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Thankfully, they couldn’t see his face under the mask.

The Negro man shook his head again, and tried to push Monroe’s hand away. Monroe reacted badly, looked as if he was going to hit the man. Erskine averted his gaze. Around him, Renewalists and other ‘concerned citizens’ were marching in and out of the houses, while other townsfolk lurked in the shadows, watching the scene but afraid to enter the ‘African quarter’ even now. Some of the Negroes were complaining, screaming unfathomable curses. Some were even barricading the doors. It didn’t help. The doors were pushed open, forced open, broken open.

‘Where are they?’ Monroe was demanding. Out of the corner of his eye, Erskine saw two townsfolk grab the Negro’s arms. ‘The witch-folk, yes? Where? Here?’

‘In the name of Reason,’ somebody shouted, and another door was broken down. The Negro man was being punched in the stomach, once, twice, three times. Erskine didn’t know who was doing the punching.

And suddenly, a dark-skinned shape was speeding towards him. Erskine panicked, some deep-rooted instinct telling him that he was under attack from the hordes of Satan, and –

without even thinking – he reached out and grabbed at the shape, wrapping his thick arms around the skinny black body.

It was a boy, a Negro boy, maybe seventeen or eighteen. The boy shouted something indecipherable, struggled, and turned.

His eyes met Erskine’s.

No. His eyes looked into the slits in Erskine’s mask.

His eyes were full of chaos.

Then he was struggling again. Kicking. Biting. Erskine howled, an exclamation that burst out of his lungs without the hindrance of words. ‘In the name of Reason,’ somebody shouted again, and Erskine began clubbing the boy in the face, wildly swinging his arms until he heard something crack. As the boy fell, he felt a curious relaxing sensation spread through his body. This was easy. Damnation, this made sense. This he could deal with, at least.

Catcher closed his eyes, felt the lids lock shut. Cogs and wheels were moving in the pink darkness.

‘That’s right,’ the prisoner was saying. ‘Close your eyes.

When you open them, look for Reason. It won’t be there, Mr Catcher. I promise you.’

Impossible. That was impossible. Catcher was about to say so, but his head was full of fantasies about worlds whose inhabitants Reasoned themselves out of existence, and he thought he saw the voice of a woman, hiding behind the clockwork, laughing at him. How could you see a voice?

Irrational. Unreasonable.

Everything had gone quiet, but he could still hear the diabolist’s voice. Look for Reason, Mr Catcher... it won’t be there... Catcher tried to summon a snort of contempt, but none would come. Why, he’d open his eyes, and everything would be the same, stable and sound, under the spell of Reason...

He opened his eyes. The meeting hall was indeed unchanged, every corner where it should be, every surface in its proper place. Astonishingly, it took Catcher some time to notice that the prisoner had vanished. The chair was still in the middle of the hall, but the rope that had bound the man lay neatly coiled on top of the seat. Catcher spun, eyes searching the room. The heavy doors were closed. If they’d been opened, he would have heard. He looked behind the pillars, sure that the man must be there, hiding. He wasn’t. A spring snapped inside his head.

There was a grating sound. The doors opened, and four figures – the councillors – congregated in the doorway.

‘There is a rational explanation,’ Catcher told them, calmly.

At least, he thought he sounded calm.

Mr Wolcott just cleared his throat. ‘Mr Catcher, we feel that something needs to be said. Your Renewal Society –’

He broke off, noticing the empty chair in the middle of the hall. Four pairs of eyes floated in Catcher’s direction.

‘A rational explanation,’ said Catcher, and his voice was louder than he’d expected it to be. He pointed at the chair. ‘An agent of Cacophony. Fairy-stories about other worlds.

Distractions.’

‘Erm?’ said Mr Wolcott.

‘Rational. Our course is