It said: "More."

For a second or two, Fern felt the upsurge of panic.

"Try fire," Will suggested.

This time, when Fern hurled her order, there was raw authority in her tone. The tube of lip shot outward, and Fern threw in the final "Fiume!" "Fiume!" even as it devoured the spell. Flame seared through the soft mouth parts; the lips crumpled and turned black; the whole blancmange began to shudder. Then it imploded, engulfed in its own substance, eviscerating the very core of the magic. Gaps appeared in the circle as the spellpowder was whipped into the vortex. Fern picked up the wrong jar, swore, swapped it, tried to fill in the c.h.i.n.ks. The magic was flowing back now, leaking out into the room. The bookshelves heaved in a solid, moving wave. The ceiling arched upward until the distended plaster began to split and fragments floated down like leaves. The floor shifted uneasily beneath their feet. The cat had turned into a ball of madness: both Ragginbone and Moonspittle struggled to restrain him, flayed by whirling claws. Will threw his arms around Gaynor just as she reached to brush the plaster from her hair, inadvertently knocking him in the eye. Both of them gasped out breathless apologies. Something with too many eyes materialized in several parts of the room at once, staring out from chair back and book-spine, from grimy lithograph and splintered bell jar. Fern had abandoned the spellpowder and was fighting to regain control, ignoring a growing sense of helplessness. even as it devoured the spell. Flame seared through the soft mouth parts; the lips crumpled and turned black; the whole blancmange began to shudder. Then it imploded, engulfed in its own substance, eviscerating the very core of the magic. Gaps appeared in the circle as the spellpowder was whipped into the vortex. Fern picked up the wrong jar, swore, swapped it, tried to fill in the c.h.i.n.ks. The magic was flowing back now, leaking out into the room. The bookshelves heaved in a solid, moving wave. The ceiling arched upward until the distended plaster began to split and fragments floated down like leaves. The floor shifted uneasily beneath their feet. The cat had turned into a ball of madness: both Ragginbone and Moonspittle struggled to restrain him, flayed by whirling claws. Will threw his arms around Gaynor just as she reached to brush the plaster from her hair, inadvertently knocking him in the eye. Both of them gasped out breathless apologies. Something with too many eyes materialized in several parts of the room at once, staring out from chair back and book-spine, from grimy lithograph and splintered bell jar. Fern had abandoned the spellpowder and was fighting to regain control, ignoring a growing sense of helplessness.

"Orcale nef-heleix . . . Varde nessantor . . . Ai Morcadis thinefisse . . . varde!"

The eyes winked out. The perimeter was still broken, but the magic seemed to be contained, held within a boundary of pure will. The spellfire flared, blue flames licking around the pelmet, and in its livid glare Fern's face, too, looked blue, pinched with effort. "End it!" cried Ragginbone, but she rushed on, babbling the new summons in a frenzy of haste, before her strength failed altogether. "Dana!" she called, into the night, into the void. "Prisoner or wanderer, come to me!"

And for a few moments she was there-not the well-tended body in the hospital bed but as she must have looked at the party, with a swirl of hair not her own and the chiffon tatters of her costume. Under the makeup her eyes were frightened; her hands seemed to push at an invisible wall. At first she did not appear to see her summoner, but then her gaze focused on Fern, and she grew still, and the tip of her nose flattened as if pressed against a gla.s.s. Her lips moved soundlessly, but they could all read the words. Help me Help me . . . . . .

She vanished without dismissal into a surge of darkness. The epicenter of the circle grew storm-black. An image developed in the murk: a girl's face, transparent as a hologram, shining faintly. Fern murmured, bemused: "Gaynor?" "Gaynor?" Ragginbone's shout of warning came too late. Gaynor had slipped from Will's grasp, stepped through a break in the perimeter. There was a second when her features melded with those in the circle, then she, too, vanished. Ragginbone's shout of warning came too late. Gaynor had slipped from Will's grasp, stepped through a break in the perimeter. There was a second when her features melded with those in the circle, then she, too, vanished.

What happened next was something Fern would never remember very clearly: Will's panic, Ragginbone's harsh admonition, Moonspittle's squeak of protest. She was unable to think anymore and ceased to try; instinct took over. "You'll have to maintain the circle," she found herself saying, probably to Moonspittle. "Seal the boundary. Don't let anything through. If you can hold the spell, I'll be back." She didn't wait for objection or restraint. Her will was firm, her mind empty. She had no plan of action, no doubt, and in that instant, no fear.

She stepped into the circle, spoke one word. "Envardo!" I follow. "Envardo!" I follow.

She followed.

At first, Gaynor thought she hadn't moved. She couldn't recall entering the circle, only being there. There was a brief uprush of light, a sensation of falling-and then the spinning tunnel of radiance slowed, subsided, and she was left standing as before, except that now the perimeter was unbroken. She looked up, and saw the full moon streaming through an open window, its light blending with the werelight so that she had to narrow her eyes against the brightness. The only window in the bas.e.m.e.nt had been small and high up, screened with cloth or brown paper. She began to be frightened-not very frightened, not yet, but frightened enough. She stared around her, trying to see beyond the circle, but all she could make out was a soaring darkness of vast black drapes depending from some vault far above. Then she saw the woman. A tall woman in a pale dress that glittered when she moved. Her hair hung down her back in a thick clotted ma.s.s; her bare arms were as white as the dress. The fire glow limned her figure with blue. Long afterward, Gaynor said: "Her face was beautiful, but it was like something in a surrealist painting. If you looked at it from a different angle, you knew it would be utterly horrible."

The woman asked: "What is your name?" Her voice was soft and sweet as the smell of decay.

Gaynor did not want to reply, but she knew she must. "Gaynor."

"That sounds like a modern contraction. The name I knew was Gwennifer. How interesting. So you you are Gwennifer." are Gwennifer."

"I don't understand."

"Playing the idiot, is that it? It makes no difference. I used you before; I shall use you again. You were always invaluable to my plans. I gather you have befriended Morcadis now. Your folly-or hers. Where is she?"

"I think-outside the circle . . ."

"That's no answer. Tell me the truth: the magic binds you. Where is she?"

The pressure of her insistence was almost suffocating Gaynor; she struggled to breathe. Half choking, she could manage no other response. "Outside . . . the circle . . ."

And then Morgus realized what had happened. Two circles, two spells, drawn together in a single magical bond . . . "Uvale!" "Uvale!" she screamed, and a gap appeared along the rim where the flame flicker went out. She raised her hand. "Come to me!" she screamed, and a gap appeared along the rim where the flame flicker went out. She raised her hand. "Come to me!"

Gaynor felt herself impelled toward the break in the circle. She knew that to leave the spellground would be disastrous, but she could not seem to resist. Outside the perimeter, the dark shrank to normal proportions, becoming sweeping curtains against a paneled wall. A cat waited there, stone still, its hairless body blotched black and white. She thought the expression on its wizened face was one of total malevolence. Unable to stop herself, she set foot out of the magic, into the room.

The sudden cry behind her snapped the compulsion like overstrained elastic. "Xiss! Stop! I command you!" A hand seized her wrist, wrenching her back into the circle with such violence that she stumbled and fell. She tried to rise, clutching her rescuer. Outside the perimeter, Morgus was swaying from side to side like a cobra about to strike. Her eyes slitted; her mouth widened into a smile without laughter, all hunger and teeth. In front of her, the goblin cat began to prowl to and fro along the edge of the break, as though searching for that weakening in the barrier that would allow ingress. Stop! I command you!" A hand seized her wrist, wrenching her back into the circle with such violence that she stumbled and fell. She tried to rise, clutching her rescuer. Outside the perimeter, Morgus was swaying from side to side like a cobra about to strike. Her eyes slitted; her mouth widened into a smile without laughter, all hunger and teeth. In front of her, the goblin cat began to prowl to and fro along the edge of the break, as though searching for that weakening in the barrier that would allow ingress.

"Morcadis," said the witch, very quietly, and "Fernanda Morcadis," louder now and clear as a chime.

"You were looking for me," said Fern. "I have come." She was breathless from the abrupt translocation, thrown off balance by Gaynor's desperate grip.

"I like your friend," Morgus went on, her manner lightening deceptively. "I knew her of old: she was always venial in sin, soft-hearted and soft-headed. A liability to all who stood by her. I shall enjoy questioning her again."

"She is young," said Fern, puzzled. "You have met before only briefly, in a dream."

"Youth!" Morgus said scornfully. "An illusion. Do I not look young to you? Everything is reborn, recycled, remade, even the spirit. She is Gwennifer the adulteress, though she has grown very plain. She cannot change."

"The world of Time has made you mad," said Fern. "You are seeing old enemies in new faces. I thought I I was the one you feared." was the one you feared."

"Feared?" Morgus's tone was like silk. "Oh, no, my most diligent pupil. You betrayed me and tried to kill me, but all you achieved was to initiate my regenesis. I used to think I could not return without you, and indeed you have brought me back. You have made me invulnerable, unkillable. I have the power of the Gift and the power of the Tree and the power of the River. What have you got with which to challenge me? Nothing. I will take your little Gwennifer and sew up her lips with her own hair, and st.i.tch back her eyelids, and she will have to watch the fate I will prepare for you, and it will be long and slow, and before I am done-"

"I will beg for death," Fern interrupted. "I know. They always say that." She was afraid now, and angry at her own fear, and every bit of emotion showed beneath the bravado. The circle closed at a word, rekindling to a glittering thread, but it made a flimsy barricade against the might of the witch queen. Fern knew she had only seconds to take them back-back to the cellar in Soho-and she tried to gather her remaining power, her Gift, but instinct was failing her and she had little idea what to do, or how. Morgus made a convoluted gesture and uttered a strange hoa.r.s.e sound deep in her throat, a cry from an age before speech, and the boards at their feet began to split in many places, and green stems came through, thick and serpent strong, twining their ankles, holding them fast. Gaynor stifled a scream. In moments more tendrils had looped her body, pinning her arms to her sides; Fern s.n.a.t.c.hed hers free just in time.

"I have you!" Morgus gloated. "I have you!" "I have you!"

She lifted both hands- -and something something shot out of the air in front of Fern and hit Morgus full in the chest. The force of its trajectory blew a hole in the perimeter that could not be mended; the witch queen reeled at the impact, borne backward, losing her grip. Fern felt the snake lock slacken about her legs and kicked the stems away, stamping them into the floor. Gaynor followed her example. Morgus beat off her attacker and stood there gasping, her dress ripped and red stained, her half-exposed b.r.e.a.s.t.s swollen into tumuli from the arousal of power. Claw slashes were closing slowly in her white skin, leaving residual blood trails that crisped into hardness against nipple and ribs. The invader had dropped to the floor and crouched there, yowling. Its ginger fur was discolored in the blue light and much of it stood on end, bristling with magical static. It yowled in the unmistakable language of cat fight and garbage raid. shot out of the air in front of Fern and hit Morgus full in the chest. The force of its trajectory blew a hole in the perimeter that could not be mended; the witch queen reeled at the impact, borne backward, losing her grip. Fern felt the snake lock slacken about her legs and kicked the stems away, stamping them into the floor. Gaynor followed her example. Morgus beat off her attacker and stood there gasping, her dress ripped and red stained, her half-exposed b.r.e.a.s.t.s swollen into tumuli from the arousal of power. Claw slashes were closing slowly in her white skin, leaving residual blood trails that crisped into hardness against nipple and ribs. The invader had dropped to the floor and crouched there, yowling. Its ginger fur was discolored in the blue light and much of it stood on end, bristling with magical static. It yowled in the unmistakable language of cat fight and garbage raid.

Mogwit.

"Grab him!" Fern cried. "I have to concentrate."

Gaynor lunged just as Nehemet pounced. There was a moment of confused struggle: she felt her arm torn and never knew which animal was responsible. Then she was back in what remained of the circle, clutching a raging bundle of ginger fur. Nehemet threatened, her mouth stretched in a hiss; but she did not attempt to spring after them. Morgus began a charm or curse that was never finished. Fern felt her body grow rigid with the buildup of power: she forced mind and will, Gift and spell to converge in one instance, one word. Gaynor felt her wrist seized, heard the Command-and the circle spun into a hoop of flame, blurring, thickening. Light swallowed them . . .

. . . and they were back in Soho.

It was Moonspittle who had secured the perimeter, controlled if not actually coerced by Ragginbone. Will, handed the cat with a curt order to hold tight, had underestimated Mogwit's strength: more than a hundred years as a wizard's familiar had not only extended life but enhanced muscle tone, though the cat's intelligence seemed to have lapsed into second kittenhood. Once the circle was empty Fern and Moonspittle closed the spell on a shriek of rage that came from nowhere in the room. The fires sank, the electric lights were switched on, and the bas.e.m.e.nt reverted to its own brand of normality. They presented the owner with his promised reward, a new ball for his pet and a collection of p.o.r.nographic postcards from the Edwardian era, which Ragginbone had found in a secondhand bookshop. "That cat almost certainly saved our lives," Fern said. "I'll come back tomorrow and bring him some salmon."

"Smoked," said Moonspittle. "He likes it smoked."

"Nothing but the best," Fern a.s.sured him.

They took a taxi back to her flat. Ragginbone reserved his strictures for their return; Will didn't. They were recuperating in Fern's living room over wine and coffee before the tide of recrimination finally began to subside.

"Well," said Ragginbone judicially, "and how did Morgus look to you?"

"She's lost weight," said Fern. "I'm afraid-it's been trans.m.u.ted into power in some way. She spent centuries in hibernation, feeding off the Tree, and now she's stronger. She said she has the power of the Gift, and the power of the Tree, and the power of the River . . . and I could feel feel it around me, against me. It was too much. I couldn't fight it." it around me, against me. It was too much. I couldn't fight it."

"But you did," said Gaynor.

"We were lucky," Fern said somberly. "Just lucky. You can't rely on that."

"Still," Ragginbone remarked, "it's something to know the luck is with you. And Morgus has has a weakness: that much is clear. The sisterhood told us: All that lives must die. It remains only to find a way." a weakness: that much is clear. The sisterhood told us: All that lives must die. It remains only to find a way."

"At least we know where she is," said Will.

"Does she know where we are?" asked Fern.

"We must hope not," said Ragginbone. "I doubt if the elementals had enough time to absorb their location. Meanwhile, we have various avenues to investigate. It might be worth having another word with Mabb: she's capricious and undependable, but the goblins seem to be deeply involved in this affair and she may have further information. Her folk have quick ears; they hear many rumors. Then there's this man Morgus has enspelled . . ."

"The superbanker," said Will. "Very rich, very powerful. That's always suspect. You don't get to be rich and powerful by being a warm, caring person."

"Precisely. Also his son, Lucas."

"Luc," said Fern. "I told you, he's Gifted. I'm sure of it. I'll be in touch with him." She felt a flicker of pleasure at the idea, a reaction she was determined not to reveal, but the feeling faded on another resolve, equally secret, less a determination than a compulsion. There was someone else she had to find, a friendship neglected, a debt unpaid. Kal. And if anyone knew Morgus's weak spot, it would be him.

She went to bed later that night thinking not of Luc, but of a half monster, double horned and lion clawed, who had once been her guide in the dark.

VI.

On Sat.u.r.day morning, the light crept belatedly into the shop that never opened. Dawn had done little to illuminate the interior, but as the sun ascended a few adventurous rays found their way into the alley, past bleared gla.s.s and barred grille, sending two or three thin slivers of brilliance needling into the gloom. Ragginbone was lying on a couch at the back, well past sleep, thinking the long slow thoughts that came from a long slow life. The couch was hard and too short for his height, but the centuries had toughened him against all discomforts and he was conscious of only one physical lack, the warmth of Lougarry's body pressed against his side. He had left her in Yorkshire-her kind were ill-at-ease in the city-and he missed her silent companionship, her constancy, her soft unspoken whisper in his mind. Presently, he was distracted by the invasion of a newspaper inserted forcibly through the creaking mail slot. He rose to retrieve it, surprised that Moonspittle should have any such contact with modern life; but it was not one of the national dailies, only a local newsheet distributed free to anyone with an accessible door. Ragginbone sat down to peruse it, but instead found himself watching the darts of stray sunshine that traveled across the floor, until cloud or building cut them off for good. Their tiny glimmer revealed glimpses of mounded bric-a-brac dating back hundreds of years, shapeless hunks of abandoned furniture, many-p.r.o.nged objects that might be candelabra or the antlers of decayed hunting trophies. Everything was dim with age and dust, save for the occasional c.h.i.n.k where a glint of residual color peeped through. Ragginbone wondered idly what secrets might be buried there, under the cobwebs and the dirt. When the sun had moved on, his gaze returned to the paper. It was difficult to read in the poor light-he switched on a nearby table lamp, but there was no bulb in it-however, his sight had sharpened with the development of his Gift, and though his powers were mainly gone now, that was one of many side effects that had remained. He was poring over an article about rescue archaeology on a site in King's Cross when Fern arrived.

Ragginbone admitted her; she had not yet mastered the knock that would summon Moonspittle. "I've brought the smoked salmon," she said.

Mogwit appeared from the nether regions, drawn by some mysterious feline instinct, and pressed himself against her legs, meowing persistently. His attentions continued even on the stair, where she almost fell over him. In the bas.e.m.e.nt, Moonspittle accepted the salmon without thanks and presented it to the cat on a cracked saucer, whereupon Mogwit proceeded to toy with it like a disappointed gourmet.

"Maybe it isn't fresh enough," Moonspittle suggested.

"It isn't supposed to be fresh," said Fern. "It's smoked."

They left the cat to his mind games and Moonspittle prepared an evil-smelling beverage that he insisted was tea. Ragginbone drank it because he had drunk worse things in the sixteenth century; Fern drank out of politeness. "I've been wondering," she said tentatively, "I've got only a limited supply of fire crystals and spellpowder. Where do I go to restock?"

"All the same stuff," Moonspittle responded. "Spellpowder is made from crystals. Ground down, mixed with . . . something. Only one supplier. If he isn't dead. Haven't seen him for a while."

"You haven't seen most people for a while," Ragginbone pointed out. "How long?"

"Saw him-oh, in 1850. Remember very well. He had a calendar. He liked to keep track of time." Moonspittle's tone implied this was a rare eccentricity.

"What's his name?" said Fern.

"Neb Goathless." It was Ragginbone who answered. "He's a dwarf-one of the true dwarves, not just a short human. There were many in the old days, but they were fond of war, and now they are all but extinct. He controls the processing and sale of the crystals, but the number of his customers must have fallen to almost nothing through the twentieth century. The witchkind have become so few. I can't think of anyone who has been in contact with him recently. He may indeed be dead."

"Where do the crystals come from?" Fern inquired. "Are they man-made, or-?"

"They come from the mines," Ragginbone explained. "The mines of Gol. It's a place in the otherworld, deeper than Hades: there used to be many entrances from the real world, in caverns and subterranean tunnels, but they have been sealed off. There is only one way in now, and it's guarded by afreets. I went there once-just once. Visitors are not allowed in the mines: they are dark and perilous."

"I'd imagine they are," sighed Fern. "I suppose I shall have to go and see this Neb Goathless one day. Do you know the way?"

"Maybe," said Ragginbone; and: "He used to deliver," volunteered Moonspittle. "To special customers. He knew I didn't go out."

"Anyway," Ragginbone concluded, "you have enough supplies for now. It would be hazardous to attempt further magic at the moment; elementals like Cthorn and Oedaphor are still around, and they would almost certainly be drawn to it. Now we need more mundane research." As he spoke, his thought strayed to the newspaper stuffed in his jacket pocket. Perhaps that was why he missed the unnatural blankness of Fern's a.s.sent.

"Of course," she said. "I'd better get going. Thanks for the-the tea."

As she left the room, she noticed Mogwit had polished off the salmon and was now curled in a chair, looking, with his patchy fur and smug expression, the picture of feline raffishness. He ignored his benefactress completely.

That evening, she drew the curtains in her flat well before dark. She had canceled a visit to the cinema with friends, pleading PMS, and although she hovered on the verge of calling Gaynor, even lifting the receiver and starting to dial, after a moment she replaced it in the cradle, aborting the call before it was made. She was learning the value of backup in a dangerous situation, though it went against her instincts; that night she had many reasons for wanting to act alone. With Ragginbone's warning in mind she spent a long time in preparation, screening the room with spells of concealment and protection, a web of magics that would allow only the most insubstantial elementals to pa.s.s. She blocked the chimney and placed a handful of fire crystals in the grate, igniting them at a word. A few drops from one of the phials damped down the bluish flames, producing instead a thick pale smoke that coiled out into the room, thinning to a mist that blurred vision and stung the eyes. She spoke the incantation she had learned in the Cave of Roots beneath the Eternal Tree, in the days when she was Morgus's apprentice, her spirit stolen from her body and held captive at the witch's whim. The smoke drew together, condensing into a swirl opaque as porridge, which spun around an epicenter and darkened to the color of storms. The picture developed slowly, dark on dark. A glimmer of light grew between writhing pillars: a cave, with stalagmites springing to support the roof, and the red gleam of torches, and the creak of a huge wheel revolving ponderously in the background. Dimly she made out the human figure spread-eagled against the spokes, a giant of a man all muscle and bone, the ribs straining at his torso, the knotted sinews in his arms almost bursting the skin. Here and there she could see the spikes that held him in place thrusting through his flesh, and the dark blood that drizzled down his limbs. The wheel turned; his mouth opened in a scream that she could not hear; sometimes sound was late in coming to the spell. The picture focused on his face, upside down: the throbbing bulge of his throat, the ridged lines of jaw and cheekbone, the white half-moons of his eyes, upturned in his head. Fern wanted to look away but she could not. Sound arrived as a shriek, earsplitting, agonized, abruptly cut off. Everything went black.

Other images followed, some faintly familiar, some strange, many of them horrible. A path winding through gray meadows in a light that was neither day nor dusk, and the back view of a man striding steadily, purposefully, and far behind him a frail ghost whose robe trailed like a shroud. A river of molten lava, rippled with fire; spirits danced in the vapors above it, and something that was not a bird plunged screeching from a ledge, skimming the heat on featherless wings. Then a cauldron full of a red viscous liquid swimming with pale noodles that might have been entrails; an eye popped to the surface, and a severed hand, only to sink from view again. The cauldron was made of black metal, but presently it began to glow dull red, and the contents bubbled into steam, and shapes poured out, rising like smoke or scrambling over the rim-human shapes patched together from broken limbs and shattered skulls. One came toward Fern as if rushing out of the picture: its nose was crushed and a sword swipe had split both lip and jaw, but its eyes shone with an unholy glow. She murmured a soft word, and it vanished abruptly, the image clouding into darkness. There was a long drawn-out pause; then the scene lightened gradually into a green glimmer filtering between many leaves. They resembled oak leaves, but larger, and they rustled gently as if filled with muted whispering. The spell-scene pulled back, showing a fat yellow fruit ripening slowly out of sight of the sun. The process appeared to accelerate: irregular lumps swelled on either side, ears unfurled like petals, eyeb.a.l.l.s bulged against sealed lids. Hair came last, sprouting from the crown and flowing down to great length. A tiny white spider began crawling up one dark-gold strand. The sallow rind warmed to pink; the eyes opened. She's beautiful, thought Fern, and: I know her I know her. But the woman she had known was old and withered, all greed and furtive malice; this was a witch from an enchanted island, radiant with youth. Yet the look in her eyes was the same.

Sysselore, Fern said to herself. This is the head of Sysselore. This is the head of Sysselore.

A dark hand intruded, wielding a notched hunting knife. It cut the stem, and the head was gone.

The picture changed. In a corridor full of shadows Fern glimpsed a retreating figure moving with swift pace and lilting hips. Her white dress glittered in the dim light. Then there was a hill with three trees blackened from a lightning strike; then bare moorland and a wolf running that might have been Lougarry. These images pa.s.sed very quickly; dark returned. She was back in the caves. But this time the Underworld was empty, save for the faint twittering of the ghosts and the water notes of the spring of Lethe, sweet enough to erase all pain, and memory, and love. As Fern watched a shadow crossed the picture; she caught sight of a curling horn, an eye that gleamed red under a lowering brow, the ma.s.sive hunch of a shoulder. At its flank hung a pouch whose function Fern recognized: hair spilled from the top, and a white spiderlet scuttled to safety within. Fern recalled seeing such spiders during her sojourn beneath the Tree: they grew into arachnoid monsters the size of dinner plates. The spell-scene followed the creature through cavern and tunnel: it seemed to be part man, part beast, clothed in skins or its own fur, moving silently on taloned paws. "Kal!" Fern hissed, knowing he would not hear. He must be running errands for Morgus, though not willingly, she was sure. Perhaps that was why he would not stay, when she had called him to the circle. Ragginbone had told her the rune on his forehead looked like the rune of Finding; he might have feared to betray her whereabouts to his mother.

The scene shifted again, melting into a grayness of rain. Wipers swept across a windshield. Then-as on the road to Yarrowdale-she saw a vehicle rushing toward her, something huge, maybe a lorry, and headlights blinking in her eyes, and behind the oncoming wheel a brief vision of a death's-head, its mouth fixed in a lipless grin. She felt rather than heard someone scream, and knew it was herself- She found she had doubled over as if at a blow, shaking. She straightened cautiously, half afraid to look, but the smoke scene had moved on. Now the rain was black, streaked with lamplight and neon, and beyond it reared the glittering facades of banks and brokerage houses. She felt herself drawn into the picture, swept along crowded pavement, through snarling traffic. She tried to resist, knowing her destination, but the magic had taken over. The Dark Tower soared ahead of her. She was sucked up the endless shaft, whirled away on the escalator. And there was the office, the desk, the suit beyond, though as ever the spell avoided his gaze. But the red file was missing. Instead, she found she had produced her own file and set it in front of him. The knife slashed a shadowy arm, and something dripped from it that might have pa.s.sed for blood. "Sign," said a voice she thought was hers. He picked up the quill- The magic shrank inward, distorting the image into cubist fragments; then suddenly it imploded, and there was only smoke. She was in her own living room, sitting cross-legged before the fireplace, and the crystals were spilling out of the grate, and torn vapors hung on the air. She unblocked the chimney and let them go. Only when the last wisp of fume had departed did she unbind the protection spells and open the window to admit the midnight breeze.

Before she went to bed, she plucked an ivy twig from the square's garden and taped it to the front door.

On the Sunday, Will and Gaynor met for lunch at a riverside pub in Hammersmith. They paid on ordering, causing a brief tussle over the bill that Will won. He was nervous, and consequently annoyed with himself, and brushed aside her offer to pay with unusual curtness. Two years before, at the end of a period of danger and growing intimacy, she had walked out on him without saying good-bye-a brand of rejection that was rare in Will's experience-and the wound to his ego still smarted. If there was more than ego involved, he suppressed the notion. Although he was chronically broke and his production company had yet to produce anything, he had never gone short of girlfriends: generally long-legged, high-minded beauties who made it a point of honor to pay their way. Gaynor's legs were not particularly long and her face was not particularly beautiful, lending itself more to sweetness, sadness, and sympathy than any expression of a.s.surance and poise, but she had her own independence.

"Are you sure?" she said.

Grunt.

"I'd really much rather-"

"No."

"It's just that Fern says you're not awfully well off at . . . the moment . . ."

"Fern says? The voice of the oracle? I didn't know financial omniscience was part of her Gift. I'm doing fine. Take this."

He thrust a gla.s.s of lager toward her. Gaynor accepted it meekly, embarra.s.sed by her own lack of tact. They found seats on an outdoor terrace overlooking the Thames; the gray river took the duller gray of the sky and sheened it with silver. A breeze off the water freshened the stuffy city air. There was a short silence, then they both crashed into conversation at once.

"It's been too long since we-"

"I'm sorry I-"

They stopped, abandoning both sentences unfinished. Will pulled himself together first. "Why don't we start with the weather? That's a nice, safe subject that should keep us both away from any areas of potential awkwardness."

"It hasn't been a great summer so far," Gaynor complied.

"Very English," Will agreed. "Cloudy skies, occasional showers, lots of isobars."

"I always expect to see those wavy lines pa.s.sing overhead," Gaynor offered.