OUR LADY OF THE BONES.

1.

These were dark days for Shadwell.

He had emerged from the Fugue in high spirits - possessed of a new breadth of purpose - only to have the world he wished so much to rule snatched from beneath his nose. Not only that, but Immacolata, to whom he might have looked for assistance, had apparently elected to remain in the Weave. She was, after all, one of the Seerkind, even though they'd spurned her. Perhaps he shouldn't be so surprised that once back on soil she'd once pretended to she'd been moved to remain there.

He was not completely bereft of company. Norris, the Hamburger King, was still at his beck and call, still content with servitude. And of course there was Hobart. The Inspector was probably insane, but that was all to the good. And he had one particular aspiration which Shadwell knew he might one day need to turn to his own ends. That was, to lead - as Hobart put it - a righteous crusade.

There was little use of a crusade, however, with nothing to mount it against. Five long months had passed, and every day that went by with the carpet unfound his desperation grew. Unlike others who'd stepped from the Fugue that night, he remembered the experience in the finest detail. The jacket -charged with the raptures of the realm - kept the memories fresh. All too fresh. Scarcely an hour passed without his craving to be there. There was more to his hunger than simply the desire to possess the Fugue. In these long weeks of waiting he'd come to a yet profounder ambition. If, and when, that soil was once more his to tread, he'd do what none of the Seerkind had ever dared; he'd go into the Gyre. This notion, once conceived, tormented his every waking moment. Penalties might have to be paid for such trespass, but would they not be worth the risk? Hidden behind that mask of cloud, the Mantle, was a concentration of magic unequalled in the history of the Seerkind, and therefore, in the history of the world.

Creation held court in the Gyre. To walk there, and see its secrets for himself, would that not be a kind of Godhood?

2.

And today, he had the setting to match the tenor of these thoughts: this small church dedicated to St Philomena and St Callixtus, hidden away in the concrete wasteland of the City of London. He had not come here for the good of his soul; he had been invited here, by the priest who was presently conducting the lunchtime mass for a handful of office workers. A man he'd never met, who had written saying he had important news; news Shadwell could profit by. The Salesman had come without hesitation.

Shadwell had been brought up a Catholic; and though he'd long neglected his faith there was no forgetting the rituals he'd learned as a child. He listened to the Sanctus, his lips running with the rhythm of the words, though it was twenty years since he'd attended them. Then the Eucharistic Prayer - something short and sweet, so as not to keep the accountants from their calculations - and on to the Consecration.

. . . Take this all of you and eat it. This is my body which will be given up for you . . .

Old words; old rituals. But they still made sound commercial sense.

Talk of Power and Might would always attract an audience. Lords never went out of fashion.

Lost in thought he wasn't even aware that the mass had ended until the priest appeared at his side.

'Mr Shadwell?'

He looked up from his calf-skin gloves. The church was empty, but for the two of them.

'We've been waiting for you,' said the priest, not waiting for confirmation that he had the right man. 'You're most welcome.'

Shadwell got to his feet.

'What's this about?'

'Perhaps you'll come with me?' came the response.

Shadwell saw no reason not to comply. The priest led him across the nave, and into a wood-panelled room which smelt like a brothel, sweat and perfume mingled. At the far end of the room, a curtain, which he drew aside, and another door.

Before turning the key he said:

'You must stay close by me, Mr Shadwell, and not approach the Shrine ...'

The Shrine? For the first time since coming here, Shadwell had an inkling of what was going on.

'I understand,' he said.

The priest opened the door. There was a steep flight of stone steps before them, lit only by the meagre light shed from the room they were leaving. He lost count of the steps after thirty; they were descending in almost total darkness after the first ten, and he kept his hands stretched to the wall, which was dry and chilly, in order to maintain his balance.

But now below, a light. The priest glanced over his shoulder, his face a pale ball in the murk.

'Stay by me,' he cautioned. 'It's dangerous.'

At the bottom, the priest took hold of his arm, as though not trusting Shadwell to obey his instructions. They had arrived in the centre of a labyrinth, it seemed; galleries ran off in all directions, twisting and turning unpredictably. In some, candles burned. Others were in darkness.

It was only as the guide led him down one of these corridors that Shadwell realized they were not alone here. The walls were lined with niches, each of which contained a coffin. He shuddered. The dead were on every side; it was their dust that he could taste on his tongue. There was only one person, he knew, who would willingly keep such company.

Even as he formed this thought the priest's hand dropped from his arm, and the man withdrew down the passageway at some speed, murmuring a prayer as he went. The reason: a veiled figure, dressed from head to foot in black, approaching him down the tunnel, like a mourner who'd lost their way amongst the caskets. She did not have to speak or raise her veil for Shadwell to know that it was Immacolata.

She stood a little way from him, saying nothing. Her breath shook the folds of her veil.

Then she said: 'Shadwell.'

Her voice was slurred: even laboured.

'I thought you'd stayed in the Weave,' he said.

'I was almost detained there,' she replied.

'Detained?'

Behind him, Shadwell heard the priest's feet on the stairs as he made his exit.

'Friend of yours?' he asked.

'They worship me,' she told him. 'Call me Goddess; Mother of the Night. They emasculate themselves in order to better show their adulation.' Shadwell grimaced. That's why you're not allowed in the vicinity of the Shrine. They consider it desecration. If their Goddess hadn't spoken, they would not have let you this far.'

'Why'd you put up with them?'

'They gave me a hiding-place, when I needed one. Somewhere to heal.'

'Heal what?'

At this, the veil slowly lifted, untouched by Immacolata. The sight beneath was enough to make Shadwell's gorge rise. Her once exquisite features were wounded beyond recognition, a mass of raw tissue and seeping scars.

'.. . how .. . ?' he managed to say.

'The Custodian's husband,' she replied, her mouth so twisted out of true it was difficult for her to form words properly. 'He did that?'

'He came with lions.' she said. 'And I was careless.' Shadwell didn't want to hear any more. 'It offends you,' she said. 'You're a man of sensibility,' This last word was pronounced with the subtlest irony. 'You can mask it, can't you?' he said, thinking of her skills with disguise. If she could imitate others, why not copy her perfect self?

'Would you have me a whore?' she said to him. 'Painting myself for vanity? No, Shadwell. I'll wear my wounds. They're more myself than beauty ever was.' She made a terrible smile. 'Don't you think?'