she stood for a moment with her face to the wall. When she turned around, she was someone else. In spite of all his experience, Chiltern felt something creep down his spine. The Doctor seemed impressed too. He stood up.

'Well?' said the thin, wavering voice. 'Here I am, boys.'

'Hello again,' said the Doctor.

'Hello to you. You're a pretty thing, aren't you? Too bad.' She sauntered over and curled up in the armchair. Chiltern could have sworn that her body itself had changed, grown fuller and more feminine. 'What can I do for you gentlemen? One at a time, please.'

'Why are you here?' said the Doctor.

'You wanted me, didn't you?'

'I mean in general. Why did you start coming out on your own?'

She looked uneasy. Her glance slid to Chiltern and she smiled. 'Why don't you come over here, honey?'

'Dr Chiltern is fine as he is,' said the Doctor. 'How old are you?'

'You should never ask a lady her age.'

'Please answer the question.'

She stuck out her lower lip. 'Twenty.'

'And how old is Miss Jane?'

'Twenty-six.'

'Chief Ironwing?'

'I don't know,' she said sulkily. 'He came after me. I suppose you want to know all about it, about the trauma.'

'No,' said the Doctor, to both her and Chiltern's surprise. 'I don't. I want to know about the last few months. What has changed?'

Chiltern almost spoke, but the Doctor shot him a bear-withme bear-withme look and he kept his peace. Miss Jane, or whoever was in her body, poked sullenly at a ripple in the carpet with her toe. 'What do you want to talk about that for?' look and he kept his peace. Miss Jane, or whoever was in her body, poked sullenly at a ripple in the carpet with her toe. 'What do you want to talk about that for?'

'How are things different?' The Doctor's voice was soft, but there was something relentless in it.

She glanced at him irritably and shifted in the chair. 'Everything's happening at once.'

She was babbling, Chiltern decided, but the Doctor went right on, as if what she'd said were perfectly rational. 'All the time? Now?'

'Yes,' she snapped. 'Now. There's too much of you and', her head jerked towards Chiltern, 'not enough of him.'