“Until Mercury is ready to see you.”

“Which will be when?”

“When she thinks it’s safe.” He never sounds confident, but I think it might be because of his accent. Everything sounds like a question.

“I need to see her soon. There’s a deadline.”

He doesn’t answer.

“Do you work for her?”

He shrugs. “She asked me to meet you and stay with you until she’s ready to see you.”

I rub my face with my hands and look around the room, “I can’t sleep here, inside.”

“I’ll show you the terrace.”

He walks around the bath to a sash window and slides it up. I stick my head out and then climb through it. There is a small terraced area surrounded by four steep gray-tiled roofs of the building. It’s a private haven. The flat area is about the size of my cage, and I find I’m saying, “I’d like sheepskins.”

He nods and smiles, like he knows just what I mean, and says he thinks that he can get some.

I’m alone in the apartment. My smiling friend has gone out. I poke around all the cupboards and in his room, but there’s nothing much to see.

I check out the roof, scrambling up the steep slope to one side of the terrace. The roof descends precipitously on the far side and nothing would check a fall to the street six floors below. I walk along the ridge of the roof. To the side the gap to the next building is narrow, but it would be impossible to leap across to the roofs of the neighboring buildings, as they are taller. The back of the building is like the front. There is no fire escape. The terrace is a trap.

But I don’t have many options. It’s less than a month until my birthday, and I’ve nowhere else to go. I have to get three gifts or I’ll die, I’m sure of that now. I need Mercury.

The terrace turns out to be a good place to sleep, cut off from the wind and the road noise. I’ve pulled out two of the rugs to sleep on, and with my sleeping bag as well I’m warm. The sky is clear and the moon is full, so there’s no way I’m going back inside until morning.

The moon is high when my contact wakes me. He’s brought sheepskins. Six of them. They’re thick and clean and just about perfect when they’re laid out.

My contact sits on his haunches on the opposite side of the terrace from me. His legs are long, but I can see his thigh muscles are thick. His arms are folded and his head slightly on one side. He still has his sunglasses on, and his hair is tucked behind his ears.

I close my eyes. When I open them a few minutes later he has gone. He moves silently. I like that about him.

Morning. I lie here and get to know the place, see how the sky lightens with the dawn and deepens with the day. The sounds of the city are an inconsistent, muffled grumble. There’s a faint hiss from the building. My stomach starts making noises, and I can smell bread.

In the kitchenette my contact is leaning with his back against the unit, sunglasses still on.

“Breakfast?”

This is not what I expect from a Black Witch.

“I have croissants, brioche, rolls . . . jam. Orange juice. I’m making coffee, but I have hot chocolate too.”

“What’s your name?” I ask.

He smiles a huge smile, lots of regular white teeth. “What’s yours?”

I wander over to the chair and look out of the window. He lays the food on the table. The coffee is strong and milky, and he serves it in a bowl. He sits opposite me and dips his croissant in his coffee, and I copy. I’ve never had a croissant before. It’s okay. Celia wouldn’t approve.

He’s watching me the whole time, though all I see is myself in his mirrored glasses. His fingers are long and bony, pale really, considering his skin is olive. When he’s finished his croissant he rips a roll in half and from that rips a smaller piece. He cuts a section of hard, cold butter and puts it on the piece of bread. A perfect oblong of butter on a ragged piece of bread. He puts it in his mouth and chews, lips together, and all the time it’s as if he’s trying not to smile.

“You look pleased with yourself,” I say.

“I’m pleased to meet you.” He puts his hand up to his glasses and takes hold of them as if he’s going to take them off, but he doesn’t. “That sounds very English, doesn’t it? I’m very pleased to meet you, Nathan.”

And instantly I’m pissed off.

He laughs. “You’re funny, though. Very funny. I like you. You scowl like . . . it’s a proper scowl.” He laughs again.

I cut an oblong of butter. Then another. Then another.

“Why do you keep your gloves on?”

“Why don’t you take your sunglasses off?”

He laughs. Then he takes one of my pieces of butter and puts it on his bread. When he has finished eating he says, “I’m Gabriel.” He pronounces it funny.

“Gabrielle?”

He laughs again. “Yes, Gabriel.”

I put a section of butter on some bread and try it. It’s good, creamy.

“How come you know my name?”

He smiles. “Everyone knows your name.”

“No, they don’t.”

He sips his coffee and swirls it around and sips it again. “Okay. You’re right, not everyone. But all Black Witches in Europe, some Black Witches in the States, most White Witches in Europe . . . most White Witches everywhere. Few fains, though, very few fains.” He shrugs. “So . . . no, not everyone.”

And I see this famous person in his mirrored glasses looking back at me, not scowling but looking pretty miserable. I look away, out of the window to the distant section of mountains.

“Is it that bad, being Nathan?”

Every White Witch I have ever met has known who I was. One look at me and . . . it’s like I’ve got a big sign on my head. It seems it’s going to be the same in the world of Black Witches.

I turn back to him. “I’d prefer to be anonymous.”

“It won’t happen.” He’s pushing his hair back off his face but at least he’s stopped smiling. “Not with your father being who he is.”

And his father and his father and his father and his father . . .

“Who’s your father?” I ask. “Anyone I’d have heard of?”

“No, definitely not. And my mother . . . no again. Two very fine Black Witches, but not famous. When I say fine I mean . . . respectable . . . for Blacks. My father is living in America now. He had to leave after he killed my grandmother—my mother’s mother.” He shrugs. “I should explain that it was self-defense; my grandmother was attacking my father. It’s complicated . . . She blamed him for my mother’s death.” He swirls his empty coffee cup. “Anyway, they are not famous.”

“Violent, though.”

“In both violence and fame, your bloodline outdoes mine.”

I am not supposed to leave the apartment except to sleep on the terrace. I’m sleeping okay. The usual nightmares.

I sleep inside on the sofa some afternoons. Most of the time I’m alone. In a way this is worse than the cage. At least there I could run. Here I just lie around.

Every day I ask, “When can I see Mercury?”

And every day Gabriel replies, “Maybe tomorrow.”

I’ve told him that I need three gifts and that it’s less than a month until my birthday. He keeps asking me other stuff, though, stuff about me: where I’ve been the last few years, if I’ve had contact with the Council, with Hunters. I don’t tell him anything, all that is private.

I see Gabriel in the mornings. He brings shopping, eats breakfast with me and then we wash up. Sometimes he reminds me of Celia with her chores. He always washes and I dry. Every day he says, “I will wash today. You mustn’t get your gloves wet.” He says it with a look of deep concern. When I give him the finger he just laughs.

I haven’t taken my gloves or scarf off. I sleep in them . . . live in them. If Gabriel saw my tattoos or the scars on my wrist I’d get a load of questions and I don’t want that.