Jess tried to stand up, failed, tried again, and slid down the wall to where Dario had dragged Thomas. He dropped in place next to his friend. Thomas lost his grip on the cup, which slipped free and dumped water all over Khalila’s dress. She calmly refilled it and tried again. This time, Thomas managed a sip, then another. The look in his eyes was appalling, and Jess had to find something else to study for a while. There were things too private to watch.

One by one, the rest came through. Portero vomited and wept, but more of the Medica attendants were arriving, and took firm charge. Portero and Guillaume seemed the worst affected; Glain seemed to hardly even need the water once she’d arrived, and she recovered fast.

Jess hated her for it. He wasn’t entirely sure he’d ever recover, in some very deep and visceral way. She seemed to have simply taken it in stride and moved on.

Like Khalila, who hardly seemed to have missed a breath.

‘That,’ Thomas whispered, ‘that was the worst thing I have ever felt.’ He seemed truly shaken. Jess slapped him on the shoulder and nodded. ‘I am not cut out for this. Not if that is required.’

‘It’s only for emergencies. And Wolfe says it gets better, with practice.’

‘It will never get better, and I will never practise.’ Thomas looked around, and spotted the motionless form of Guillaume. A frown line creased his brow and pulled his eyebrows flat. ‘Is he all right?’

‘Doesn’t look like it,’ Jess said. ‘Here. Drink more.’

Khalila hadn’t spoken, but she was quietly waiting for Thomas to finish the cup; he did, handed it back, and she moved on to the next who needed it. Suddenly Jess wondered if her glacial poise really was a sign that she was all right; maybe it was a form of shock as profound as his own, only expressed very differently.

‘Mein Gott,’ Thomas said. His voice sounded different, flatter, and Jess looked away from Khalila to his friend. He was staring across the room.

The two Medica staff with Danton were standing back, and Captain Santi was making the sign of the cross over the body. As Jess stared, Santi slowly pulled the cover over the boy’s face.

‘Christ above,’ Jess blurted, and crossed himself; it was a long-forgotten habit, but shock drew it out of him. Couldn’t be true, could it? That Guillaume was dead?

Dario swore viciously, quietly in Spanish. Morgan, who’d arrived when Jess’s attention was elsewhere, was up and moving, and she tried to go to Danton’s body, but one of the Medica staff caught her and led her away. She was weeping. Jess wanted to get up and go to her, but he wasn’t sure his legs were ready.

In a violent clap of air and movement, Christopher Wolfe arrived. He didn’t collapse. He didn’t even pause. He strode on, as if he’d simply stepped from one place to another, and walked past Jess and Thomas towards the place Niccolo Santi still knelt next to Guillaume’s covered body.

Niccolo Santi looked up just in time. He lunged up to halt the Scholar’s relentless advance. When Wolfe tried to push past, Santi grabbed hold and held him. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Christopher. No. He’s gone.’

Wolfe took in a deep breath, turned away, and used his Codex to send a message. His stylus moved in fast, vicious jerks as he wrote it down. It hummed in answer a moment later, and he put it away and stalked off to a darker corner of the room.

That, Jess thought, was the most emotion he’d ever seen from Wolfe. Or Santi, for that matter. It felt like an earthquake on previously steady ground.

Santi stepped forward in Wolfe’s absence. ‘Up,’ he said. ‘We’ve got to move.’

‘What about Guillaume?’ Khalila asked.

‘He’ll be returned as quickly as possible to his family,’ Santi said. ‘Does anyone want to say a word now for him?’

For a frozen moment, no one moved or spoke, and then Dario Santiago said, ‘I didn’t like him, but he went through first when I wouldn’t. Brave. I think that says enough.’

Santi nodded. He glanced towards Wolfe, who still hadn’t moved. ‘Outside,’ he said. ‘Go on.’

Most of them had already gone when Wolfe finally turned and stalked for the door, but Morgan had lingered. She caught Wolfe’s sleeve as he passed, and although her whisper was very soft, Jess was close enough to hear it. ‘Scholar, I saw it. I tried to tell you, I saw—’

Wolfe turned and gave her a fierce, almost wild stare. ‘You couldn’t have saved him,’ he said. ‘Even if you were an Obscurist, which I remind you, you are not. This wasn’t your doing.’ He yanked his robe free of her hand and pushed on and out the door.

Morgan nodded. She seemed flushed now, and tears sparked in her eyes.

Wolfe was telling her to keep her secret.

But Jess wondered if he was telling her everything.

EPHEMERA

Text of a letter under the name of Scholar Christopher Wolfe to Aristede Danton, father of Guillaume Danton. Not written by him.

It is my sad duty to inform you that your son Guillaume has succumbed to injuries that he suffered during his translation from Alexandria to the front lines of the Oxford expeditionary journey. Such events are rare, and unforeseen, and while Medica experts were immediately at his side, there were no measures to be taken that could prolong his life.

A stone shall be consecrated in his name in the Library’s great hall of knowledge, and his name and legacy will live on.

We have included his personal journal, which was up to date to the morning of his passing, in the record of the Library, and the days he lived on this earth will enrich the days of those who come after.

Please accept the Library’s condolences upon this sad occasion. A funerary representative from the London Serapeum will accompany your son’s remains home.

Message sent the same day in the hand of Scholar Wolfe, addressed to the Artifex Magnus:

This blood is on your hands. Whether it was deliberate or accidental, you caused this to happen. I will not forget it.

A reply from the Artifex to Scholar Wolfe, received the same day:

Don’t be a fool. We both know it wasn’t an accident. We both know why it was a necessary step.

I hope you will not forget, because accidents can happen. Even to someone you care more about than a Burner spy.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Guillaume’s death left Jess feeling oddly empty inside. He watched as the Medica staff wrapped his friend’s body in clean white sheets and tied them with careful, traditional knots. From there, they’d convey his body to a sarcophagus, which would be taken to the place of embalming, if Guillaume’s religion allowed it. Likely it did, Jess thought, since the boy had probably been a Catholic.

He thought of the practical order of these things to avoid thinking about more painful things – things that Thomas couldn’t stop asking, like, ‘Do you think he suffered?’ or ‘Do you think he knew he was dying?’ Jess didn’t see how he could possibly know those answers, and didn’t see how the truth, even if they learnt it, could be any comfort at all.

It didn’t help matters that Khalila suddenly broke down in tears. Even Glain seemed emotional. Jess was a little surprised by that. But the real question, Jess thought, is why I feel so little, and they feel so much. Maybe it was his upbringing. Maybe it was all the death he’d seen, in the smuggling trade.

Or maybe he was just trying to keep it all locked in a small, dark box until he could face what he felt. It was the same bargain he’d made when he’d been nine, and his brother Liam had gone to the gallows. He’d focus on the things that needed doing, for as long as he could.

Dario didn’t weep, either. He and Jess had that in common. As Guillaume’s body was carried out of the Translation Chamber, Dario leant his shoulders against the wall next to Jess and said, ‘If any of us had to die, it might be best it was him. Burner ancestors from a rebel country. They’d never have let him stay.’