9

THE flat was much quieter. Suki was back at school, and Roan had followed her there; Memsa’b said both had arrived and were settled safely. From what Durwin said, Roan was as happy as could be with a workshop full of broken and worn-out toys to repair. Durwin himself was a cheerful absence rather than a presence in the house. They seldom saw him, but his satisfaction at being here was palpable, and demonstrated in the way that the flat was always in spotless order—and they had fancied themselves to be good housekeepers! Not that they shirked—Nan, for one, was determined to give Durwin no chance to think they were taking him for granted—but no matter how clean and tidy things were before they went to bed, they were somehow cleaner and more tidy when they woke.

For their part, despite Amelia’s prescient dreams and their own forebodings, it appeared that life had elected to grant them a temporary holiday, for until three days after Suki left for school, nothing came up that required their talents and attention.

Which was just as well, really, since while Suki had been with them, they had not had a moment when the three of them weren’t doing something—generally a lesson disguised as an outing, like the entire day they spent at the British Museum. With Suki gone, and their time to themselves, they got the chance to put their spring and summer wardrobes in order, doing all the mending and retrimming they’d put off after cleaning the garments and putting them away. The trimming was the enjoyable part—making old gowns, waists and skirts look new with new lace, ribbons, and other trims. The mending part . . . not so much. They even got a chance to mend what needed mending in their winter clothing before a message came from Sherlock Holmes.

They had just started on the incredibly dull task of darning stockings when there was the sound of the bell at the front door of the house. They looked at each other with hope; a moment later, there were footsteps on their stairs, and a knock at their door.

Nan opened it to find one of the Irregulars on the doorstep, with a note. He presented it to her with a flourish and a grin. Doctor Watson has a patient that needs your talent, Nan, who has given me a satisfying puzzle to solve. Please take the cab Billy brings to Baker Street.

Nan looked at Sarah. Sarah’s eyes were alight. “Thank God,” she said. “If I’d had to darn another sock, I think I would have thrown them all out the window.”

Nan smiled. “All right, then,” she agreed. “The game’s afoot! Let us get our cloaks, Billy, and we’ll be right down.”

The sable cloaks were so warm—and so very welcome with the weather so cold—that they’d long since got over the faint embarrassment of swanning about in something so ostentatious. As Nan tossed hers over her shoulders, she wondered where Sarah had gone—until her friend came out of the bird room, already swathed in sable, with a carrier in either hand. “You think?” Nan asked, raising an eyebrow.

“They haven’t been out of the flat since before Christmas,” Sarah pointed out. “And if we need their help and don’t have them with us, we’ll feel the fool. Or worse! It would be horrid to have something go wrong because we hadn’t brought them.”

“Point taken, and besides, Sherlock likes Neville,” said Nan, and took Neville’s carrier from her friend. Inside it, she spotted Neville’s black beak just sticking out of his sable muff. Nan locked the door of the flat behind them, and they both ran down the stairs and out to the waiting cab, with the Irregular right behind them.

“Cor,” said Billy, when he was sandwiched in between them, up to his chin in black fur. “This’s more like!”

Nan grinned. “Toasty, are you?”

“The toastiest!” the boy replied, and closed his eyes in pure, luxurious bliss. He stayed that way all the way to Baker Street, even dozing a little, rousing with regret when they got to their destination.

Nan paid the cabby as Billy, his errand complete, ran off, and Sarah preceded her into 221 B.

When she trotted up the stairs to join her friend, however, there was no one there except Holmes himself. “Where’s the mystery patient?” she asked.

“At the good doctor’s surgery,” Holmes explained. “I have just finished interviewing her parents and I wanted to have some words with you before you looked at her.”

Seeing that Holmes was dressed to go out, except for his overcoat, Nan settled on the arm of Watson’s usual chair, and Sarah took the seat, while Holmes strode up and down as he generally did when he was excited. From the look of things, it was probably just as well this new case had turned up. There were new bullet-holes in the woodwork above the mantle, the room smelled as if Holmes had been smoking continuously for days, and there was a certain small leather case on one of the tables, although Holmes showed no sign of having used it recently.

“Our clients are the Penwicks,” Holmes said, crossing his sitting room in a few strides, turning, and coming back. “They live in West Ham. Last night their daughter Elizabeth vanished on her way to the fish shop to purchase fried fish for the family supper. The neighborhood was scoured for her. She had not arrived at the shop, and no one remembered seeing her on the street. She is, by all repute, a sweet and slightly simple girl, of good temper, who was still enamored of dolls and tea parties and tended to play with girls three or four years younger than she—so they almost immediately ruled out that there might be a possible boyfriend she had run off to join. As you may imagine, by morning they were distraught, when a police officer from Battersea came to inform them that their daughter had been found there, wandering about, apparently witless.”

Nan looked at him in astonishment. “Battersea? How did she get from—” She stopped herself. “Well, obviously someone took her there.”

“The question is why. She doesn’t seem to have been . . .” he cleared his throat with embarrassment. “. . . ah . . .”

“Raped,” Sarah said crisply. “You can say the word, Sherlock. You should know by now we aren’t wilting lilies. Good heavens, we traveled to Africa and back on our own, and defended ourselves very well too, thank you.”

Holmes recovered himself quickly. “Yes, well . . . the only thing that seems to have been interfered with is her mind. Even the money with which she was to buy the fish was still in her pocket. She was definitely abducted; there are abrasions on her ankles, wrists, face, and neck corresponding to being bound and gagged. But she sits or stands as she has been arranged, doesn’t react to anything except direct orders, and is oblivious to any attempt to question her or converse with her.”

“Right,” Sarah said, nodding. “So I assume you want Nan to try and read her mind?”

“Exactly,” Sherlock replied. “I will undertake to discover who abducted her and why, but Watson needs you to see if this is merely shock or if there is something more complicated going on with her, and I need to see if you can glean any information from her thoughts.”

“Let’s go, then,” Nan said, jumping up and getting a grumbling quork from Neville. Sarah got up with a little less vigor, as Sherlock threw on his Inverness coat and preceded them out the door.

The surgery was not that far away; it seemed ridiculous to take a cab so short a distance. This, of course was necessary for the ruse that John and Mary lived over the surgery, rather than above Sherlock in 221C. It was much easier to slip over two streets on foot without being observed than it would have been if cabs had been involved. Holmes had many enemies, and he was well aware that if they could not get to him, they would try to use his friends against him. It was safer for the Watsons to be close at hand—and safer for Holmes to have help directly upstairs if he needed it.

Sherlock led the way; a bell over the door, like that over a shop door, rang as they entered, but the detective went down the narrow hall, papered in pale green stripes, straight through the first door on the right into the tiny but comfortably appointed reception room, and through that to the examination room.

“Ah, good, Holmes, you brought them,” Watson said, looking up from his patient as they all crowded into the chamber. Watson had a girl sitting in an examination chair, rather than lying on a table, and from where they stood, they couldn’t really see very much past Watson. It was a bit of a squeeze and there was some fumbling as they all got out of outerwear and got themselves sorted out. Nan finally freed Neville from his carrier, and Sarah did the same with Grey. Once cloaks and carriers were disposed of, they joined Watson around Elizabeth Penwick.

Nan’s initial impression was of nothing so much as a giant wax doll, and frankly, the way the girl looked made her skin crawl. Elizabeth Penwick sat rigidly upright in the examination chair, hands folded in her lap, staring straight ahead. The only proof that she was alive lay in her breathing. She would have been a pretty thing, with a round face, curly, light brown hair, and a slight figure, if she had not been so uncannily without expression. That was not at all helped by her eyes. She had brown eyes . . . but you could only tell they were brown by the thinnest of rim of iris; her pupils seemed to be dilated to their fullest extent.

“John, is she under the influence of a drug?” Nan asked doubtfully. Not that she was at all familiar with the effects of drugs, but some foolish women used belladonna to dilate their pupils to make their eyes look bigger, didn’t they?

“Not so far as I have been able to determine,” John Watson replied. “It was the first thing I thought of to account for her state, of course. But any drug I am familiar with would have interfered with her balance and other automatic reactions, and I found no such interference—and a drug would surely have begun to wear off by now; she’s been in police custody since ten in the evening yesterday. She is exactly the same now as when she was found.”

“If she was found yesterday evening, why did it take so long for her parents to be informed?” Sarah asked sharply.

“I am sad to say that the police initially thought she was an opium-eater, and merely locked her in a cell to wait for the effects of the opium to wear off,” Watson replied. “I find it hard to fault them for that; in the ordinary run of things, if this had been a girl having a ‘thrill,’ they could have questioned her and turned her over to her parents or guardian by morning. It was only when the descriptions of the missing girl from West Ham began to circulate by messenger to the other precincts that they realized this was Elizabeth.”

Sarah shook her head. “It’s a shame there is no telegraphy office in every precinct,” she observed, as Grey leaned down off her shoulder to peer into Elizabeth’s eyes. “You would think in these modern times people would be clamoring for such a thing.” After a moment the parrot went bolt upright with an alarmed growl. “What’s wrong, Grey?” Sarah asked, as all attention turned to the bird.

“Careful!” Grey replied. “Danger!”

John Watson stroked his moustache. “I . . . did not expect that reaction. I am having second thoughts about you using your talent on her, Nan.”

“That’s why I have Neville,” she pointed out, with determination. “And if any sense is going to be made of this, I don’t think you have a choice except to allow me to proceed.”

“Well said, Miss Nan,” Holmes approved. With a nod to him, she flexed her hands to limber them, stripped off her gloves, and put her fingers on the girl’s temples, closing her eyes to better concentrate.

There was . . . silence.

For a moment, she feared her telepathic talent had suddenly deserted her, for there was . . . nothing there, nothing there at all. She had been inside minds in shock; there was generally something like a great wall of terror, behind which were the memories of what caused the shock, and behind that a second wall of protection, behind which the self cowered. She was a powerful and well-trained telepath; unless someone was just as good as she was, it would be impossible for anyone to keep her from penetrating their barriers and reading their thoughts.

Yet she sensed Neville’s thoughts, and Sarah’s, and Grey’s—and a little distant from that, Watson’s warm compassion and Sherlock’s calculation and blinding intellect. No, her talent was in perfect working order.

Here there was . . . nothing. No emotions. No memories. No “self.” This was an empty, echoing, soulless hulk, which moved, and lived, and breathed, but with nothing animating it.

Nothing within this girl but a void. A void where a personality, a soul, had once been, but was there no more.

Impossible.

Nevertheless, it was the truth.

Unable to bear this travesty of life a moment longer, Nan withdrew, and dropped her hands—and quickly thought of an adequate way to describe what she had found to Holmes. “Sherlock, it’s not that she’s in shock, not at all. It’s that there is nothing there anymore, as if her mind has been wiped clean of every memory, every fragment of self. I’ve never encountered anything like that. There’s nothing for me to read, because there is nothing there. Nothing but the basic instincts that keep her breathing. I honestly don’t even know how she obeys commands, because for all intents and purposes, there’s nothing in there to recognize commands.”

“A tabula rasa,” Holmes muttered. “By Jove . . . this becomes more interesting by the moment! If you all will excuse me, I need to go to the British Library—”

And he snatched up his coat and sped off, without so much as another word.

Now Nan turned to John Watson. “Her soul’s gone,” she said, flatly. “Oh, her mind’s been wiped as well, but her soul is gone. I’m not sure why this thing in front of us is still breathing, but . . . everything that once made it a young girl isn’t there anymore.”

“Good God,” Watson murmured, shaking his head sadly. “In that case—there really isn’t anything any of us can do, is there?”

“You should consult Memsa’b, but not to my knowledge, no, not unless you know some way of calling the soul back to the body,” replied Sarah, looking ill. “I might be able to do such a thing if her soul was anywhere near, but it’s not. I would have sensed it, if it was. Or, recognizing me as someone who could communicate with it, the soul would have appeared to me. John . . . I can’t help but think this might be linked to Amelia’s prescient visions in some way. It seems just as unlikely, and just as, well, evil as her visions, and I can’t think that the two coming so closely together in time is a coincidence.”

“I think we would be foolish to discard that idea,” Watson agreed, and sighed. “I fear that I must speak to the Penwicks and tell them there is no hope of bringing Elizabeth back to herself, and advise them to find an institution in which to place her, unless they can care for her themselves. Shall I meet you at the Harton School this afternoon?”

“Yes, please,” Sarah agreed. “And bring Mary.”

Memsa’b’s parlor seemed a better place for the meeting than Sahib’s study. It was warm and bright with sunlight; Sahib’s study had few windows, and Nan wanted a lot of sunlight just now. Trying to read Elizabeth Penwick’s mind had left her feeling chilled to the bone. Only now, after drinking two cups of good, strong hot tea and sitting in the chair closest to the fire, was she starting to feel warm again. Mentally touching that empty shell had been so profoundly wrong that she was still unsettled from it. She was not religious at all, and despite having had many encounters, directly and indirectly, with spirits and creatures of the supernatural, she did not often think in religious terms. But at that moment, she had found herself wondering how God could have allowed such an abomination. She could only fall back on something Memsa’b had told her when, as a child, she had asked why God allowed evil.

“Because we are not children, and God does not treat us as children, to be given orders and forced to obey them, or punished if we do not. But that also means we are not rescued from evil things, nor from the consequences of our own folly.”

It was not comfortable thinking. But then, as she very well knew, the world was anything but “comfortable.”

She had finished describing what she had found, and now Memsa’b and Agansing were muttering to each other. Finally they seemed to come to some conclusion, and Memsa’b gestured to Agansing, the Gurkha, to speak first.

“It is said that among the holy men, and among those who seek to master mystic arts without aspiring to holiness, there are those who can send their spirits out of their bodies,” he said, as Watson listened, showing no signs of skepticism. “I am sure that you have heard of these things, Doctor. It is also said that those who attempt this feat before they are properly skilled can become lost, swept away on the winds of the spirit world, and if the link to their body is broken, they leave behind a thing much like you describe.”

Watson nodded. “But this is a young English girl,” he objected mildly. “How would she have come by this knowledge?”

“That is the difficulty,” Agansing agreed. “If she had had a high fever . . . that has been known to drive the spirit out. Also the action of certain drugs.” He pondered for a moment. “Also life-threatening danger, such as being caught in a fire.”

“She was abducted,” Sarah pointed out. “Could that alone have frightened her enough?”

“I do not know,” Agansing admitted. “Perhaps? If she was frightened enough? She was, by all accounts, a gently treated girl.”

“If she suddenly fell senseless . . . I suppose her captor might have discarded her because she was no longer of use to him?” Watson said doubtfully. “—whatever it was he wanted her for.”

“I should think a giant, soulless doll that does exactly what you tell it to without fuss would be exactly what someone who abducts young girls off the street would want,” Memsa’b said dryly. Nan nodded, agreeing entirely.

The fire crackled, punctuating the silence. Nan sipped her tea.

“Well, where would her spirit be, then?” Sarah wanted to know. “It’s not anywhere near her.”

“I do not know that, either,” Agansing replied. “If the tales I have heard are true, it should have been hovering about the body, trying to find a way back. No matter where the body was moved, the spirit would have followed. The very first thing that should have happened when you entered that room, Missy Sarah, is that it should have made itself known to you so you could help it back into the body. This is a very great puzzlement.”

“Which is further compounded by the question of what Grey meant when she told you there was ‘danger,’ Sarah,” Memsa’b continued. “Has she been able to make herself clearer?”

“Only that she could sense that something had actively done this to Elizabeth, and that it was dangerous.” Sarah chewed on her lower lip. “Honestly, I didn’t sense anything. I don’t doubt that Grey did, but I can’t verify what she felt.” She was quiet for a very long moment. “We really should consider if . . . if her spirit has actually been destroyed.”

“Is that even possible?” Mary Watson asked, going a little pale.

Sarah shrugged. “I don’t know, though I have heard of such things. It is difficult to determine what is pure myth and what reflects a level of reality, when you do what we do. There are things that eat souls in African beliefs, but if Elizabeth’s soul had been taken by one of those, her body would have turned to dust.”

“There are other things that eat souls . . . Ammit, in Egyptian lore . . . but Ammit only eats the souls of the wicked dead, to prevent them from ascending.” Memsa’b frowned. “Elizabeth’s body is not dead, so Ammit seems unlikely.”

“Wanyūdō,” Sahib suggested.

“I should think that if a flaming cartwheel with the head of a man in the center of it had been rolling down the streets of West Ham, someone would have noticed,” Memsa’b pointed out. “And I rather doubt Elizabeth would have gone running toward such a thing. She’d have been more likely to run back home in terror. And that does not address the marks of her abduction. We must somehow arrive at possibilities that address both that abduction, which surely took place before she was rendered into what she is now, and that current condition.”

“Nalusa Chito, then.” Sahib looked at Watson. “Find out if the girl showed signs of depression—”

“None, according to her parents” Watson interrupted. “She was, if anything, rather too childish and playful. And what is that creature, anyway? Where is it from?”

“Choctaw, dear,” Mary Watson murmured, and raised an eyebrow at Sahib. “If you have any explanation for how a Choctaw forest spirit should have come to be transplanted to West Ham, I should truly like to hear it. That makes no more sense than a Japanese demon.”

“It does seem unlikely,” Sahib admitted. His brows creased as he pummeled his prodigious memory for supernatural lore. “I can think of nothing,” he said, finally.

“And none of these supernatural beings would account for the signs of abduction,” Watson pointed out. Then blinked, as something occurred to him. “Unless, of course, the girl was abducted specifically to feed this creature, and turned loose the moment it was sated.”

“In Battersea?” Mary Watson said, sounding incredulous. “I would be hard put to think of an area less inclined to the supernatural. The banal, the mundane, certainly, but not the supernatural.”

“Evil can be anywhere,” Memsa’b pointed out. “There are many sailors and former sailors living in Battersea. That would account for something not native to this soil being here, if a sailor had acquired some sort of object such a thing was associated with.” She turned to Sahib. “We need access to the White Lodge library.”

“I’ll see to that,” Sahib replied. “Since there are specific creatures we are researching, it should take me no more than a day to find out if they can become associated with objects. Or if they are inclined to grant favors for being fed, or can coerce someone into feeding them.”

“Holmes seemed to be inspired to look into something,” Watson mused. “It would be ironic if it turned out Elizabeth’s state had something to do with a purely physical cause.”

“I don’t believe that, not for a moment,” Nan said flatly. “You weren’t in her head. I was. There cannot possibly be a natural explanation for what was—or rather, wasn’t—in there.”

“Has Amelia had any more visions?” Sarah asked, before Nan could wax any more vehement. “I find it . . . unlikely that her visions began not that long before Elizabeth was found in her pitiable state. It’s my experience that there are very few coincidences when it comes to the supernatural.”

Memsa’b hesitated. “I . . . have had her taking a concoction designed to suppress visions,” she said at last. “I wanted her to have a rest from them, and get back to being a normal girl. Her nerves were nearly wrecked by being plagued by such disturbing things, and it seemed only right to quell them and allow her health to return.”

“Very kind of you, I am sure, Mrs. Harton, but what if she were to see something pertinent to this case?” asked Watson. “At least give her the information and let her make the choice whether to refuse the medication and resume seeing the visions. She’s certainly old enough to be able to make a judgment for herself, and I think she has the right—either to agree or refuse.”

Memsa’b flushed a little, as if a trifle ashamed. “You’re right, of course. I am doing it for her own good is a terrible excuse when there are other things in play. I have no right to impose my will on her at this point.”

She looked at Agansing, who said, before she could ask, “I shall bring the young lady, myself,” and left the room.

“I have one more thing to add,” Sarah said. “We shouldn’t be so sure whoever took Elizabeth lives in Battersea.” She turned to Watson. “If someone just set her somewhere and told her to walk, would she have?”

“As far as I can tell, yes,” he admitted. “The streets were clear of snow, and she was bundled up in her coat. She wouldn’t feel any tiredness. So she could have been walking for hours.”

“So, we should not eliminate Battersea, but we should not confine ourselves to it, either,” Sahib said.

At this point Agansing returned with Amelia.

Sahib motioned her to a chair; she sat down, and looked at the gathered group with a nod of recognition for the Watsons, Nan and Sarah. “Amelia,” Memsa’b said, “You know I have been giving you medicine that prevents you from having visions since you arrived here.”

“Yes, Mrs. Harton,” Amelia said, but with enthusiasm that had been lacking the last time they saw her. Nan eyed her critically; the rest from those horrific visions had done her good. Her complexion was pink again. Her hair was smooth and tended. She looked rested, well, and contented. Happy, even. “And it has been such a relief! I can never thank you enough!”

“Well . . . it may not be a relief for much longer,” Memsa’b said reluctantly, and described everything they knew or had surmised about Elizabeth Penwick. Amelia’s eyes widened and she glanced at Nan, aghast, when Memsa’b described what Nan hadn’t found inside Elizabeth’s head.

“And we have no idea what has done this to her,” Memsa’b concluded. “And it isn’t just that we wish to discover this. It is that, if some of our guesses are right, there may be more girls that become victims. Sarah thinks it is no coincidence that your visions began not that long ago.”

“Sarah thinks that there are probably victims we’ll never know about because they don’t have loving parents to go frantic with worry,” Sarah said, darkly. “Actually, I am wondering if those strange visions weren’t triggered by an abduction of which we know nothing. Girls go missing in London all the time, as I am sure the police told the Penwicks. And no one ever hears about them, because either no one cares to look for them, or it is assumed they ran off with lovers or to escape uncomfortable or intolerable conditions.”

Nan nodded; back when she had been with her late unlamented mother, that had been exactly the case for her. “For all we know, if there’s a human agency behind this, he only moved to abducting girls because he couldn’t find anyone to sell him one at the time,” she said with a grimace. “The Good Lord knows my mother tried hard enough to sell me.”

Amelia’s eyes grew large, and Nan could tell she was bravely holding back tears. But she nodded. “You are right, of course. If there is anything my visions can tell us that will help us find this fiend, then I would be the sinfullest person in London if I didn’t put my own ease aside and help.” She straightened her back and held her head up high. “I will certainly do without the medicine tonight, and as many nights as you think best, until I see something,” she said.

“Well done, Amelia,” Sahib congratulated her warmly. “Don’t worry. We won’t leave you alone with them.”

“We’ll stay here overnight, even a few nights,” Nan offered. “We’ve got the birds with us, after all, and we can send a note to Mrs. Horace to let her know we’ll be stopping away for a visit here.”

And Roan can tell Durwin.

Now Amelia’s eyes did brim over with tears. “Oh, Miss Nan, if you would stay with me in my room, that would make every difference!”

“Then it’s settled,” Nan said firmly. “Why, we’ve even got clothing here that we keep for that very purpose, in case we need to make an unexpected stay.”

“And what you don’t have, I can certainly supply,” added Memsa’b. She looked at the birds, Neville perched on Nan’s chair, and Grey on Sarah’s shoulder. “I assume you two approve as well?”

Grey bobbed—but slowly, rather than enthusiastically as she normally did. Neville uttered a meditative quork followed by a quite clear “We stay.”

Watson added his own approval. “That settles that, then.” Doctor Watson and Mary rose. “Let us know if something turns up. We’ll tell Sherlock where you are. Meanwhile, I’ll see what Elizabeth’s parents want to do about her.” He shook his head. “It’s a heartbreaking situation. They’ll want to think she’ll somehow get better, of course. Every time she obeys a command they’ll take that as evidence that she is improving. And while there is no doubt they’ll take better care of her than an asylum—is it right to ask them to devote their lives to a . . . a . . .”

“Soulless husk,” Nan said bluntly, and shuddered. “It would be kinder if that . . . thing . . . died.”

“But we have no evidence she can’t be restored,” Sarah pointed out. “Let them hope for a while, at least.”

Is it right to let them have hope when it’s false? Nan thought, as the group broke up and Memsa’b made arrangements for a second bed in Amelia’s room. I’m glad it’s not my decision to make.

Amelia’s room was the same size as the one Nan shared with Sarah, and even had a second bed in it already, since most rooms at the school were meant to be shared by two or more children. All she had to do was move one of Neville’s portable perches in, and all was in readiness. Of course, as an adult, she came to bed somewhat later than Amelia, but the girl was waiting up for her, reading in bed, when she eased the door open and sent Neville to his perch.

“Oh good, I was afraid I would wake you,” she said, and made quick business of slipping out of her clothing and into a nightdress. “Don’t be afraid, Amelia. This time, when you have one of those visions, the moment it begins, if I don’t awake by myself, Neville will awaken me, and I will be with you the entire time.”

Amelia had been eying Neville with curiosity and just a touch of nerves. “He’s . . . very big. Does he stay with you all the time? I’ve never seen a raven for a pet.”

“Neville is my partner, not my pet.” Nan smiled. “I sometimes think I am Neville’s pet, actually.”

Neville made a chuckling sound. “You are, pet,” he said insolently.

Amelia started. “Oh! He talks!”

“I can talk,” Neville said cheekily. “Can you fly?”

“And he speaks his mind. Do go make friends, you limb of Satan,” she said to her bird, who chortled again, then hopped down off the perch, walked with immense dignity to Amelia’s bed, jumped up onto the foot of it with a couple of wingflaps, and sauntered up to her.

He put his head down, offering her the nape of his neck. “Give pets, pretty,” he said with great politeness for Neville, and Amelia gingerly stroked his head.

“He’s soft!” she exclaimed, and ventured a little scratch. Neville purred. When she stopped, he walked down to the foot of her bed, and flew back to his perch.

“Neville is my partner, just as Grey is Sarah’s,” Nan explained. “He’s quicker at sensing some things than I am, and he’s quite able to defend me. He’ll do the same for you, now that you are friends.”

“What if I don’t have a dream?” Amelia asked anxiously.

“I don’t think you will, actually; not tonight anyway,” Nan told her. “The medicine will need time to wear off, and you’ll probably sleep very lightly because you have a stranger and a bird in your room. But we’ll stay until we know for certain whether or not you’ll see visions again, and that’s a promise.”

“Promise,” Neville echoed.

“And now—” Nan blew out the lamp on her side of the room. “Lights out. And we’ll see what we will see.”

Amelia obediently blew hers out as well. “I hope I do,” she said into the darkness, though her voice quavered a little. “I want to help you, as you helped me.”

“And you will,” Nan promised, closing her eyes. Brave girl. She reminds me of Sarah. I think we’ll do, I really think we’ll do.