Unable to reveal his mission while Doyle was beside him, Swinburne charmed, flattered, wheedled, demanded, apologised, and almost begged, all to no avail.

In the distance, Big Ben chimed ten. In his mind's eye, the poet pictured Richard Burton joining the seance, and he jumped up and down in frustration.

Then he remembered that the agent and his housekeeper had shared with him a password to use when on king's business.

“My hat, Mother Angell, it completely slipped my mind! Abdullah.”

“Now then, you'll not be using that word carelessly, I hope. Sir Richard will not stand for that, you know!”

“I promise you, dear lady, that I employ it fully cognisant of the consequences should your suspicions, which I insist are entirely unfounded, prove to be true. Abdullah, Mrs. A. Abdullah, Abdullah, and, once more, Abdullah! By George, I'll even throw in an extra one for a spot of blessed luck! Abdull-”

“Oh, stop your yammering and come in. But I'm warning you, gentlemen: any monkey business and I'll have Admiral Lord Nelson ejecting you from the premises with a metal boot to your posteriors!”

She allowed them to pass through.

“Master Swinburne, a message arrived by runner for Sir Richard. I left it on his mantelpiece.”

They climbed the stairs and entered the study.

“Buttock face! Strumpet breeders!”

POX JR5 fluttered across the room and landed on Herbert Spencer's shoulder.

“Gorgeous lover boy!” the parakeet cackled.

Doyle collapsed into an armchair.

Swinburne read the message mentioned by the housekeeper: Miss Nightingale communicated with me the moment you left Bedlam. Situation understood. Thank you, Sir Richard. I am in your debt. If you require assistance, my not inconsiderable resources are at your disposal. I can be contacted at Battersea Power Station.

Isambard Kingdom Brunel

The poet raised his brows and muttered: “An old enemy may have just become a new friend.”

He took a decanter of brandy from Burton's bureau and joined Doyle. They set about emptying it.

Spencer abstained from drinking. He felt obliged to remain sober enough to record any useful information Swinburne might extract from Doyle. By contrast, Burton's assistant felt it incumbent upon himself to make their guest-who was too far gone to realise that he was actually their prisoner-feel that he was among friends; that he could talk freely. He therefore matched the Rake drink for drink.

The subsequent conversation, if it could qualify as such, was, to Spencer's ears, verging on gibberish.

Doyle, who didn't seem to care that he was drinking with a child-for that's what Swinburne, in his disguise, appeared to be-was regaling the “boy” with “facts” about fairies. His voice was thick and slurred and his eyes rolled around in a disconcerting manner.

“Sh-see, they-they fiss-fick-fixate on a person, like they've fig-fixated on me, then they play merry miz-mischief. It's peek-a-boo when ye least essexpect it; diz-distraction when ye least- urp! -need it; wizz-whisperings when ye least want ’em. Aye, aye, aye, they're not the joyful little sprites I dep-depict for the pish-picture books, ye know. Och no. I have to paint ’em that w-w-way, y'zee-shee-see, just so I can sell ma work.” He groaned, swigged from his glass, and muttered: “Damn and- urp! -blast ’em!”

“But where do they come from, Mr. Doyle? What do they want? Why are they tormenting you? What do they look like? Do they speak? Have they intelligence?”

“Och! One q-question at a time, laddie! They are eff-etheric beings, and they latched onto ma ash-ash-ass-astral body while I was shhh-sharing the eman-eman-emanations.”

Swinburne started to say something but Spencer jumped in with: “Sharin’ the emanations? What's that mean?”

Doyle belched, drained his glass, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and held the tumbler out for a refill. His hand trembled.

Swinburne took aim and poured the brandy. Half of it hit the tabletop.

“The Ray-Rakes want a better sh-sss-society but no one listens to us, do they? They do-don't take us sh-say-seriously. Ye've sheen our dec-declarations?”

“Posted on walls and lampposts.” Swinburne nodded, and quoted: “’We will not define ourselves by the ideals you enforce. We scorn the social attitudes that you perpetuate. We neither respect nor- hic! -conform with the views of our elders. We think and act against the tides of popular opinion. We sneer at your dogma. We laugh at your rules. We are anarchy. We are chaos. We are individuals. We are the Rakes.’”

“Codswallop!” Pox squawked from Spencer's shoulder.

“Aye, w-well, it was a waysh-waste of good ink and paper. Sh-so our new leader-”

His voice trailed off and his eyes lost focus. The glass slipped from his hand, spilling brandy into his lap. He slumped forward.

“Damn, blast, and botheration!” Swinburne shrilled. “The bally fool has passed out on us just as he was getting to the good bit!”

“Yus, and he's out for the count by the look of it, lad,” Spencer observed. “He won't be openin’ his eyes again until tomorrow, mark my words. What shall we do with him?”

“We'll carry the bounder upstairs and lay him out on the sofa in the spare bedroom. I'll sleep on the bed in there. You can kip here, if an armchair's not too uncomfortable for you.”

“I've slept in so many blinkin’ doorways that an armchair is the lap o’ bloomin’ luxury!”

“My sweetie pie,” Pox whispered.

Swinburne stood and swayed unsteadily. He stamped his foot.

“What the dickens is all this fairy nonsense about, Herbert?”

“It beats me.”

By midnight, Algernon Swinburne was staring at the spare bedroom's ceiling, wishing he could be rid of the sharp tang of brandy that burned at the back of his throat.

He couldn't sleep and the room seemed to be slowly revolving.

He felt strange-and it was something more than mere drunkenness.

He'd been feeling strange ever since Burton had mesmerised him.

Tonight, though, the strangeness felt… stranger.

He shifted restlessly.

Doyle, draped over the sofa, was breathing deeply and rhythmically, a sound not too far removed from that made by waves lapping at a pebble beach.

The house whispered as the day's heat dissipated, emitting soft creaks and knocks from the floorboards, a gentle tap at the window as its frame contracted, a low groan from the ceiling rafters.

“Bloody racket,” Swinburne murmured.

From afar came the paradiddle of rotors and the muffled blare of the police warning.

“And you can shut up, too!”

He wondered how much damage the riot had caused. There had been a great many acts of arson and vandalism, and beatings and murders, too.

“London,” he hissed. “The bastion of civilisation!”

He could hardly believe that the supposed return of a lost heir had developed into such mayhem.

He looked at the curtained window.

“What was that?”

Had he heard something?

It came again, a barely audible tap.

“Not a parakeet, surely! Not unless its beak is swathed in cotton wool! Good lord, what's the matter with me? I feel positively spooked!”

Tap tap tap.

“Go away!”

He experienced the horrible sensation that someone other than Doyle and himself was present in the room. It didn't frighten him-Swinburne was entirely unfamiliar with that emotion-but it certainly made him uneasy, and he knew he'd never sleep until he confronted it head-on.

“Who's there?” he called. “Are you standing behind the curtains? If so, I should warn you that I'm none too keen on cheap melodrama!”

Tap tap.

He sighed and threw the bed sheets back, sat up, and pushed his feet into the too-big Arabian slippers that he'd borrowed from Burton's room. He stood and lifted a dressing gown from the bedside chair, wrapped it around himself, and shuffled to the window. He yanked open the curtains.