A chair leg scraped.

The shotgun bucked and the thing's head burst like a gourd, painting the wall. She felt warm fluid on her cheeks and chin. The lower half of a torso slumped. One leg skittered and danced against the stone floor.

Delphine.

Through the ringing in her ears she heard groaning. She reached for her bandolier and discovered that her hand was shaking.

'Delphine!'

She turned. Professor Carmichael was struggling against his bonds. He was perched on a chair far too small for him, wrists bound behind his back. She watched the motion of his lips. 'Untie us.' He had a bruise on his forehead the size of an egg.

Everyone was here, just as the Little Gentlemen had said, everyone, except . . .

She set down her satchel, took out her pocket knife and began to go from person to person, slitting their bonds. Besides Mother and the Professor there was Mrs Hagstrom, Alice the maid, the blacksmith Mr Wightman, Reggie Gillow, and two gentlemen she vaguely recognised from previous symposiums most likely they had arrived early, hoping to catch the ear of Mr Propp all ashen, shivering, drunk.

Mother barely noticed when Delphine set her free. Her gown was torn round the throat. She stared into space with the hollow calm of one who expects only misery.

Delphine looked about. There was no Lord Alderberen, no Propp. No Miss DeGroot either. She gripped Mother's shoulder, shook it.

'Mother?' she said. She could barely hear her own voice. 'Mother.'

Mother looked up. She blinked at Delphine, glancing around as if seeing the room for the first time.

'Oh God,' she said. 'What are you doing here? I thought . . . I didn't know . . . '

'I came to save you.'

Mother stared. Her thin arms swept out and she dragged Delphine to her greedily, clutching, hugging.

'Oh, you silly girl,' she said, rubbing her wet cheek against Delphine's hair. 'Oh, you silly, silly girl.'

Delphine wriggled and Mother let her go.

'Where's Daddy?'

Mother wiped her eyes.

'I'm so sorry, Delphine. I don't know.'

CHAPTER 27.

THE RUNNING OF THE BULLS.

Mr Henry Garforth grimaced at the freezing pain in his knees, the arthritis cramping the swollen knuckles of his right hand. He knelt amongst dead lilacs, holding the ferret in place while he peered into the clearing. In front of the burial vault, two minotaurs loitered with flintlocks. The harka bullmen were seven foot tall, glossy chestnut-skinned and swollen with muscle, their horns decorated with the complex martial insignias of House Dellapeste. The rifles looked dainty in their thick fists. Brass rings gleamed in their muzzles. They scanned the treeline with hard, intelligent eyes.

The door to Peter Stokeham's tomb was open.

In the moonlight, the ivy-wrapped fallen larch looked like the shattered neck of a dragon.

Henry Garforth tightened the final loop of string around the ferret's belly. The string was attached to a smoke candle. He struck a match and lit the fuse. White smoke began churning out. He slapped the ferret across its furry haunch and it ran from the bushes, trailing smoke.

The harka guards raised their rifles. Henry reached into his kitbag and lit a second match.

One of the harka squeezed the trigger. An instant later, its rifle let out a crack and white smoke frothed from the pan. The shot hissed through empty air.

The second guard took aim, tracing the ferret's path, fired. The ferret jinked left and the shot thudded into the grass.

The first harka was already running, pursuing the trail of smoke as the ferret zigzagged towards the bushes. Its partner moved as if to follow. Henry let out a grunt as he flung a grenade towards the vault.

The condensed milk tin clanked off weathered stone and landed in the grass. The harka turned ponderously round. The grenade was at its hooves. It poked the unfamiliar object with its rifle. The harka threw its huge arms across its face.

Henry dropped flat.

The homemade grenade exploded. Chunks of hot horseshoe ricocheted off the granite tomb with crazy zinging noises.

Henry rose, his elbows protesting, and dashed across the clearing after the first harka. He could see its huge silhouette thundering into the trees after the ferret, slashing at smoke and foliage with the bayonet tip of its rifle. Henry heard a mechanism snap shut. The creature toppled, bellowing, clutching at the steel jaws that had gnashed into its ankle. It groped at the mess of blood and shattered bone, trying to prise the trap apart. Henry stepped from the bushes and pushed a gun to the flat ridge of bone between its great horns.

A shot rang out in the dark wood. He reloaded.

Henry returned to the clearing just in time to see two vesperi bounding out of the vault, spreading their wings and taking off. As they wheeled towards the Hall, he swung his shotgun past them and fired. One beast jerked, its wing shredded, and spiralled into the treetops. Henry fired his second barrel. The remaining vesperi's silhouette wobbled, glided out of view.

'Damn.' That meant reinforcements would be on their way soon. At least more trouble for him meant fewer vesperi at the house.

He broke his shotgun and the spent shells popped out like fat red crickets. He took two cartridges from his pocket,* slotted them into place and closed the gun. Behind him, the bushes were full of glowing lights. As he tramped over grass, the Little Gentlemen followed, emerging from the undergrowth with pliers and wire-cutters and lengths of fuse and traps and a stack of aluminium washing-up bowls. Their huge eyes left ghostly trails.

Henry trained his gun on the mouth of the vault. He gave the woods, and England, one last look, then stepped inside.

*1 oz. magnum loads of No. 1 shot, handloaded by the Little Gentlemen back at the cottage. They had become so skilled at measuring out powder and shot by weight, not volume, he would remind them and ensuring the seating wads fit snugly, he no longer had to supervise. The extra charge in each cartridge rattled his jaw it was like firing an elephant gun.

CHAPTER 28.

PATIENCE.

Delphine peered into the dark and silent corridor. She ducked back inside the scullery.

'It's clear,' she whispered.

Her torchbeam picked out glassy eyes, wet teeth. Delphine had given Mother the satchel to carry, explaining that it contained homemade grenades; with the strap across her thin shoulder, Mother looked like a schoolgirl. Professor Carmichael held an empty port bottle, slapping it into his big palm like a cosh.

Delphine gave Mrs Hagstrom a second torch, which the housekeeper accepted solemnly. Delphine fixed her with a stern gaze.

'I'll take you as far as the cellar. Once you're inside, lock the door behind you and go to the room with the ale kegs. There's a trapdoor under the sack. It leads to a tunnel.' A murmur rose from the group. 'Keep going until you reach the beach. Then run to Pigg. Call the army, call the navy. Tell them it's an invasion.'

Mrs Hagstrom frowned at the torch in her palm. She snapped her fist shut.

'And where will you be?'

'Rescuing my father.'

'No you bloody well won't.' The blacksmith, Mr Wightman, elbowed his way to the front of the group. His shirt sleeves were rolled up. The darkness turned the dent in his skull to a black pit. 'This is no place for a twelve-year-old.'

'I'm thirteen.'

'Thank you for untying us. The men will take over from here. Give me that gun.'

'One step closer and I'll give you both barrels.'

Mr Wightman moved to take the sawn-off and she aimed it at his head.

'You're mad.' He turned to the others. 'She's mad.'

Mother stepped out of the crowd. She looked Delphine up and down. Something in her expression had hardened. The old keenness had returned to her eyes.

'I'm going with her.'

Mr Wightman threw incredulous glares at the other men.

'Are you just going to stand there? They'll be slaughtered.' He waited for someone to agree. 'Well, I won't have it.' He turned to Mother and folded his scarred arms. 'You can't go.'

Mother faced him squarely. 'And how do you intend to stop us?'

She crossed to where Delphine stood and placed a hand on her daughter's shoulder.

Mr Wightman hiked his folded arms a little higher. 'You won't shoot me.'

'No,' said Mother. 'Just ignore you.'

'You're not coming with me,' said Delphine.

'That goes for you too,' Mother said, not unkindly. 'I've made my decision.'

Professor Carmichael looked around the room. Beneath his green sweater, his shoulders rose and fell as he sighed.

'I'll go too.'

'You can't,' said Delphine.

'Nonsense. I can do what I like.'

'But . . . but . . . ' She couldn't very well threaten to shoot him too. 'You're too big. They'll spot you immediately.'

'Well, perhaps that'll provide the distraction you need. Ah! Don't bother with your counter arguments, Miss Venner. My mind is made up.'

'All right,' she said. She pulled herself upright. 'Well, then. Follow me.'

She switched off her torch and stepped into the corridor. She thought she saw a flicker of movement at the far end, held her breath, listening. Through the ringing in her ears, she heard the guests clustered behind her, panting, the rasp of Professor Carmichael's blocked sinuses.

'Okay,' she whispered.

She had gone a few paces before she realised nobody was following her. She glanced back. 'What's going on?'

'It's Alice,' said the Professor. 'She won't move.'

Delphine returned to the scullery. Alice was sitting on a chair, fingers knitted across her eyes, shaking her head. She breathed in jagged sips.

'Come on, now,' said Mr Wightman. 'You're going to get us all killed.'

Alice began to rock. Delphine thought she could make out the mumbled edges of the Lord's Prayer.

'Please, Alice,' said Delphine. 'We have to go.'

Alice shrank into herself.

'What are we going to do?' said the Professor.

Delphine felt fabric brush her arm, then Mother was at Alice's side. Mother laid an arm around Alice's shoulder. Alice whimpered and flinched. Mother leant in very close. She spoke briskly in Alice's ear: 'Alice, dear. You've been working too hard and you've exhausted yourself. All this is just your worn-out brain playing tricks. We're going to take you to the village for a good, long rest, and when you wake up, you'll realise it was all just a silly dream.'

Alice did not reply.

'Alice, dear?' said Mother, her voice growing louder. 'It's time to go. Now, do you think you can help me walk, because I've hurt my ankle and I'm not very good on it.'

Alice opened her eyes. She looked at Mother.

'Please,' said Mother. 'I don't think I can manage on my own.'

Alice nodded. 'All right, Mrs Venner.'

'Thank you, Alice. That's very kind of you.'

Alice got up from her chair and let Mother lean on her though Delphine noticed that Mother did not lean very hard. 'We're ready,' Mother said.

Delphine stepped into the dark hallway. Moving on the balls of her feet, the sawn-off at her waist, she led the group back east, towards the cellar.

Once they were gone, she and Mother and the Professor would head back to the gun room. She was breaking her word to Mr Garforth, but he had wanted her to abandon Daddy just to save idiots like Mr Wightman. She had to try. No matter that Mother couldn't shoot in tight corridors a trench shotgun would do the aiming for her.

Delphine reached the cellar door, gingerly turned the key in the lock.