Eynsham, Oxfordshire, 1881:

Danvers couldn't help thinking, as he walked down the damp, fir-lined path to Madam Myrrha's door, that the place looked like a witch's cottage, and that, if she should decide to push him into the oven, there would be nobody, out here, to hear his screams.

He told himself it was the height of bad manners to even think this, but his imagination went on working just the same. It had been given plenty of dark materials over the past few days, and seemed inclined to make something of them, no matter what he said.

Much to his surprise, however, the door was opened not by a toothless old crone – or even a hunch-backed servant – but by a well-dressed young woman in a black-and-white striped gown, who could easily have strolled out of the pages of the London fashion papers. She had dark hair, lively eyes and deep-stained red lips. She was also smoking – quite a scandalous thing for a woman to be seen doing – although she used a long cigarette-holder, which made the action seem a bit more dainty.

Danvers took off his hat and explained that he had come to consult Madam Myrrha on a matter of great importance. The woman blew out a thin, blue stream of smoke, and said, "A man?"

This was baffling, but Danvers didn't want to get off on the wrong foot, especially as he was standing quite emphatically outside the door, so he smiled and enquired whether Madam Myrrha was at home.

The woman regarded him for a few moments, and then said, as though he presented her with no alternative, "You'd better come in."

She led him through a dark hallway into a lovely, low-beamed room, which he presumed had once been the cottage kitchen. Danvers looked around uneasily for the oven, but with no success. There was no evidence that this room had ever been used for its intended, culinary purpose.

Instead, it looked like a lovely, disordered museum. There were shelves of squishy things in glass jars, oil-paintings of lamp-lit scenes with glossy black backgrounds, and statues of naked gods and goddesses. The house seemed just like a charming, low-beamed Oxford Faculty.

"I'm Fabienne," the woman added, but didn't volunteer any more information. Danvers was used to the kind of introductions which laid out very clearly a woman's marital status and her familial connection with the owner of the house before you could even shake her hand, but perhaps attitudes were more relaxed in the country. Or rather, less relaxed, because he sensed that there was no way Miss Fabienne was going to allow him to shake her hand. "I'll tell Myrrha you're here."

She turned around with a sweep of her skirts and disappeared up a flight of steps which presumably led to the above-stairs apartments. But Danvers wasn't at all annoyed at being left in the servant's quarters, not when they were so delightfully crammed with paintings and ornaments. He drifted over to the shelves of glass jars and peered in at their contents.

Danvers had seen squishy, colourless specimens in glass jars before – the Museum of Natural History was full of them. They didn't scare him. They usually bore no resemblance to what they had been in life, anyway, so it was possible for the truly optimistic imagination to maintain that they were nothing more than plants – perhaps orchids from Borneo, or rare lilies from the Amazon. In fact, it seemed to Danvers, as he approached one particular shelf, that the items in the jars looked like nothing so much as roots and bulbs, even if they did occasionally have hairs growing on them. Perhaps Madam Myrrha was an amateur botanist?

He reached the end of the jar-laden shelf with a sigh of relief, despite his optimism, and was confronted with a framed photograph mounted on the wall. It reminded him of the pictures his cricket-team were forced to pose for every year, except that the women seated in orderly rows in this photograph were not wearing sports clothes, and not smiling very much – not even in the strained, artificial way that people forced to hold a pose for three minutes tended to get on their faces.

In the front row, he recognized Miss Fabienne, with her cigarette-holder. And seated at the centre, her hands laid demurely in her lap, was a little, childish, pixie-like girl, with her hair tied in two tightly-braided plaits. 

A card underneath the daguerreotype read: 'The Wylies, 1881'. This fascinated Danvers, because he had come across the word 'Wylies' only once before, and that had been at the ballet. When Dr Petrescu had taken the entire Faculty – servants and all – to see a company of Romanian ballerinas, they had been performing a dance called 'Giselle'.

"Based on Slavic legends," the doctor had said proudly. "Well, based on a poem by Heinrich Heine, but he was inspired by Slavic legends, so it comes to the same thing. The Wylies are female fertility spirits in my country – the ghosts of girls who died before they had a chance to be mothers, and so have a store of unused fertility to bestow on the fields. Their favours have to be very carefully courted. They can bring abundance or dearth – they can cure or sicken, just as the fancy takes them."

In the ballet, they had certainly been very touchy, but very lithe and beautiful, creatures. As far as Danvers had been able to make out, they were the ghosts of girls who had been jilted by their lovers, and now harboured a supernatural fury against men. Any men they found blundering about by night on their territory were forced to dance until their hearts gave out.

He dragged his eyes away from the photograph, and inspected the oil-paintings on the walls. There was Judith beheading Holofernes, and Salome with the head of John the Baptist on a silver platter. And there was a cruel Artemis looking on while Actaeon was torn apart by his own hounds.

The jars, in combination with all these other exhibits, were starting to take on a new meaning – a meaning which made him quite fearful of turning round to inspect them again. He turned around anyway – noticing as he did so that several of the male statues had had crucial pieces of their anatomy hacked off – but, before his eyes could settle on the glass jars again, Fabienne swept back into the room, trailing smoke behind her.

"Myrrha will be down in a moment. She's just making herself respectable." Fabienne must have seen his eyes straying back to the shelves, because she added, "By all means, inspect the specimens."

"I don't know what they are," said Danvers, a little louder than he'd intended.

Miss Fabienne took a drag on her cigarette-holder and regarded him with her head on one side for a moment. "Then you're the sort of man we like. The sort of man who isn't one."

Danvers had no opportunity to question her about this because, at that moment, a young woman – unmistakably the pixie-like girl from the daguerreotype – opened the door and darted down the steps, as swift and light-footed as a fawn.

His immediate impression, as she ran down the steps, was of a female Jack. Her eyes darted about like startled fishes in a pond, taking in everything about you, and her hands were clasped absent-mindedly behind her back, as though they would wander off of their own accord, and get into all kinds of adventures, if they weren't kept in check.

Danvers clutched his hat to his chest with nervous politeness. "John Danvers, at your service, madam. I think you must be Mrs Crake?"

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Miss Fabienne wince – and, indeed, a flicker of annoyance passed across the blonde woman's face, before it was replaced by the petulant, playful look she had come in with.

"A man?" she asked, looking him up and down.

Danvers had no idea why his gender was such an issue, but since he didn't particularly want to be told, he launched straight into the speech he'd been practising on the way here. 

"I came to consult with you on a rather delicate matter. You see, I'm –" he winced and corrected himself – "I was Steward at the Faculty of Demonic Speculation."

"Do you like games?" said Myrrha, her face suddenly very close to his.

"I--" Danvers hesitated, wondering whether it would be rude to back away. "I play cricket at Headington every Sunday?"

Myrrha beamed. "That's wonderful, Mr Danvers. That's just the sort of thing I'm talking about. We've got a lot to get through – you'd like to consult me, and I'd very much like to consult you – but it would be so formulaic if we just sat here firing questions at one another, so I thought perhaps we could make it interesting." She motioned him into a seat. Danvers didn't really register the motion, or remember deciding to sit – his knees just seemed to have bent of their own accord and lowered him onto a chair on one side of the kitchen table. It was like being told what to do by Mrs Darwin.

Myrrha sat down opposite him and drew out a pack of cards, which she began shuffling expertly. They flew from hand to hand like multicoloured birds.

"This is a variation on Questions and Commands," she said. "Have you ever played that?"

"Yes, Madam," said Danvers, clutching the edge of his seat apprehensively.

"Good. I'll shuffle the pack and deal a card. The number-cards will be questions, and the picture-cards will be commands. Red number, you ask me a question; black number, I ask you a question. Needless to say, we both have to answer truthfully. If the card is a red picture-card, you can ask me to fulfil a command of your choosing. If it's a black picture-card, I can ask you to fulfil a command of my choosing. If one of us defaults on the commands or refuses to answer the questions, the other one wins."

"I assume the commands will be within the realms of possibility?" said Danvers, with an attempt at light-heartedness. "You won't ask me to fly twice around the moon, for example?"

Myrrha smiled. "My dear Mr Danvers, I suspect neither of us has any idea what is possible for the other. But I give you my word that I won't ask you to do anything I know you couldn't do. Does that sound acceptable?"

He nodded, but he was never sure whether she had waited for his nod, because her hand moved with lightning speed, and there was suddenly a card lying, face-up, on the table. It was the nine of clubs.

"Where were you born, Mr Danvers?" she asked, almost as quickly as she had laid the card down.

"Oxford, madam."

"Yes," said Myrrha, fidgeting with the pack of cards. "An Oxford man, but not one who grew up around many new-breeds, I think. Your parents were probably very proud of your education, but even prouder of your ignorance."

Danvers didn't understand this well enough to be offended by it, so he stayed silent while she dealt another card. The ten of clubs. He wondered – with the spasm of guilt which always accompanied such ungentlemanly thoughts – whether these cards had been shuffled properly.

"And are you in love with Miss Syal?" Myrrha asked, without bothering to look up at him.

Danvers coloured and coughed, but he knew he had to abide by the rules of the game. He could only be thankful that the truth was so indefinite. "I don't know, madam."

Myrrha appeared to accept this. She laid down another card – the three of diamonds – and looked up at him expectantly.

"Ah," said Danvers, trying to martial his thoughts. He felt as though he was going to get so few questions that he would have to make each one count. "Um... Are you aware of a spell which can make a man forget one person from his past, but retain all his other memories?"

"I am," said Myrrha shortly, laying down the next card. It was the two of spades. "Am I the scariest woman you've ever met?" she added, without a moment's hesitation.

The honest answer came out before he'd even had a chance to think about it. Alice Darwin loomed up before his eyes, with her dark skirts, and her terrifying air of purpose. "No, madam."

Myrrha looked up at him, apparently annoyed. "Who's my rival?"

Danvers glanced meaningfully at the pack of cards. A spasm of anger – or something like it – passed over her face, but she didn't say anything. 

She laid down the next card – the seven of hearts – and gave him a surly, expectant look.

Danvers had been thinking very hard about the next question, so he didn't hesitate. "Are you aware that our mutual friend Jack Cade has been placed under a spell to forget his true love?"

"Oh, but she can't be his true love," said Myrrha, recovering some of her playful cheer. "If she was his true love, he would have kissed her, and the spell would be broken already. That's how it works."

"I--" Danvers hesitated, because he didn't like to admit this, even to himself. "I think I've seen her turning away when he tries to kiss her. I think she's trying to protect him."

Another spasm of irritation passed over Myrrha's face, but she put down the next card – the five of hearts – without another word.

"How did you know about the spell?" Danvers asked

She waved a hand irritably. "I know the conjurer. William Carver, from your Chemistry Faculty. He came to me for advice."

Danvers's jaw dropped. "This was your idea?"

"Certainly not. People come to me for help, Mr Danvers – just like you did. Your Professors needed a way to control Jack, so they went to Carver, and Carver came to me."

"But – but it was a terrible mistake," Danvers spluttered. "Miss Syal cares for him. He never would have agreed to forget her if he'd known that!"

"What makes you so sure? He's free now. He could be anything. You know, I had my eye on him long before he met Ellini. Back in the days when he was playing concerts at the Edinburgh Assembly Rooms. He was so... vital. All that energy, all that potential, all that anger. I got him in the end, of course, but by then, he was broken. Twice as angry, but with no will to do anything about it. I thought then how wonderful it would be if he'd never met her – if she could be carved completely out of his mind and heart. I even thought of the spell that I was later to teach Carver. But I didn't cast it. One must always think very carefully before employing magic for ones' own ends. However, when some highly respectable Oxford scientists need my help, that's a different matter."

"It was a decision made in ignorance, by everybody," said Danvers – and was too polite to add 'except perhaps you'. "Please help me reverse the spell."

Myrrha gave him a girlish smile. "Let's play the game," she said. "Perhaps you'll get to command me."

But, in fact, it was the opposite. The next card she laid down was the Queen of Spades – which looked to Danvers so much like Ellini that he was wincing before Myrrha had even opened her mouth.

She clapped her hands excitedly and looked around the room, as though seeking inspiration. "Let's see... what shall we ask him to do, Fabienne?"

Fabienne took a sulky drag on her cigarette-holder. "Vacate the premises?"

"Oh, I know!" said Myrrha, clapping her hands again. "Find me something in this room that once belonged to Ellini."

Danvers's first impulse was to throw his hands up in despair, but he began to realize, as he looked around the room, that this might, in fact, be easy. All he had to do was find an object that wasn't hateful or cruel. Something that had been well-looked-after – even treated with tenderness. The squishy things in jars were definitely out, as were the mutilated statues, unless they'd been mutilated after Miss Syal had owned them. And he couldn't imagine her wanting to look at a painting that depicted the dripping head of Holofernes or John the Baptist, so that only left...

Danvers got up and wandered over to the only painting that didn't depict a scene of bloody violence. He had missed it before, perhaps because it was so small. It was about the size of a yellow-back novel, and it seemed to be a Russian icon of some kind, painted on wood, with gold bright enough to have come straight from the Cathedrals of Byzantium. But it wasn't of Christ or the Virgin Mary, or any saint that he could recognize. The woman in the painting was blonde – albeit with dark, Egyptian-looking eyes.

He looked closer, and discovered that what he had at first taken to be cracks in the paint were actually the marks where the shattered wood had been glued back together. Somebody had reassembled this icon, just as Miss Syal had reassembled her clay doll back at the Faculty. And the truly bizarre part was that both seemed to be a representation of the same woman.

Of course, it was difficult to be sure – he had only seen the clay doll partially reassembled, and the paint had been very faded and chipped – but it had definitely been a blonde woman draped in red, just like this icon. More than that, it had the same feel – of something sacred that had been mended with care and suffering and gentle, understanding fingers – something that the mender had poured his or her heart into.

Without really thinking about it, Danvers unhooked the picture from the wall and presented it to Myrrha, who was watching him with a strange, lop-sided smile.

"Mr Danvers, you are wonderful at this game!" she exclaimed. "You've seen something like this before, I think? Ellini owns something similar now?"

Danvers smiled and said, "Do you have a card for that question, madam?"

Myrrha said nothing. Perhaps she'd got used to his stubbornness now – or perhaps she was just enjoying herself too much to be irritated. Either way, she laid down the nine of diamonds, and gave him a polite, expectant look.

Danvers hesitated. He knew he had to use his questions wisely – he knew he shouldn't stray too far from the subject of Jack and Ellini – but something made him nod towards the photograph mounted on the wall, and say, "What are the Wylies?"

Myrrha looked at Miss Fabienne, who was brooding and smoking in her shadowy corner. "What are the Wylies, Fabienne? Shall we tell him?"

"A society of learned individuals with a common aim," said Fabienne shortly.

Myrrha giggled. "Will that satisfy you, Mr Danvers?"

"May I enquire as to the common aim?"

Fabienne looked at Myrrha, who said, in a bright, chipper voice. "To prove and publicize the worthlessness of men."

Danvers didn't gasp or bristle. Under normal circumstances, he probably would have done, but he had not seen much in the past few weeks which gave him the right to argue with her. Men – or at least males – had captured and enslaved those poor girls in the fire-mines. Men had made a living copy of Miss Syal for no other purpose than to enjoy her embraces. Even at the Faculty, Jack and Dr Petrescu had stood by and done nothing while Mrs Darwin smashed Ellini's doll.

"I see," he said.

Myrrha turned back to the pack of cards and dealt another one.

At last, she laid down a red picture-card. And it couldn't have been more perfect – it was the Jack of Hearts! Danvers half-rose out of his seat in his eagerness to give the command – even though there was a tiny, shameful part of him that was urging himself to stay silent, protesting that Jack didn't deserve to be reunited with Ellini.

"Please take the spell off Jack," he said urgently. "Let him remember her again."

Myrrha gave him a sad, sympathetic pout. "Oh, dear," she said. "I'm afraid we've strayed outside the bounds of possibility, as you put it, Mr Danvers. I can't reverse another person's spell without the blood of the original conjurer. A little, or a lot," she added, with a shrug. "A pint or a thimble-full, according to taste."

"And – and if I could obtain the blood of the original conjurer?"

Myrrha ignored him, and dealt another card. This was in-keeping with the rules, but still rather rude, in Danvers's opinion. The two of clubs.

"Tell me," she said, "what's your opinion of Jack's mental state at the moment? Does he seem different? As though he might kill?"

Danvers thought of pointing out that these were three separate questions, but decided not to be pedantic.

"I don't know, madam. Dr Petrescu certainly seems to think he's different. He says that Jack under this spell is like a weapon with the safety catch taken off. But he's a good man," Danvers went on, more for his own benefit than for Myrrha's. "He doesn't deserve this. And, if you have any doubts about his mental state yourself, you should help me to remove the spell as quickly as possible."

"Why?" said Myrrha, raising her eyebrows. "Because the love of a good woman can keep anyone on the straight and narrow? Do you think Jack's even seen the straight and narrow, in the whole course of his life? Do you think all potential skirmishes would be avoided if we took the spell off him now? Do you think your Dr Petrescu and your Alice Darwin would be safe?"

Danvers's face fell. He hadn't thought about this. If Jack remembered his love for Ellini, he was sure to be angry. His true love had been – well, he didn't like to say the word, even in the privacy of his own head – but she had been treated very badly, and Jack would want revenge – on the people who had treated her so cruelly, and perhaps even the people who had persuaded him to forget her.

But surely the truth was the best way, wasn't it? Better to know, and be angry for a while, than to spend your life in a state of delusion. Danvers wasn't quite sure about this, in his heart of hearts, because he still looked enviously back on the man he had been before he'd found out what had happened to the girls in the fire-mines. But Jack was different, wasn't he? He didn't have that much innocence to lose.

The next card was the six of diamonds, but Danvers asked his question hesitantly.

"If... if I could bring you the blood of the conjurer...?"

"Certainly," said Myrrha. "I'd tell you how to reverse the spell. If that's still what you want."

Danvers stood up rather quickly, clutching his hat. He suddenly wanted the damp air of the Oxford countryside, without any eye-catching, squishy things in glass jars, or any moral conundrums to gnaw at him. "Then perhaps we could finish this game on a more fortuitous occasion, madam. When I have the –" he tried to avoid looking at the glass jars – "specimen."

"Bring back as much of his blood as you like," said Myrrha cheerfully, as he turned to leave. "The Wylies don't discriminate, of course, but Carver is an especially worthless specimen of manhood."

***

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