Malcolm’s father was right: Lord Nugent had been lord chancellor, but that had been under a previous government, a more liberal body than the present one, and ruling at a more liberal time. These days the prevailing fashion in politics was one of obsequious submissiveness to the religious authorities, and ultimately to Geneva. As a consequence, some organizations of the favored religious kind found their power and influence greatly enhanced, while officials and ministers who had supported the secular line that was now out of favor had either to find other things to do, or to work surreptitiously, and at continuous risk of discovery.
Such a man was Thomas Nugent. To the world, to the press, to the government, he was a retired lawyer of fading distinction, yesterday’s man, of no interest. In fact, he was directing an organization that functioned very like a secret service, which not many years before had been part of the security and intelligence services of the Crown. Now, under Nugent, its activities were devoted to frustrating the work of the religious authorities, and to remaining obscure and apparently harmless. This took ingenuity, courage, and luck, and so far they had remained undetected. Under an innocent and misleading name, Nugent’s organization carried out all kinds of missions, dangerous, complicated, tedious, and sometimes downright illegal. But it had never before had to deal with keeping a six-month-old baby out of the hands of those who wanted to kill her.
On Saturday, Malcolm was free, once he’d done his morning tasks at the Trout, to cross the bridge and call at the priory.
He knocked on the kitchen door and went in to find Sister Fenella scraping some potatoes. There was a neater way to deal with potatoes, as he knew from his mother’s example, and given a sharp knife, Malcolm could have shown the good nun, but he held his peace.
“Have you come to help me, Malcolm?” she said.
“If you like. But I was really going to tell you something.”
“You could prepare those Brussels sprouts.”
“All right,” said Malcolm, finding the sharpest knife in the drawer and pulling several sprout stalks across the table in the pale February sunlight.
“Don’t forget the cross in the base,” said Sister Fenella.
She had told him once that this put the mark of the Savior on each sprout and made sure the Devil couldn’t get in. Malcolm was impressed by that at the time, but he knew now that it was to help them cook all the way through. His mother had explained that, and said, “But don’t you go and contradict Sister Fenella. She’s a sweet-hearted old lady, and if she wants to think that, don’t upset her.”
Malcolm would have put up with a good deal rather than upset Sister Fenella, whom he loved with a deep and uncomplicated devotion.
“Now, what were you going to tell me?” she said as Malcolm settled on the old stool beside her.
“You know who we had in the Trout the other night? There was three gentlemen taking their dinner, and one of them was Lord Nugent, the lord chancellor of England. Ex–lord chancellor. And that’s not all. They were looking across here to the priory and they were ever so curious. They asked all kinds of questions—what sort of nuns you were, whether you had any guests here, what kind of people they were—and finally they asked if you’d ever had a baby staying—”
“An infant,” put in Asta.
“Yeah, an infant. Have you ever had an infant staying here?”
Sister Fenella stopped scraping. “The lord chancellor of England?” she said. “Are you sure?”
“Dad was, because he saw his picture in the paper and recognized him. They wanted to eat by theirselves in the Terrace Room.”
“The lord chancellor himself?”
“Ex–lord chancellor. Sister Fenella, what does the lord chancellor do?”
“Oh, he’s very high up, very important. I wouldn’t be surprised if he had something to do with the law. Or the government. Was he very grand and proud?”
“No. He was a gentleman, all right, it was easy to tell that, but he was nice and friendly.”
“And he wanted to know…”
“If you’d ever had an infant staying at the priory. I ’spect he meant staying here to be looked after.”
“And what did you tell him, Malcolm?”
“I said I didn’t think so. Have you, ever?”
“Not in my time. Goodness me! I wonder if I ought to tell Sister Benedicta.”
“Prob’ly. What I thought was, he might be looking for somewhere to put an important infant, if it was convalescing, maybe. Maybe there’s a royal infant that we don’t know about because it was ill, right, or maybe got bitten by a snake—”
“Why bitten by a snake?”
“ ’Cause its nursemaid wasn’t paying attention, prob’ly reading a magazine or talking to someone, and this snake comes along and there’s a sudden scream and she turns round and there’s the baby with a snake hanging off it. She’d be in awful trouble, the nursemaid—she might even go to prison. And when the baby was cured of the snakebite, it’d still need convalescing. So the king and the prime minister and the lord chancellor would all be looking for somewhere to convalesce it. And naturally they wouldn’t want a place that had no experience of babies.”
“Yes, I see,” said Sister Fenella. “That all makes sense. I think I really ought to tell Sister Benedicta, at least. She’ll know what to do.”
“I should think that if they were serious, they’d come and ask here. I mean, we see a lot in the Trout, but the real people to ask would be here, wouldn’t they?”
“Unless they didn’t want us to know,” said Sister Fenella.
“But they asked if I ever spoke to you, and I said I did, quite a lot, being as how I work for you. So they’d expect me to say something, and they didn’t ask me not to.”
“That’s a good point,” said Sister Fenella, and she dropped the last scraped potato into the big saucepan. “It does sound curious, though. Perhaps they’ll write to the Lady Prioress rather than call in person. I wonder if it’s really sanctuary they’re asking about.”
“Sanctuary?” Malcolm liked the sound of the word, and he could see how to spell it already, in his imagination. “What’s that?”
“Well, if somebody broke the law and was being hunted by the authorities, they could go into an oratory and claim sanctuary. That means that they’d be safe from arrest as long as they stayed there.”
“But that baby couldn’t have broken the law. Not yet anyway.”
“No. But it was for refugees too. People who were in danger through no fault of their own. No one could arrest them if they were in sanctuary. Some of the colleges used to be able to give sanctuary to scholars. I don’t know if they still do.”
“It wouldn’t be a scholar either—the baby, I mean. D’you want me to do all these sprouts?”
“All but two stalks. We’ll keep them for tomorrow.”
Sister Fenella gathered up the discarded sprout leaves and cut the stalks in half a dozen pieces and put them in a bin for stock.
“What are you going to do today, Malcolm?” she said.
“I’m going to take my canoe out. The river’s a bit high, so I’ll prob’ly have to be careful, but I want to clean it out and make it shipshape.”
“Are you planning any long voyages?”
“Well, I’d like to. But I can’t leave Mum and Dad, because they need my help.”
“They’d be anxious about you too.”
“I’d send letters.”
“Where would you go?”
“Down the river all the way to London. Maybe as far as the sea. I don’t suppose my boat’d be very good at a sea voyage, though. She might overturn in a big wave. I might have to tie her up and go on in a different boat. I will one day.”
“Will you send us a postcard?”
“Course I will. Or you could come with me.”
“Who’d cook for the sisters, then?”
“They could have picnics. Or eat at the Trout.”
She laughed and clapped her hands. In the weak light that came through the dusty windows, Malcolm saw how chapped and cracked the skin of her fingers was, how red and raw. Every time she puts them in hot water it must hurt, he thought, but he had never heard her complaining.
That afternoon, Malcolm went to the lean-to beside the house and hauled the tarpaulin off his canoe. He inspected it from stem to stern, scraping off the green slime that had accumulated during the winter, examining every inch. Norman the peacock came along to see if there was anything to eat, and shook his feathers with a rattle of displeasure when he found there wasn’t.
All the timbers of La Belle Sauvage were sound, though the paint was beginning to peel, and Malcolm thought he might scrape off the old name and go over it again, better. It was in green, but red would stand out more clearly. Maybe he could do a few odd jobs for the boatyard at Medley in exchange for a small tin of red paint. He pulled the canoe down the sloping lawn to the river’s edge and half thought of going down the river right then and bargaining, but put that aside for another day and instead paddled upstream a little way before turning right into Duke’s Cut, one of the streams that connected the river and the Oxford Canal.
He was in luck: there was a narrowboat about to enter the lock, so he slipped in beside it. Sometimes he’d had to wait for an hour, trying to persuade Mr. Parsons to operate the lock just for him, but the lockkeeper was a stickler for the regulations, as well as for not doing more work than was necessary. He didn’t mind Malcolm having a ride up or down if there was another boat going through, though.
“Where you off to, Malcolm?” he called down as the water gushed out at the far end and the level sank.
“Going fishing,” Malcolm called back.
It was what he usually said, and sometimes it was true. Today, though, he couldn’t get that tin of red paint out of his mind, and he thought he’d paddle along to the chandlery in Jericho, just to get an idea of the price. Of course, they might not have any, but he liked the chandlery anyway.
Once on the canal, he paddled steadily down past garden allotments and school playing fields until he came to the northern edge of Jericho: small terraces of brick houses where the workers from the Fell Press or the Eagle Ironworks lived with their families. The area was half-gentrified now, but it still held old corners and dark alleys, an abandoned burial ground and a church with an Italianate campanile standing guard over the boatyard and the chandlery.
There was a towpath on the western side of the water—Malcolm’s right—but it needed clearing. Water plants grew thickly at the edge, and as Malcolm slowed down, his eye was caught by a movement among the reeds. He let the canoe drift to a halt and then silently slipped in among the stiff stems and watched as a great crested grebe scrambled up onto the towpath, waddled ungracefully across, and then dropped into the little backwater on the other side. Keeping as quiet as he could and moving very slowly, Malcolm wedged the canoe even deeper into the reeds and watched the bird shake its head and paddle across the water to join its mate.
Malcolm had heard that there were great crested grebes here, but he’d only half believed it. Now he had proof. He’d definitely come back a little later in the year and see if they were breeding.
The reeds were taller than he was as he sat in the canoe, and if he kept very still, he thought he probably couldn’t be seen. He heard voices behind him, a man’s and a woman’s, and sat like a statue as they walked past, absorbed in each other. He’d passed them further back: two lovers strolling hand in hand, their dæmons, two small birds, flying ahead a little way, pausing to whisper together, and flying on again.
Malcolm’s dæmon, Asta, was a kingfisher just then, perching on the gunwale of the canoe. When the lovers had passed, she flew up to his shoulder and whispered, “The man just along there—watch….”
Malcolm hadn’t seen him. A few yards ahead on the towpath, just visible through the reed stems, a man in a gray raincoat and trilby hat was standing under an oak tree. He looked as if he was sheltering from the rain, except that it wasn’t raining. His coat and hat were almost exactly the color of the late afternoon: he was almost as hard to see as the grebes—harder, in fact, thought Malcolm, because he didn’t have a crest of feathers.
“What’s he doing?” whispered Malcolm.
Asta became a fly and flew as far as she could from Malcolm, stopping when it began to hurt, and settled at the very top of a bulrush so she could watch the man clearly. He was trying to remain inconspicuous, but being so awkward and unhappy about it that he might as well have been waving a flag.
Asta saw his dæmon—a cat—moving among the lowest branches of the oak tree while he stood below and looked up and down the towpath. Then the cat made a quiet noise, the man looked up, and she jumped down to his shoulder—but in doing so, she dropped something out of her mouth.
The man uttered a little grunt of dismay, and his dæmon scrambled to the ground. They began to cast around, looking under the tree, at the edge of the water, among the scrubby grass.
“What did she drop?” Malcolm whispered.
“Like a nut. About the size of a nut.”
“Did you see where it went?”
“I think so. I think it bounced off the bottom of the tree and went under the bush there. Look, they’re pretending not to look for it….”
They were too. Someone else was coming along the path, a man and his dog dæmon, and while the man in the raincoat waited for them to pass, he pretended to be looking at his watch, shaking his wrist, listening to it, shaking his wrist again, taking the watch off, winding it….As soon as the other man had gone past, the raincoat man fastened the watch on his wrist again and went back to looking for the object his dæmon had dropped. He was anxious—it was easy to see that—and his dæmon had apology in every line of her body. Between the two of them, they looked the picture of distress.
“We could go and help,” said Asta.
Malcolm was torn. He could still see the grebes, and he very much wanted to watch them, but the man seemed as if he needed help, and Malcolm was sure Asta’s eyes would find the thing, whatever it was. It would only take a minute or so.
But before he had the chance to do anything, the man bent and scooped up his cat dæmon and made off quite quickly down the towpath, as if he’d decided to go and get help. At once Malcolm backed the canoe out of the reeds and sped towards the spot under the oak tree where the man had been standing. A moment later he’d jumped out, holding the painter, and Asta in the shape of a mouse shot across the path and under the bush. A rustling of leaves, a silence, more rustling, more silence while Malcolm watched the man reach the little iron footbridge to the piazza and climb the steps. Then a squeak of excitement told Malcolm that Asta had found it, and squirrel-formed, she came racing back, up his arm and onto his shoulder, and dropped something into his hand.
“It must be this,” she said. “It must be.”
At first sight it was an acorn, but it was oddly heavy, and when he looked more closely, he saw that it was carved out of a piece of tight-grained wood. Two pieces, in fact: one for the cup, whose surface was carved into an exact replica of the rough overlapping scales of a real one and stained very lightly with green, and one for the nut, which was polished and waxed a perfect glossy light brown. It was beautiful, and she was right: it had to be the thing the man had lost.
“Let’s catch him before he gets across the bridge,” he said, and put his foot down into the canoe, but Asta said, “Wait. Look.”
She’d become an owl, which she always did when she wanted to see something clearly. Her flat face was looking down the canal, and as Malcolm followed her gaze, he saw the man reach the middle of the footbridge and hesitate, because another man had stepped up from the other side, a stocky man dressed in black with a light-stepping vixen dæmon, and Malcolm and Asta could see that the second man was going to stop the raincoat man, and the raincoat man was afraid.
They saw him turn and take a hasty step or two and then stop again, because a third man had appeared on the bridge behind him. He was thinner than the other man, and he too was dressed in black. His dæmon was a large bird of some kind on his shoulder. Both of the men looked full of confidence, as if they had plenty of time to do whatever they wanted. They said something to the raincoat man, and each took one of his arms. He struggled for a futile moment or two, and then seemed to sag downwards, but they held him up and walked him across the bridge, into the little piazza below the church tower, and away out of sight. His cat dæmon hurried after them, abject and desperate.
“Put it in your insidest pocket,” Asta whispered.
Malcolm put the acorn into the inside breast pocket of his jacket and then sat down very carefully. He was trembling.
“They were arresting him,” he whispered.
“They weren’t police.”
“No. But they weren’t robbers. They were sort of calm about it, as if they were allowed to do anything they wanted.”
“Just go home,” said Asta. “In case they saw us.”
“They weren’t even bothering to look,” said Malcolm, but he agreed with her: they should go home.
They spoke quietly together while he paddled quickly back towards Duke’s Cut.
“I bet he’s a spy,” she said.
“Could be. And those men—”
“CCD.”
“Shh!”
The CCD was the Consistorial Court of Discipline, an agency of the Church concerned with heresy and unbelief. Malcolm didn’t know much about it, but he knew the sense of sickening terror the CCD could produce, through hearing some customers once discuss what might have happened to a man they knew, a journalist; he had asked too many questions about the CCD in a series of articles and had suddenly vanished. The editor of his paper had been arrested and jailed for sedition, but the journalist himself had never been seen again.
“We mustn’t say anything about this to the sisters,” said Asta.
“Specially not to them,” Malcolm agreed.
It was hard to understand, but the Consistorial Court of Discipline was on the same side as the gentle sisters of Godstow Priory, sort of. They were both parts of the Church. The only time Malcolm had seen Sister Benedicta distressed was when he’d asked her about it one day.
“These are mysteries we mustn’t inquire into, Malcolm,” she’d said. “They’re too deep for us. But the Holy Church knows the will of God and what must be done. We must continue to love one another and not ask too many questions.”
The first part was easy enough for Malcolm, who was fond of most things he knew, but the second part was harder. However, he didn’t ask any more about the CCD.
It was nearly dark when they reached home. Malcolm dragged La Belle Sauvage out of the water and under the lean-to at the side of the inn and hurried inside, his arms aching, and raced up to his bedroom.
Dropping his coat on the floor and kicking his shoes under the bed, he switched on the bedside light while Asta struggled to pull the acorn out of the insidest pocket. When Malcolm had it in his hand, he turned it over and over, examining it closely.
“Look at the way this is carved!” he said, marveling.
“Try opening it.”
He was doing that as she spoke, gently twisting the acorn in its cup without any success. It didn’t unscrew, so he tried harder, and then tried to pull it, but that didn’t work either.
“Try twisting the other way,” said Asta.
“That would just do it up tighter,” he said, but he tried, and it worked. The thread was the opposite way.
“I never seen that before,” said Malcolm. “Strange.”
So neatly and finely made were the threads that he had to turn it a dozen times before the two parts fell open. There was a piece of paper inside, folded up as small as it could go: that very thin kind of paper that Bibles were printed on.
Malcolm and Asta looked at each other. “This is someone else’s secret,” he said. “We ought not to read it.”
He opened it all the same, very carefully so as not to tear the delicate paper, but it wasn’t delicate at all: it was tough.
“Anyone might have found it,” said Asta. “He’s lucky it was us.”
“Luckyish,” said Malcolm.
“Anyway, he’s lucky he hadn’t got it on him when he was arrested.”
Written on the paper in black ink with a very fine pen were the words:
We would like you to turn your attention next to another matter. You will be aware that the existence of a Rusakov field implies the existence of a related particle, but so far such a particle has eluded us. When we try measuring one way, our substance evades it and seems to prefer another, but when we try a different way, we have no more success. A suggestion from Tokojima, although rejected out of hand by most official bodies, seems to us to hold some promise, and we would like you to inquire through the alethiometer about any connection you can discover between the Rusakov field and the phenomenon unofficially called Dust. We do not have to remind you of the danger should this research attract the attention of the other side, but please be aware that they are themselves beginning a major program of inquiry into this subject. Tread carefully.
“What does it mean?” said Asta.
“Something to do with a field. Like a magnetic field, I s’pose. They sound like experimental theologians.”
“What d’you think they mean by ‘the other side’?”
“The CCD. Bound to be, since it was them chasing the man.”
“And what’s an aleth—an althe—”
“Malcolm!” came his mother’s voice from downstairs.
“Coming,” he called, and folded the paper back along the same creases before putting it carefully back in the acorn and screwing it shut. He put it inside one of the clean socks in his chest of drawers and ran down to start the evening’s work.
Saturday evening was always busy, of course, but today conversation was subdued: there was a mood of nervous caution in the place, and people were quieter than usual as they stood at the bar or sat at their tables playing dominoes or shove-ha’penny. In a moment of pause, he asked his father why.
“Shh,” said his father, leaning over the bar. “Those two men by the fire. CCD. Don’t look now. Mind what you say near them.”
Malcolm felt a shiver of fear that was almost audible, like the tip of a drumstick drawn across a cymbal.
“How d’you know that’s what they are?”
“The colors of his tie. Anyway, you can just tell. Watch other people around them— Yes, Bob, what can I get you?”
While his father pulled a couple of pints for a customer, Malcolm gathered empty glasses in a suitably inconspicuous manner, and he was glad to see that his hands remained steady. Then he felt a little jolt of Asta’s fear. She was a mouse on his shoulder, and she had looked directly at the men by the fire and seen that they were looking at her, and they were the men from the bridge.
And then one of them beckoned with a crooked finger.
“Young man,” he said. He was addressing Malcolm.
Malcolm turned his head and looked at them properly for the first time. The speaker was a stoutish man with deep brown eyes: the first man from the bridge.
“Yes, sir?”
“Come here a minute.”
“Can I get you anything, sir?”
“Maybe, maybe not. I’m going to ask a question now, and you’re going to tell me the truth, aren’t you?”
“I always do, sir.”
“No, you don’t. No boy always tells the truth. Come here—come a bit closer.”
He wasn’t speaking loudly, but Malcolm knew that everyone nearby—and his father, especially—would be listening intently. He went where the man beckoned and stood near his chair, noticing the scent of cologne that emanated from him. The man was wearing a dark suit and a white shirt, with a navy-blue-and-ocher-striped tie. His vixen dæmon lay at his feet, her eyes wide open and watching.
“Yes, sir?”
“I reckon you notice most people who come in here, don’t you?”
“I reckon so, sir.”
“You know the regulars?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’d know a stranger?”
“Probably I would, sir.”
“Now, then, a few days ago, I wonder if you saw this man come into the Trout.”
He held up a photogram. Malcolm recognized the face at once. It was one of the men who’d come with the lord chancellor: the dark-eyed man with the black mustache.
So perhaps this wasn’t going to be about the man on the towpath and the acorn. He kept his expression stolid and bland.
“Yes, I saw him, sir,” said Malcolm.
“Who was he with?”
“Two other men, sir. One oldish, and one tall and sort of scholarly.”
“Did you recognize either of them? Seen them in the paper, anything like that?”
“No, I didn’t, sir,” said Malcolm, slowly shaking his head. “I didn’t recognize any of them.”
“What did they talk about?”
“Well, I don’t like to listen to customers’ conversations, sir. My dad told me it’s rude, so—”
“You can’t help overhearing things, though, can you?”
“No, that’s true.”
“So what did you overhear them say?”
The speaker’s tone had become quieter and quieter, drawing Malcolm closer. Conversation at the nearby table had nearly ceased, and he knew that everything he said would be audible as far as the bar.
“They talked about the claret, sir. They said how good it was. They ordered a second bottle with their dinner.”
“Where were they sitting?”
“In the Terrace Room, sir.”
“And where’s that?”
“Down that corridor. It’s a bit cold in there, so I said they might like to come in here by the fire, but they didn’t want to.”
“And did you think that a bit odd?”
“Customers do all kinds of things, sir. I don’t think about it much.”
“So they wanted a bit of privacy?”
“It might have been that, sir.”
“Have you seen any of the men since?”
“No, sir.”
The man tapped his fingers on the table.
“And what’s your name?” he said after a pause.
“Malcolm, sir. Malcolm Polstead.”
“All right, Malcolm. Off you go.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Malcolm, trying to keep his voice steady.
Then the man raised his voice a little and looked around. As soon as he spoke, everyone else fell silent in a moment, as if they’d been waiting for it to happen.
“You’ve heard what I’ve been asking young Malcolm here. There’s a man we’re eager to trace. I’m going to pin his picture up on the wall beside the bar in a minute, so you can all have a look at it. If any of you know anything about this man, get in touch with me. My name and address are on the paper too. Mind what I say. This is an important matter. You understand that. Anybody wants to talk to me about this man, they can come and do so once they’ve looked at the picture. I’ll be sitting here.”
The other man took the piece of paper and pinned it on the corkboard, where the notices of dances, auction sales, whist drives, and so on were displayed. To make room, he tugged down a couple of other notices without looking at what they were.
“Hey,” said a man standing nearby, whose big dog dæmon was bristling. “You put them notices back up, what you just pulled down.”
The CCD man turned to look at him. His crow dæmon opened her wings and uttered a soft “Kaark.”
“What did you say?” said the first CCD man, the one who’d stayed by the fire.
“I said to your mate, Put them notices back, what you just pulled down. This is our notice board in here, not yours.”
Malcolm drew back towards the wall. The customer who’d spoken was called George Boatwright, a high-colored and truculent boatman whom Mr. Polstead had had to throw out of the Trout half a dozen times; but he was a fair man, and he’d never spoken roughly to Malcolm. The silence in the bar now was profound, and even customers in other parts of the inn had become aware that something was happening, and had come to the doorway to watch.
“Steady, George,” murmured Mr. Polstead.
The first CCD man took a sip of his brantwijn. Then he looked at Malcolm and said, “Malcolm, what’s that man’s name?”
But before Malcolm could even think what to say, Boatwright himself answered in a loud, hard voice: “George Boatwright is my name. Don’t try and put the boy on the spot. That’s the way of a coward.”
“George—” said Mr. Polstead.
“No, Reg, I’ll speak for meself,” said Boatwright. “And I’ll do this too,” he added, “since your sour-faced friend don’t seem to have heard me.”
He reached up to the wall, tore down the paper, and crumpled it up before throwing it into the fire. Then he stood, swaying slightly, in the middle of the room and glared at the chief CCD man. Malcolm admired him greatly at that moment.
Then the CCD man’s vixen dæmon stood up. She trotted elegantly out from under the table and stood with her brush sticking straight out behind her and her head perfectly still, looking Boatwright’s dæmon in the eye.
Boatwright’s dæmon, Sadie, was much bigger. She was a tough-looking mongrel, part Staffordshire terrier, part German shepherd—part wolf, for all Malcolm knew—and now, by the look of things, spoiling for a fight. She stood close by Boatwright’s legs with all her fur bristling, her lips drawn back, her tail slowly swinging, a deep growl like distant thunder coming from her throat.
Asta crept inside Malcolm’s collar. Fights between grown-up dæmons were not unknown, but Mr. Polstead never allowed anything to get that far inside the inn.
“George, you better leave now,” he said. “Go on, hop it. Come back when you’re sober.”
Boatwright turned his head blurrily, and Malcolm saw to his dismay that the man was indeed a little drunk, because he was slightly off balance and had to take a step to right himself—but then everyone saw the same thing: it wasn’t the drink in Boatwright, it was the fear in his dæmon.
Something had terrified her. That brutal bitch whose teeth had met in the pelts of several other dæmons was cowering, quivering, whimpering, as the vixen slowly advanced. Boatwright’s dæmon fell to the floor and rolled over, and Boatwright was cringing back, trying to hold his dæmon, trying to avoid the deadly white teeth of the vixen.
The CCD man murmured a name. The vixen stood still, and then backed away a step. Boatwright’s dæmon lay curled up on the floor, trembling, and Boatwright’s expression was piteous. In fact, after one glance Malcolm preferred not to look, so as not to see Boatwright’s shame.
The trim little vixen trotted neatly back to the table and lay down.
“George Boatwright, go and wait outside,” said the CCD man, and such was the dominance he had now that no one thought for a moment that Boatwright would disobey and take off. Stroking and half lifting his dæmon, who snapped at him and drew blood from his trembling hand, Boatwright made his miserable way to the door and through to the dark outside.
The second CCD man produced another notice from his briefcase and pinned it up like the first one. Then the two of them finished their drinks, taking their time, and gathered their coats before going out to deal with their abject prisoner. No one said a word.