Ellini spent the morning shopping in the West End. Her latest way of defying Robin was to insist on making her own clothes. And his latest, half-amused compromise had been to agree that she could make the day-clothes herself, but the evening-wear would come from professionals.

"How are you supposed to terrify your enemies with shoddy stitching?" he'd said. "Didn't I tell you the revenge game requires style?"

She liked sewing. It was too complicated to allow her mind to wander, and it gave her the feeling of pulling herself together again – exactly the feeling she'd had when she had been reassembling the clay doll.

Besides, how could you feel gloomy – how could you think about Wylies and elementals and Oxford – when you were surrounded by muslins, silks and satins in gorgeous, glimmering swathes? The linen-drapers of London hung their fabrics from ceiling to floor like multi-coloured waterfalls.

She had even made a shirt for Robin, and watched him run his eyes over it thoughtfully, as if he was seeking out every flaw in order to refrain from commenting on them. She supposed it was a power play, but it was a nice, restrained one by the standards of Robin Crake.

And when she had seen him wearing the flawed shirt under his expensive, tailored waistcoat, she hadn't known what to think.

At any rate, she had spent the morning doing two of her favourite things: melting into the London crowds, and staring in at the linen-drapers' windows, dreaming up dresses.

But she had forgotten one of the fundamental truths about crowds. They had eyes and minds of their own. She realized this too late at the linen-draper's, when the clerk had finished folding and wrapping her purchases, and she attempted to pay him. 

He cheerfully ignored the coins she placed on the counter, and went on measuring out ribbon. When she slid the coins towards him, he pushed them back and started to whistle. And when she finally, in a strained but polite voice, said, "Well, keep the change," he rounded on her and declared, "You don't pay for anything in here."

He was suddenly so focused, after all the whistling and ribbon-measuring, that Ellini almost staggered backwards. He was looking at her intently, his black eyes several shades darker than his moustache, but there didn't seem to be any malice to him, so she stifled the urge to run.

"Why so kind?" she asked. 

He turned to the staircase behind the counter, at the top of which was a little, curtained door that presumably led to the stock-room. 

"Bianca?" he called out. "Would you come down here, please? My daughter," he added, turning back to Ellini. And that seemed to be all the explanation she was getting.

But no more explanations were needed when Bianca appeared at the top of the staircase, with white-blonde hair and gloved hands and a familiar, flinching smile. She was a big girl, with hair that rolled in generous swathes down her back, like her father's lengths of fabric.

Ellini's mouth dropped open. "Bianca? Oh god – and is that-?" She stopped, because another, white-blonde figure had emerged from behind the curtain, this one falteringly because she couldn't see. "–is that Carrie?"

There was nodding and tears and, for a moment, Ellini wasn't sure what was happening. Panic and pleasure seized her at the same time. She wasn't sure whether she was hugging the girls or running for the door. She was happy – happy? – to see them but, oh god, they smelled of Oxford and memory and consequences, and she hadn't been prepared...

She found herself in the girls' arms anyway, as they chattered away at her, and the linen-draper beamed.

"Carrie's staying with us while she studies at the music school on Gateshead Road," said Bianca.

"The Italia Conti," Carrie interrupted. 

"Jack said the dormitories at the school would be full of rats and spoilt Chelsea girls, so he arranged for her to stay with us. He even bought us a piano so she could practise."

"It's a grand," Carrie giggled. "There's barely enough room for it in the parlour."

"And papa was having trouble with the cockneys – you know, with protection money? But Jack sorted it all out. Now we don't have to pay them anything."

"I'm... impressed," said Ellini weakly.

And she really was. Oh, not that he'd got Carrie into Italia Conti, or frightened away a few cockney thugs. She knew how terrifying his powers of persuasion could be. But the thought that he had done this for every slave-girl – that he'd had time to find them all homes and places and sort out their family problems – was... unsettling. And impressive. But mainly unsettling.

"He thinks you're dead," Carrie babbled. "We all did. Imagine our surprise last week when we saw you walk into the shop!"

Bianca, seeing Ellini flinch at this, elbowed her companion in the ribs.

"You deserved a holiday, that's what I say. And it's perfectly understandable if you never wanted to see Jack again-"

"Ask her if she wants to stay for dinner," said the linen-draper, still beaming benevolently at Ellini. He frowned for a moment, and then added, "Do new-breeds eat human food?"

"Papa!" said Bianca, horrified.

"Bia, I'd get her the blood of a thousand virgins if that was what she ate."

"Papa!"

Ellini found her voice – and, from somewhere, a smile. "I do eat human food, yes, and I'd be very happy to join you for dinner, only I'm afraid I can't tonight. I have an engagement."

"With a gentleman?" said Carrie slyly.

"Carrie!" cried Bianca, the beleaguered diplomat.

"Yes, with a gentleman, amongst others," said Ellini, edging her way towards the door. "It's a ball."

The girls followed her, unwilling to let go of her hands. If the gloves hadn't been so essential a part of her armour, she would have tried to slide out of them in her efforts to get away.

"Leeny," said Bianca, lowering her voice, and pushing away her father, who was following with a roll of crimson silk and trying to present it to Ellini. "We won't tell anyone you're alive, not if you don't want us to. We owe you everything, and we love you besides – we hope you know that."

Ellini couldn't control her panic at this point, and made a lunge for the door, but the girls were still holding her fast, so it turned into a stumble.

"Only please consider telling Jack," Bianca went on. "He's very upset."

"He'll get over it," said Ellini, with an attempt at a smile.

"Um... no. I'm not explaining myself very well. Upset's not the right word..."

"You wouldn't have to see him," said Carrie. "Just write to him. He'd know your writing anywhere."

"I'll think about it," said Ellini, with one last hopeless push towards the door.

"And please do come for dinner," said Bianca, releasing her hand at last. "Mama can make meatballs."

***

When she got back to the apartment on Lambeth Palace Road, Robin didn't need to ask her what had happened. One look at her face seemed to be enough.

"We're leaving?"

He was sitting at his desk, unpacking his medical bag – running his hands over the scissors and knives and needles for some reason of his own that she did not want to know about.

She nodded. She was feeling quite steady now, if somewhat hollow. "We're leaving."

"Hmm," said Robin. "Well, that actually works out well. I can't find any other Wylies in London, but there's one in Northaven, and three just outside Warwick, which is on the coach road to Northaven. We'll be able to take care of them on the way."

"Fine," said Ellini, who didn't like the sound of 'taking care' of anyone, however it was meant. "Start packing."

The maids were dismayed to see them go, but since they were paid three months' wages in advance, they confined themselves to complaining under their breath. Still, they were sullen enough to miss the opportunity of flirting with Robin when they took their leave, which was unheard of.

"It's just as well we're leaving now," he said, as he watched their backs retreating down the Lambeth Palace Road. "I couldn't have fought off their advances any longer."

"You're under no obligation to fight them off," said Ellini.

Robin gave her a lopsided smile. "What do you know about my obligations?"

And that was it. She knew nothing. Oh, she knew him to the depths of his soul – if he could really be said to have a soul. He was needy and vain and controlling and, in the end, not too bright. But what he wanted, what he was planning, whether his remorse was really genuine, she had no idea.

The only thing she knew for sure was that he wouldn't desert her. He might mock her or torture her or lock her up, because loyalty didn't necessarily make you nice, but he wouldn't leave. Even when Myrrha had got her hooks into him, he had never left her.