“Follow me, please.” Pinstripes leading them through one self-closing, very heavy door after another. Dark green walls, brief corridors, gloomy watercolor landscapes in ornate gilt frames. Until they reached one particular door, painted a darker green even than the walls, nearly black. A large, italic brass numeral 4, secured with two brass slot-head screws. Pinstripes used a brass knocker on the door frame: a woman’s hand, holding an oblate spheroid of brass. A single respectful tap.

“Yes?” Hollis’s voice.

“Robert, Miss Henry. They’re here.”

Milgrim heard a chain rattle. Hollis opened the door. “Hello, Milgrim, Fiona. Come in. Thank you, Robert.”

“You’re welcome, Miss Henry. Good night.”

They stepped in, Fiona’s ungauntleted hand brushing his.

Milgrim blinked. Hollis was chaining the door behind them. He’d never seen a hotel room like this, and Hollis wasn’t alone in it. There was a man on the bed (the very strange bed) with short but unkempt dark hair, and he was looking at Milgrim with a seriousness, a sort of quiet focus, that almost triggered the cop-sensing mechanisms Winnie had last touched off in Seven Dials. Almost.

“You’re Milgrim, then. Been hearing a lot about you. I’m Garreth. Wilson. Forgive my not getting up. Leg’s buggered. Keeping it elevated.” He was propped against pillows and the wall, between what Milgrim at first took to be the tusks of a mammoth, twin weathered gray church-window parentheses. An open laptop beside him. One of his black-trousered legs up on three additional pillows. Above him, suspended, the largest birdcage Milgrim had ever seen, filled, it seemed, with stacked books and fairy floodlights.

“This is Fiona, Garreth,” Hollis said. “She rescued me from the City.”

“Good job,” said the man. “And our drone pilot as well.”

Fiona smiled. “Hullo.”

“I’ve just sent Voytek over to mod one of them.”

“We saw him,” Fiona said.

“He wouldn’t have gotten the Taser, but he’ll have it now.”

“Taser?”

“Arming the balloon.” He shrugged, grinned. “Had one handy.”

“How much weight?”

“Seven ounces.”

“I think that will affect elevation,” Fiona said.

“Almost certainly. Speed as well. But the penguin’s maker tells me it will still fly. Though not as high. It’s silver, is it? Mylar?”

“Yes.”

“I think a bit of dazzle paint’s in order. Do you know what I mean?”

“I do,” said Fiona, though Milgrim didn’t. “But you know I’m to fly a different sort of drone?”

“I do indeed.”

“The box is on the bike?”

“It is. And I should have new dampers by now.”

“What are dampers?” Milgrim asked.

“Shock absorbers,” Fiona said.

“Let me take your coats,” Hollis said, taking Mrs. Benny’s helmet, then Fiona’s. “I like your jacket,” she said, noticing Milgrim’s tweed, when he’d shucked out of the stiff nylon coat.

“Thank you.”

“Please,” Hollis said, “take a seat.”

There were two tall, striped armchairs, arranged to face the man on the bed. Milgrim took one, Fiona the other, and Hollis sat on the bed. Milgrim saw her take the man’s hand. He remembered their morning in Paris. “You jumped off the tallest building in the world,” he said.

“I did. Though unfortunately not from the very top.”

“I’m glad you’re okay,” said Milgrim, and saw Hollis smile at him.

“Thanks,” said the man, Garreth, and Milgrim saw him squeeze Hollis’s hand.

Someone rapped on the door twice, lightly, not the brass lady-hand. Knuckles. “Me, innit,” said a voice.

Hollis swung her feet to the floor, got up, crossed to the door, and admitted a very pretty young man and a less pretty girl. The girl carried an old-fashioned black leatherette case. They both looked Indian, to Milgrim, though he was vague about South Asians generally, but the girl was a goth. Milgrim couldn’t remember having seen an Indian-looking goth before, but if you were going to see one, he thought, you’d see one in London.

“My cousin Chandra,” said the young man. He wore complexly distressed, very narrow black jeans, a black polo, and an oversized, ancient-looking motorcycle jacket.

“Hello, Chandra,” Hollis said.

Chandra smiled shyly. She had perfectly straight black hair, enormous dark eyes, and complexly pierced ears and nose. Her lipstick was black, and she appeared to be wearing a sort of Edwardian nurse’s outfit, though it too was black.

“Hello, Chandra,” Hollis said. “Chandra and Ajay, Fiona and Milgrim. And Garreth, Chandra.”

Ajay was looking at Milgrim. “Bit of a stretch,” he said, dubiously.

“Spray you on the sides,” said Chandra, to Ajay. “That fiber stuff, from a can. For covering bald spots. Have some here.” Now she looked at Milgrim. “He could do with a haircut. So that’s in our favor, really.”

Ajay ran his hand back through his hair, military-short on the sides but a silky black mop on top. He looked worried.

“It grows back,” said Garreth, from the bed. “Milgrim, would you mind taking your pants off?”

Milgrim looked to Fiona, then back to Garreth, remembering Jun in the back of Tanky amp; Tojo.

“The waterproofs,” Garreth said. “Ajay needs to get a sense of how you move.”

“Move,” said Milgrim, and stood up. Then sat down again, bending to untie his shoes.

“No, no,” said Fiona, getting up. “Zips for that.” She knelt in front of him, undid foot-long zips on the inner seams of the armored pants. “Stand up.” He did. Fiona reached up, drew the massive plastic fly-zipper down, loudly ripped Velcro, and tugged the pants to the floor. Milgrim felt himself blush, explosively.

“Come on,” said Fiona, “step out of them.”

Ajay, looking pained but stoic, was seated on what Milgrim said was a Biedermeier vanity stool, in the bright tile cave of Number Four’s vast bathroom, towels spread beneath him, while Chandra went carefully at his waterfall with a pair of scissors. Milgrim was in there with them, “moving around” as instructed, while Ajay, when he remembered to, studied him. Chandra too would periodically pause, observe Milgrim, then start clipping again. Hollis found herself waiting for dialog.

“What is this?” Milgrim asked, apparently noticing the shower for the first time.

“The shower,” Hollis said.

“Keep moving,” ordered Ajay.

Milgrim put his hands in the pockets of his peculiar new pants.

“But would you do that?” asked Ajay.

“Quit moving,” ordered Chandra, who’d stopped clipping.

“Me?” asked Milgrim.

“Ajay,” said Chandra, brushing a wet black bit of stray waterfall from her black tunic. Her black lips looked particularly dramatic, in this light.

Hollis glanced back at Fiona, who was sitting at the foot of the bed, listening intently to Garreth, asking occasional questions, taking notes in a sticker-covered Moleskine.

Garreth had just had to break off, taking a call from the man who was building Pep’s electric bicycle. This had resulted in Pep losing his curly-stays frame, as it would have to be “cold-bent,” to accommodate the engine hubs, something both the builder and Garreth clearly regarded as sacrilege. Garreth had opted for carbon fiber instead, but had then had to phone Pep and tell him, which had resulted in an agreement to go with dual engines.

Hollis was reminded of watching a director prep for a music video, something the Curfew had been largely able to avoid. She’d seen it later, though, via Inchmale and the various bands he’d produced, and she’d invariably found it far more interesting, more entertaining, than any final product.

In this case, she still had very little idea of what Garreth intended to shoot.

“You go out now,” she heard Chandra say, “and close the door. This is smelly.” She turned and saw Milgrim headed in her direction, Chandra starting to shake an aerosol can of product. “Keep your eyes closed,” Chandra said to Ajay.