_He is somewhere deep beneath the ground: in a tunnel, perhaps, or a sewer. Light comes in flickers, defining the darkness, not dispelling it. He is not alone. There are other people walking beside him, although he cannot see their faces. They are running, now, through the inside of the sewer, splashing through the mud and filth. Droplets of water fall slowly through the air, crystal clear in the darkness._
    _He turns a corner, and the beast is waiting for him._
    _It is huge. It fills the space of the sewer: massive head down, bristled body and breath steaming in the chill of the air. Some kind of boar, he thinks at first, and then realizes that no boar could be so huge. It is the size of a bull, of a tiger, of an ox._
    _It stares at him, and it pauses for a hundred years, while he lifts his spear. He glances at his hand, holding the spear, and observes that it is not his hand: the arm is furred with dark hair, the nails are almost claws._
    _And then the beast charges._
    _He throws his spear, but it is already too late, and he feels the beast slice his side with razor-sharp tusks, feels his life slip away into the mud: and he realizes he has fallen face down into the water, which crimsons in thick swirls of suffocating blood. And he tries so to scream, he tries to wake up, but he can breathe only mud and blood and water, he can feel only pain_ . . .
    "Bad dream?" asked the girl.
    Richard sat up on the couch, gasping for breath. The curtains were still drawn, the lights and the television still on, but he could tell, from the pale light coming in through the cracks, that it was morning. He fumbled on the couch for the remote control, which had wedged itself into the small of his back during the night, and he turned off the television.
    "Yes," he said. "Sort of."
    He wiped away the sleep from his eyes and took stock of himself, pleased to notice that he had at least taken off his shoes and jacket before he had fallen asleep. His shirtfront was covered with dried blood and with dirt. The homeless girl didn't say anything. She looked bad: pale, beneath the grime and brown dried blood, and small. She was dressed in a variety of clothes thrown over each other: odd clothes, dirty velvets, muddy lace, rips and holes through which other layers and styles could be seen. She looked, Richard thought, as if she'd done a midnight raid on the History of Fashion section of the Victoria and Albert Museum, and was still wearing everything she'd taken. Her short hair was filthy, but looked like it might have been a dark reddish colour under the dirt.
    "You're awake," said Richard.
    "Whose barony is this?" asked the girl. "Whose fiefdom?"
    "Um. Sorry?"
    She looked around her suspiciously. "Where am I?"
    "Newton Mansions, Little Comden Street . . . " He stopped. She had opened the curtains, blinking at the cold daylight. The girl stared out at the rather ordinary view from Richard's window, astonished, peering wide-eyed at the cars and the buses and the tiny sprawl of shops--a bakery, a drugstore and a liquor store--below them.
    "I'm in London Above," she said, in a small voice.
    "Yes, you're in London," said Richard. _Above what?_ he wondered. "I think maybe you were in shock or something last night. That is a nasty cut on your arm." He waited for her to say something, to explain. She glanced at him, and then looked back down at the buses and the shops. Richard continued: "I, um, found you on the pavement. There was a lot of blood."
    "Don't worry," she said, seriously. "Most of the blood was someone else's."
    She let the curtain fall back. Then she began to unwrap the scarf, now bloodstained and crusted, from her arm. She examined the cut and made a face. "We're going to have to do something about this," she said. "Do you want to give me a hand?"
    Richard was beginning to feel a little out of his depth. "I don't really know too much about first aid," he said.
    "Well," she said, "if you're really squeamish you only have to hold the bandages and tie the ends where I can't reach. You do have bandages, don't you?"
    Richard nodded. "Oh yes," he said. "In the first aid kit. In the bathroom. Under the sink." And then he went into his bedroom and changed his clothes, wondering whether the mess on his shirt (his best shirt, bought for him by, oh God, Jessica, she would have a _fit_) would ever come off.

    The bloody water reminded him of something, some kind of dream he had once had, perhaps, but he could no longer, for the life of him, remember exactly what. He pulled the plug, let the water out of the sink, and filled it with clean water again, to which he added a cloudy splash of liquid disinfectant: the sharp antiseptic smell seemed so utterly sensible and medicinal, a remedy for the oddness of his situation, and his visitor. The girl leaned over the sink, and he splashed warm water over her arm and shoulder.
    Richard was never as squeamish as he thought he was. Or rather, he was squeamish when it came to blood on screen: a good zombie movie or even an explicit medical drama would leave him huddled in a corner, hyperventilating, with his hands over his eyes, muttering things like "Just tell me when it's over." But when it came to real blood, real pain, he simply did something about it. They cleaned out the cut--which was much less severe than Richard remembered it from the night before--and bandaged it up, and the girl did her very best not to wince in the process. And Richard found himself wondering how old she was, and what she looked like under the grime, and why she was living on the streets and--
    "What's your name?" she asked.
    "Richard. Richard Mayhew. Dick." She nodded, as if she were committing it to memory. The doorbell rang. Richard looked at the mess in the bathroom, and the girl, and wondered how it would look to an outside observer. Such as, for example . . . "Oh Lord," he said, realizing the worst. "I bet it's Jess. She's going to kill me." _Damage control. Damage control._ "Look," he told the girl. "You wait in here."
    He shut the door of the bathroom behind him and walked down the hall. He opened the front door, and breathed a huge and quite heartfelt sigh of relief. It wasn't Jessica. It was--what? Mormons? Jehovah's Witnesses? The police? He couldn't tell. There were two of them, at any rate.
    They wore black suits, which were slightly greasy, slightly frayed, and even Richard, who counted himself among the sartorially dyslexic, felt there was something odd about the cut of the coats. They were the kind of suits that might have been made by a tailor two hundred years ago who had had a modern suit described to him but had never actually seen one. The lines were wrong, and so were the grace notes.
    _A fox and a wolf,_ thought Richard, involuntarily. The man in front, the fox, was a little shorter than Richard. He had lank, greasy hair, of an unlikely orange colour, and a pallid complexion; as Richard opened the door, he smiled, widely, and just a fraction too late, with teeth that looked like an accident in a graveyard. "A good morrow to you, good sir," he said, "on this fine and beautiful day."
    "Ah. Hello," said Richard.
    "We are conducting a personal enquiry of a delicate nature as it were, door to door. Do you mind if we come in?"
    "Well, it's not very convenient right now," said Richard. Then he asked, "Are you with the police?" The second of the visitors, a tall man, the one he had thought of as a wolf, his grey and black hair cut bristle-short, stood a little behind his friend, holding a stack of photocopies to his chest. He had said nothing until this moment--just waited, huge and impassive. Now he laughed, once, low and dirtily. There was something unhealthy about that laugh.
    "The police? Alas," said the smaller man, "we cannot claim that felicity. A career in law and order, although indubitably enticing, was not inscribed on the cards Dame Fortuna dealt my brother and me. No, we are merely private citizens. Allow me to make introductions. I am Mister Croup, and this gentleman is my brother, Mister Vandemar."
    They did not look like brothers. They did not look like anything Richard had seen before. "Your brother?" asked Richard. "Shouldn't you have the same name?"
    "I am impressed. What a brain, Mister Vandemar. Keen and incisive isn't the half of it. Some of us are so sharp," he said as he leaned in closer to Richard, went up on tiptoes into Richard's face, "we could just cut ourselves." Richard took an involuntary step backwards. "Can we come inside?" asked Mr. Croup.
    "What do you want?"
    Mr. Croup sighed, in what he obviously imagined was a rather wistful manner. "We are looking for our sister," he explained. "A wayward child, wilful and headstrong, who has close to broken our poor dear widowed mother's heart."
    "Ran away," explained Mr. Vandemar, quietly. He thrust a photocopied sheet into Richard's hands. "She's a little . . . funny," he added, and then he twirled one finger next to his temple in the universal gesture to indicate mental incapacity.
    Richard looked down at the paper. It said:

        HAVE YOU SEEN THIS GIRL?

    Beneath that was a photocopy-grey photograph of a girl who looked to Richard like a cleaner, longer-haired version of the young lady he had left in his bathroom.
    Under that it said:

        ANSWERS TO THE NAME OF DOREEN.
        BITES AND KICKS. RUN AWAY.
        TELL US IF YOU SAW HER.
        WANT HER BACK. REWARD PAYED.

    And below that, a telephone number. Richard looked back at the photograph. It was definitely the girl in his bathroom. "No," he said. "I haven't seen her, I'm afraid. I'm sorry."
    Mr. Vandemar, however, was not listening. He had raised his head and was sniffing the air, like a man smelling something odd or unpleasant. Richard reached out to give him back his piece of paper, but the big man simply pushed past him and walked into the apartment, a wolf on the prowl. Richard ran after him. "What do you think you are doing? Will you stop that? Get out. Look, you can't go in there--" Mr. Vandemar was headed straight for the bathroom. Richard hoped that the girl--Doreen?--had had the presence of mind to lock the bathroom door. But no; it swung open at Mr. Vandemar's push. He walked in, and Richard, feeling like a small and ineffectual dog yapping at the heels of a postman, followed him in.
    It was not a large bathroom. It contained a bathtub, a toilet, a sink, several bottles of shampoo, a bar of soap, and a towel. When Richard had left it, a couple of minutes before, it had also contained a dirty, bloody girl, a very bloody sink, and an open first aid kit. Now, it was gleamingly clean.
    There was nowhere the girl could have been hiding. Mr. Vandemar stepped out of the bathroom and pushed open Richard's bedroom door, walked in, looked around. "I don't know what you think you're doing," said Richard. "But if you two don't get out of my apartment this minute, I'm phoning the police."
    Then Mr. Vandemar, who had been in the process of examining Richard's living room, turned back toward Richard, and Richard suddenly realized that he had never been so scared of another human being in his life.
    And then foxy Mr. Croup said, "Why yes, whatever can have come over you, Mister Vandemar? It's grief for our dear sweet sibling, I'll wager, has turned his head. Now apologize to the gentleman, Mister Vandemar."
    Mr. Vandemar nodded, and pondered for a moment. "Thought I needed to use the toilet," he said. "Didn't. Sorry."
    Mr. Croup began to walk down the hall, pushing Mr. Vandemar in front of him. "There. Now, you'll forgive my errant brother his lack of social graces, I trust. Worry over our poor dear widowed mother, and over our sister, whom even as we speak is wandering the streets of London unloved and uncared-for, has nigh unhinged him, I'll be bound. But for all that, he's a good fellow to have at your side. It's not so, stout fellow?" They were out of Richard's apartment now, into the stairwell. Mr. Vandemar said nothing. He did not look unhinged with grief. Croup turned back to Richard and essayed another foxy smile. "You will tell us if you see her," he said.
    "Good-bye," said Richard. Then he closed the door and locked it. And, for the first time since he had lived there, he attached the security chain.

    Mr. Croup, who had cut Richard's phone line at the first mention of calling the police, was starting to wonder whether he had cut the right cord or not. Twentieth-century telecommunications technology not being his strongest point. He took one of the photocopies from Vandemar, and positioned it on the wall of the stairwell. "Spit!" he said to Vandemar.
    Mr. Vandemar hawked a mouthful of phlegm from the back of his throat and spat it neatly onto the back of the handbill. Mr. Croup slapped the handbill hard onto the wall, next to Richard's door. It stuck immediately and stuck hard.
    HAVE YOU SEEN THIS GIRL? it asked.
    Mr. Croup turned to Mr. Vandemar. "Do you believe him?"
    They turned back down the stairs. "Do I Hell," said Mr. Vandemar. "I could smell her."

    Richard waited by his front door until he heard the main door slam, several floors below. He started to walk down the hall, back toward the bathroom, when the phone rang loudly, startling him. He sprinted back down the hall and picked up the receiver. "Hello?" said Richard. "Hello?"
    No sound came out of the receiver. Instead, there was a click, and Jessica's voice came out of the answering machine on the table next to the phone. Her voice said, "Richard? This is Jessica. I'm sorry you're not there, because this would have been our last conversation, and I did so want to tell you this to your face." The phone, he realized, was completely dead. The receiver trailed a foot or so of cord, and was then neatly cut off.
    "You embarrassed me very deeply last night, Richard," the voice continued. "As far as I'm concerned our engagement is at an end. I have no intention of returning the ring, nor indeed of ever seeing you again. Bye."
    The tape stopped turning, there was another click, and the little red light began to flash.
    "Bad news?" asked the girl. She was standing just behind him, in the kitchen part of the apartment, with her arm neatly bandaged. She was getting out tea bags, putting them in mugs. The kettle was boiling.
    "Yes," said Richard. "Very bad." He walked over to her, handed her the HAVE YOU SEEN THIS GIRL? poster. "That's you, isn't it?"
    She raised an eyebrow. "The photograph's me."
    "And you are . . . Doreen?"
    She shook her head. "I'm Door, Richardrichard-mayhewdick. Milk and sugar?"
    Richard was feeling utterly out of his league by now. And he said, "Richard. Just Richard. No sugar." Then he said, "Look, if it isn't a personal question, what happened to you?"
    Door poured the boiling water into the mugs. "You don't want to know," she said, simply.
    "Oh, well, I'm sorry if I--"
    "No. Richard. Honestly, you _don't_ want to know. It wouldn't do you any good. You've done more than you should have already."
    She removed the tea bags and handed him a mug of tea. He took it from her and realized that he was still carrying around the receiver. "Well. I mean. I couldn't just have left you there."
    "You could have," she said. "You didn't." She pressed herself up against the wall and peered out of the window. Richard walked over to the window and looked out. Across the street, Mr. Croup and Mr. Vandemar were coming out of the bakery, and HAVE YOU SEEN THIS GIRL? was stuck in a place of prominence in its window.
    "Are they really your brothers?" he asked.
    "Please," said Door. "Give me a break."
    He sipped his tea and tried to pretend that everything was normal. "So where were you?" he asked. "Just now?"
    "I was here," she said. "Look, with those two still around we have to get a message to . . . " She paused. "To someone who can help. I don't dare leave here."
    "Well, isn't there somewhere you could go? Someone that we could call?"
    She took the dead receiver from his hand, wire trailing, and shook her head. "My friends aren't on the phone," she said. She put it back in its cradle, where it sat, useless and lonely. Then she smiled, fast and wicked. "Breadcrumbs," she said.
    "Sorry?" said Richard.

    There was a little window in the back of the bedroom that looked out on an area of roof tiles and gutters. Door stood on Richard's bed to reach it, opened the window, and sprinkled the breadcrumbs around. "But I don't understand," said Richard.
    "Of course you don't," she agreed. "Now, shush." There was a flutter of wings, and the purple-gray-green sheen of a pigeon. It pecked at the breadcrumbs, and Door reached out her right hand and picked it up. It looked at her curiously but made no complaint.
    They sat down on the bed. Door got Richard to hold the pigeon, while she attached a message to its leg, using a vivid blue rubber band that Richard had previously used to keep his electricity bills all in one place. Richard was not an enthusiastic holder of pigeons, even at the best of times. "I don't see the point in this," he explained. "I mean, it's not a homing pigeon. It's just a normal London pigeon. The kind that craps on Lord Nelson."
    "That's right," said Door. Her cheek was grazed, and her dirty reddish hair was tangled; tangled, but not matted. And her eyes . . . Richard realized that he could not tell what colour her eyes were. They were not blue, or green, or brown, or grey; they reminded him of fire opals: there were burning greens and blues, and even reds and yellows that vanished and glinted as she moved. She took the bird from him, gently, held it up, and looked it in the face. It tipped its head on one side and stared back at her with bead-black eyes. "Okay," she said, and then she made a noise that sounded like the liquid burbling of pigeons. "Okay _Crrppllrr,_ you're looking for the marquis de Carabas. You got that?"
    The pigeon burbled liquidly back at her.
    "Attagirl. Now, this is important, so you'd better--" The pigeon interrupted her with a rather impatient-sounding burble. "I'm sorry," said Door. "You know what you're doing, of course." She took the bird to the window and let it go.
    Richard had watched the whole routine with some amazement. "Do you know, it almost sounded like it understood you?" he said, as the bird shrank in the sky and vanished behind some rooftops.
    "How about that," said Door. "Now. We wait."
    She went over to the bookshelf in the corner of the bedroom, found a copy of _Mansfield Park_ Richard had not previously known that he possessed, and went into the living room. Richard followed her. She settled herself on his sofa and opened the book.
    "So is it short for Doreen?" he asked.
    "What?"
    "Your name."
    "No. It's just Door."
    "How do you spell it?"
    "D-o-o-r. Like something you walk through to go places."
    "Oh." He had to say something, _so_ he said, "What kind of a name is Door, then?"
    And she looked at him with her odd-coloured eyes, and she said, "My name." Then she went back to Jane Austen.
    Richard picked up the remote control and turned on the television. Then he changed the channel. Changed it again. Sighed. Changed it again. "So, what are we waiting for?"
    Door turned the page. She didn't look up. "A reply."
    "What kind of a reply?" Door shrugged. "Oh. Right." It occurred to Richard then that her skin was very white, now that some of the dirt and blood had been removed. He wondered if she were pale from illness, or from loss of blood, or if she simply didn't get out much, or was anemic. Maybe she'd been in prison, although she looked a bit too young for that. Perhaps the big man had been telling the truth when he had said she was mad. "Listen, when those men came over . . . "
    "Men?" A flash of the opal-coloured eyes.
    "Croup and, um, Vanderbilt."
    "Vandemar." She mused for a moment, then nodded. "I suppose you could call them men, yes. Two legs, two arms, a head each."
    Richard kept talking. "When they came in here, before. Where _were_ you?"
    She licked her finger and turned a page. "I was here."
    "But--" He stopped talking, out of words. There wasn't anywhere in the apartment that she could have hidden herself. But she hadn't left the apartment. But--
    There was a scratching noise, and a dark shape larger than a mouse scurried out from the mess of videotapes beneath the television. "Jesus!" said Richard, and he threw the remote control at it as hard as he could. It crashed into the videos with a bang. Of the dark shape there was no sign.
    "Richard!" said Door.
    "It's okay," he explained. "I think it was just a rat or something."
    She glared at him. "Of course it was a rat. You'll have scared it now, poor thing." She looked around the room, then made a low whistling noise between her front teeth. "Hello?" she called. She knelt on the floor, _Mansfield Park_ abandoned. "Hello?"
    She flashed a glance back at Richard. "If you've hurt it . . . " she threatened; then, softly, to the room, "I'm sorry, he's an idiot. Hello?"
    "I'm not an idiot," said Richard.
    "Shh," she said. "Hello?" A pink nose and two small black eyes peered out from under the sofa. The rest of the head followed, and it scrutinized its surroundings suspiciously. It was indeed much too big to be a mouse, Richard was certain of that. "Hi," said Door, warmly. "Are you okay?" She extended her hand. The animal climbed into it, then ran up her arm, nestling in the crook of it. Door stroked its side with her finger. It was dark brown, with a long pink tail. There was something that looked like a folded piece of paper attached to its side.
    "It's a rat," said Richard.
    "Yes, it is. Are you going to apologize?"
    "What?"
    "Apologize."
    Maybe he hadn't heard her properly. Maybe he was the one who was going mad. "To a rat?"
    Door said nothing, fairly meaningfully. "I'm sorry," said Richard, to the rat, with dignity, "if I startled you."
    The rat looked up at Door. "No, he really does mean it," she said. "He's not just saying it. So what have you got for me?" She fumbled at the rat's side, and pulled out a much-folded piece of brown paper, which had been held on with something that looked to Richard like a vivid blue rubber band.
    She opened it up: a piece of ragged-edged brown paper, with spidery black handwriting on it. She read it and nodded. "Thank you," she said, to the rat. "I appreciate all you've done." It scampered down onto the couch, glared up at Richard for a moment, and then was gone in the shadows.
    The girl called Door passed the paper to Richard. "Here," she said. "Read this."

    It was late afternoon in Central London, and, with autumn drawing on, it was getting dark. Richard had taken the Tube to Tottenham Court Road and was now walking west down Oxford Street, holding the piece of paper. Oxford Street was the retail hub of London, and even now the sidewalks were packed with shoppers and tourists.
    _"It's a message," she said, when she gave it to him. "From the marquis de Carabas."_
    _Richard was sure he had heard the name before. "That's nice," he said. "Out of postcards, was he?"_
    _"This is quicker."_
    He passed the lights and the noise of the Virgin megastore, and the shop that sold souvenir London police helmets and little red London buses, and the place next door that sold individual slices of pizza, and then he turned right.
    _"You have to follow the directions written on here. Try not to let anyone follow you." Then she sighed, and said, "1 really shouldn't involve you this much."_
    _"If I follow these directions . . . will it get you out of here faster?"_
    _"Yes."_
    He turned into Hanway Street. Although he had taken only a few steps from the well-lit bustle of Oxford Street, he might have been in another city: Hanway Street was empty, forsaken; a narrow, dark road, little more than an alleyway, filled with gloomy record shops and closed restaurants, the only light spilling out from the secretive drinking clubs on the upper floors of buildings. He walked along it, feeling apprehensive.
    " ' . . . _turn right into Hanway Street, left into Hanway Place, then right again into Orme Passage. Stop at the first streetlight you come to . . . ' Are you sure this is right?"_
    _"Yes."_
    He did not remember an Orme Passage, although he had been to Hanway Place before: there was an underground Indian restaurant there his friend Gary liked a lot. As far as Richard could remember, Hanway Place was a dead end. The Mandeer, that was the restaurant. He passed the brightly lit front door, the restaurant's steps leading invitingly down into the underground, and then he turned left . . .
    He had been wrong. There _was_ an Orme Passage. He could see the sign for it, high on the wall.

        ORME PASSAGE Wl

    No wonder he hadn't noticed it before: it was scarcely more than a narrow alleyway between houses, lit by a sputtering gas-jet. You don't see many of those anymore, thought Richard, and he held up his instructions to the gaslight, peering at them.
    " _'Then turn around thrice, widdershins'?"_
    _"Widdershins means counterclockwise, Richard."_
    He turned, three times, feeling stupid. _"Look, why do I have to do all this, just to see your friend. I mean, all this nonsense . . . "_
    _"It's not nonsense. Really. Just--humour me on this, okay?" And she had smiled at him._
    He stopped turning. Then he walked down the alley to the end. Nothing. No one. Just a metal garbage can, and beside it something that might have been a pile of rags. "Hello?" called Richard. "Is anyone here? I'm Door's friend. Hello?"
    No. There was no one there. Richard was relieved. Now he could go home and explain to the girl that nothing had happened. Then he would call in the appropriate authorities, and they would sort it all out. He crumpled the paper into a tight ball, and tossed it toward the bin.
    What Richard had taken for a pile of rags unfolded, expanded, stood up in one fluid motion. A hand caught the crumpled paper in midair.
    "Mine, I believe," said the marquis de Carabas. He wore a huge dandyish black coat that was not quite a frock coat nor exactly a trench coat, and high black boots, and, beneath his coat, raggedy clothes. His eyes burned white in an extremely dark face. And he grinned white teeth, momentarily, as if at a private joke of his own, and bowed to Richard, and said, "De Carabas, at your service, and you are . . . ?"
    "Um," said Richard. "Er. Um."
    "You are Richard Mayhew, the young man who rescued our wounded Door. How is she now?"
    "Er. She's okay. Her arm's still a bit--"
    "Her recovery time will undoubtedly astonish us all. Her family had remarkable recuperative powers. It's a wonder anyone managed to kill them at all, isn't it?" The man who called himself the marquis de Carabas walked restlessly up and down the alley. Richard could already tell that he was the type of person who was always in motion, like a great cat.
    "Somebody killed Door's family?" asked Richard.
    "We're not going to get very far if you keep repeating everything I say, now, are we?" said the marquis, who was now standing in front of Richard. "Sit down," he ordered. Richard looked around the alley for something to sit on. The marquis put a hand on his shoulder and sent him sprawling to the cobblestones. "She knows I don't come cheap. What exactly is she offering me?"
    "Sorry?"
    "What's the deal? She sent you here to negotiate, young man. I'm not cheap, and I never give freebies."
    Richard shrugged, as well as he could shrug from a supine position. "She said to tell you that she wants you to accompany her home--wherever that is--and to fix her up with a bodyguard."
    Even when the marquis was at rest, his eyes never ceased moving. Up, down, around, as if he were looking for something, thinking about something. Adding, subtracting, evaluating. Richard wondered whether the man was quite sane. "And she's offering me?"
    "Well. Nothing."
    The marquis blew on his fingernails and polished them on the lapel of his remarkable coat. Then he turned away. "She's offering _me._ Nothing." He sounded offended.
    Richard scrambled back up to his feet. "Well, she didn't say anything about money. She just said she was going to have to owe you a favour."
    The eyes flashed. "Exactly what kind of favour?"
    "A really big one," said Richard. "She said she was going to have to owe you a really big favour."
    De Carabas grinned to himself, a hungry panther sighting a lost peasant child. Then he turned on Richard. "And you left her alone?" he asked. "With Croup and Vandemar out there? Well, what are you waiting for?" He knelt down and took from his pocket a small metal object, which he pushed into a manhole cover at the edge of the alley and twisted. The manhole cover came up easily; the marquis put away the metal object and took something out of another pocket that reminded Richard a little of a long firework, or a flare. He held it in one hand, ran his other hand along it, and the far end erupted into scarlet flame.
    "Can I ask a question?" said Richard.
    "Certainly not," said the marquis. "You don't ask any questions. You don't get any answers. You don't stray from the path. You don't even think about what's happening to you right now. Got it?"
    "But--"
    "Most important of all: no buts," said de Carabas. "And time is of the essence. Move." He pointed into the depths revealed by the open manhole cover. Richard moved, clambering down the metal ladder set into the wall beneath the manhole, feeling so far out of his depth that it didn't even occur to him to question any further.

    Richard wondered where they were. This didn't seem to be a sewer. Perhaps it was a tunnel for telephone cables, or for very small trains. Or for . . . something else. He realized that he did not know very much about what went on beneath the streets of London. He walked nervously, worried that he'd catch his feet in something, that he'd stumble in the darkness and break his ankle. De Carabas strode on ahead, nonchalantly, apparently not caring whether Richard was with him or not. The crimson flame cast huge shadows on the tunnel walls.
    Richard ran to catch up. "Let's see . . . " said de Carabas. "I'll need to get her to the market. The next one's in, mm, two days' time, if I recall correctly, as of course I unfailingly do. I can hide her until then."
    "Market?" asked Richard.
    "The Floating Market. But you don't want to know about that. No more questions."
    Richard looked around. "Well, I was going to ask you where we are now. But I suppose you were going to refuse to tell me."
    The marquis grinned once more. "Very good," he said, approvingly. "You are in enough trouble already."
    "You can say that again," sighed Richard. "My fiancee's dumped me, and I'll probably have to get a new telephone--"
    "Temple and Arch. A telephone is the least of your troubles." De Carabas put the flare down on the ground, resting it against the wall, where it continued to sputter and flame, and he began to climb up some metal rungs set into the wall. Richard hesitated, and then followed him. The rungs were cold and rusted; he could feel them crumbling roughly against his hands as he climbed, fragments of rust getting in his eyes and mouth. The scarlet light from below was flickering, and then it went out. They climbed in total darkness.
    "So, are we going back to Door?" Richard asked.
    "Eventually. There's a little something I need to organize first. Insurance. And when we get into daylight, don't look down."
    "Why not?" asked Richard. And then daylight hit his face, and he looked down.

    It was daylight _(how was it daylight? a tiny voice asked, in the back of his head. It had been almost night when he entered the alley, what, an hour ago?),_ and he was holding onto a metal ladder that ran up the outside of a very high building _(but a few seconds ago he was climbing up the same ladder, and he had been inside, hadn't he?),_ and below him, he could see . . .
    London.
    Tiny cars. Tiny buses and taxis. Tiny buildings. Trees. Miniature trucks. Tiny, tiny people. They swam in and out of focus beneath him.
    To say that Richard Mayhew was not very good at heights would be perfectly accurate, but it would fail to give the full picture. Richard hated clifftops, and high buildings: somewhere not far inside him was the fear--the stark, utter, silently screaming terror--that if he got too close to the edge, then something would take over and he would find himself walking to the edge of a clifftop and stepping off into space. It was as if he could not entirely trust himself, and that scared Richard more than the simple fear of falling ever could. So he called it vertigo, and hated it and himself, and kept away from high places.
    Richard froze on the ladder. His hands clamped tightly to the rungs. His eyes hurt, somewhere behind the eyeballs. He started breathing too fast, too deeply. "Somebody," said an amused voice above him, "wasn't listening, was he?"
    "I . . . " Richard's throat didn't work. He swallowed, moistening it. "I can't move." His hands were sweating. What if they sweated so much that he simply slipped off into the void . . . ?
    "Of course you can move. Or, if you don't you can stay here, hanging onto the side of the wall until your hands freeze and your legs buckle and you tumble to a messy death a thousand feet below." Richard looked up at the marquis. He was looking down at Richard, and still smiling; when he saw that Richard was watching him, he let go of the rungs with both his hands, and waggled his fingers at him.
    Richard felt a wave of sympathetic vertigo run through him. "Bastard," he said, under his breath, and he let go of the rung with his right hand and moved it up eight inches, until it found the next rung. Then he moved his right leg up one rung. Then he did it again, with his left hand. After a while he found himself at the edge of a flat roof, and he stepped over it and collapsed.
    He was aware that the marquis was striding along the roof, away from him. Richard felt the rooftop with his hands, and felt the solid structure beneath him. His heart was pounding in his chest.
    A gruff voice some distance away shouted, "You're not wanted here, de Carabas. Get away. Clear off."
    "Old Bailey," he heard de Carabas say. "You're looking wonderfully healthy."
    And then footsteps, shuffled toward him, and a finger prodded him gently in the ribs. "You all right, laddie? I've got some stew cookin' back there. You want some? It's starling."
    Richard opened his eyes. "No thank you," he said. He saw the feathers, first. He wasn't sure if it was a coat, or a cape, or some kind of strange covering that had no name, but whatever kind of outer garment it was, it was covered thickly and entirely in feathers. A face, kind and creased, with grey muttonchop whiskers, peered out from the top of the feathers. The body beneath the face, where it was not covered with feathers, was wound round and about with ropes. Richard found himself remembering a theatrical performance of _Robinson Crusoe_ he had been taken to as a child: this was what Robinson Crusoe might have looked like, if he had been shipwrecked on a rooftop instead of a desert island.
    "They call me Old Bailey, lad," said the man. He fumbled at a battered pair of glasses, on a string around his neck, and pulled them on, staring through them at Richard. "I don't recognize ye. What barony do you give fealty to? What's your name?"
    Richard pulled himself into a sitting position. They were on the roof of an old building, built of brown stone, with a tower above them. Weathered gargoyles, missing wings and limbs and, in a couple of cases, even heads, jutted sadly from the corners of the tower. From far below he could hear the wail of a police siren, and the muted roar of traffic. Across the rooftop, in the shadow of the tower, was something that looked like a tent; an old brown tent, much mended, spackled white with bird shit. He opened his mouth to tell the old man his name.
    "You. Shut up," said the marquis de Carabas. "Don't say another word." Then he turned to Old Bailey. "People who put their noses where they aren't wanted sometimes"--he snapped his fingers, loudly, beneath the old man's nose, making him jump--"lose them. Now. You've owed me a favour for twenty years, Old Bailey. A big favour. And I'm calling it in."
    The old man blinked. "I was a fool," he said quietly.
    "No fool like an old fool," agreed the marquis. He reached a hand into an inside pocket of his coat and pulled out a silver box, larger than a snuffbox, smaller than a cigar box, and a good deal more ornate than either. "Do you know what this is?"
    "I wish I didn't."
    "You'll keep it safe for me."
    "I don't want it."
    "You don't have any choice," said the marquis. The old roof-man took the silver box from him and held it, awkwardly, in both hands, as if it were something that might explode at any moment. The marquis prodded Richard gently with his square-toed black boot: "Right," he said. "We'd better get a move on, hadn't we?" He strode off across the roof, and Richard got to his feet and followed, keeping well away from the side of the building. The marquis opened a door in the side of the tower, beside a high cluster of chimneys, and they went down a poorly lit spiral staircase.
    "Who was that man?" asked Richard, peering through the dim light. Their footsteps echoed and reverberated down the metal stairs.
    The marquis de Carabas snorted. "You haven't heard a word I've said, have you? You're in trouble already. Everything you do, everything you say, everything you hear, just makes it worse. You had better pray you haven't stepped too far in."
    It was now completely dark, and Richard stumbled slightly as he reached the last of the steps and found himself looking for a step that wasn't there. "Mind your head," said the marquis, and he opened a door. Richard banged his forehead into something hard and said "ow," and then he stepped out through a low door, shielding his eyes against the light.
    Richard rubbed his forehead, then he rubbed his eyes. The door they had just come through was the door to the broom closet in the stairwell of his apartment building. It was filled with brooms, an elderly mop, and a huge variety of cleaning fluids, powders, and waxes. It had no stairs at the back of it that he could see, just a wall on which a stained old calendar hung, quite uselessly--unless 1979 ever came back around.
    The marquis was examining the HAVE YOU SEEN THIS GIRL? poster stuck beside Richard's front door. "Not her best side," he said.
    Richard shut the door to the broom closet. He took his keys from his back pocket, unlocked his front door, and he was home. It was, he was rather relieved to see through the kitchen windows, night-time once more.
    "Richard," said Door. "You did it." She had washed herself while he was gone, and her layers of clothes looked like she had at least made an effort to get the worst of the filth and the blood off them. The grime was gone from her face and hands. Her hair, when washed, was a dark shade of auburn, with copper and bronze highlights. Richard wondered how old she was: fifteen? Sixteen? Older? He still couldn't tell.
    She had put on the brown leather jacket she had been wearing when he had found her, huge and enveloping, like an old flying jacket, which somehow made her look smaller than she was, and even more vulnerable.
    "Well, yes," said Richard.
    The marquis de Carabas went down on one knee to the girl and lowered his head. "My lady," he said.
    She seemed uncomfortable. "Oh, do get up, de Carabas. I'm pleased you came."
    He stood in one smooth movement. "I understand," he said, "that the words _favour, _really, and _big_ have been used. In conjunction."
    "Later." She walked over to Richard and took his hands in hers. "Richard. Thanks. I really appreciate everything you've done. I changed the sheets on the bed. And I wish there was something I could do to pay you back."
    "You're leaving?"
    She nodded. "I'll be safe now. More or less. I hope. For a little while."
    "Where are you going now?"
    She smiled gently and shook her head. "Uh-uh. I'm out of your life. And you've been wonderful." She went up on tiptoes then and kissed him on the cheek, as friends kiss friends.
    "If I ever need to get in touch with you--?"
    "You don't. Ever. And . . . " and then she paused. "Look, I'm sorry, okay?"
    Richard inspected his feet, in an awkward sort of way. "There's nothing to be sorry about," he said, and added, doubtfully, "it was fun." Then he looked up again.
    But there was nobody there.