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Collier’s Encyclopaedia, on the subject of tantra.

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Chapter 13

This is true:

On August 18, 1783, the largest meteor ever seen by the British Isles blazed an uneasy trail across the sky from the urban heart of Scotland, over the south-western edge of London itself and out towards the sea. At least, ‘meteor’ seems a good enough word: those who knew that science had proved such things to be impossible referred to it as a ‘fireball’, and the observatory in Greenwich later reported it to be a cluster of vivid, multicoloured lights, travelling in formation before finally exploding into a rain of fire somewhere in the vicinity of Ostend. Indeed, this being an age of such poor communications, it wasn’t until the Gentleman’s Magazine pieced together all the eye-witness reports that anyone even acknowledged it as a single phenomenon. Robert Blake painted a picture inspired by, it, Approach of Doom, which seemed so pertinent to the times that his brother William (himself a visionary artist, in contact with angels and monsters of various descriptions) insisted on making an engraving of it.

On the night of the Great Fireball, Juliette was standing on the iron deck of the Jonah and considering what it might mean to be part of such an event rather than just a witness to it.

She’d positioned herself at the prow of the ship, with her pale hands on the black railings, and if it had been a ship of the navy then the spray would have been splashing against her face by now. She’d lost track of the time she’d spent here, with the lights of the world turning into greasy streaks of fire around her, with the air rushing past so fast that she could hardly even breathe out. It was, she knew, all part of the process. The ship was pushing towards the horizon, forcing itself against currents far more fundamental than those of the English Channel.

In fact, she only began to recover from this peculiar Shaktyanda state when Sabbath joined her on the deck. Obviously, she had no need to actually see him emerge from his studies at the heart of the Jonah. This was his vessel now: it was an extension of his will, a part of his purpose, his body rooted into its metal walls just as he himself was rooted into the Earth. He only had to set foot on one of the decks and Juliette would feel him there. And not just because of his weight.

He seemed remarkably unaffected by it all, though. Juliette liked that.

‘Well now,’ he said. ‘Where should we go first?’

Juliette forced the air out of her lungs, then sucked in more, letting the salt of the sea – wherever the sea might have been located, in this morass of space and time and God-alone‐knew what else – fill up her nose. She was sure she felt London flash past her, although whether the city was beneath her, or around her, or even inside her, she couldn’t accurately tell.

‘Hardly the question that comes to mind,’ she said, politely but firmly. ‘I’d rather know whether we’ll be coming back.’

There was a half-smile on Sabbath’s face when he spoke, she could hear it in his voice.

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Longings for home.’

‘Please, don’t mock me. We have unfinished histories here.’

Sabbath nodded, she was sure of it even though he was behind her and she’d by now closed her eyes to take her mind off the colours. ‘We have unfinished histories,’ he agreed. ‘Not necessarily here.’

‘We’re rooted here, surely?’

‘We have a certain attachment to the Earth. Not to our own time.’

‘Here,’ Juliette insisted.

He didn’t answer her, but she was sure he was still smiling, even if she couldn’t actually feel it in the humming of the decks. Eventually her curiosity got the better of her, and she turned, opening her eyes to him.

Sabbath stood close to the centre of the deck, next to one of the openings which led down into the vessel’s stomach. He looked exactly as she’d imaged him. Greatcoat thrown loosely over his shoulders, head down but bright eyes raised, watching her carefully. There was, as she’d guessed, a smile on his face. If the storms of light