The Doctor frowned at me. "You're shaking," she said. And indeed I was, for the sudden appearance of the torturer's assistant had been undeniably unsettling. The Doctor glanced past me towards the door to the surgery, which I had left open so that Unoure might be able to hear our voices and so perhaps be dissuaded from any mischief he might be contemplating. "Who's that?" she asked.

"Who's what, mistress?" I asked, watching her close the cap of the ink well.

"I heard somebody cough."

"Oh, that is Unoure, the questioner's assistant, mistress. He's come to fetch you."

"To go where?"

"To the hidden chamber. Master Nolieti has sent for you."

She looked at me without speaking for a moment. "The chief torturer," she said evenly, and nodded. "Am I in trouble, Oelph?" she asked, laying one arm across the thick hide cover of her journal, as if looking to provide, or gain, protection.

"Oh no," I told her. "You're to bring your bag. And medicines." I glanced round at the door to the surgery, edged with light from the living room. A cough came from that direction, a cough that sounded like the sort of cough one makes when one wants to remind somebody that one is waiting impatiently. "I think it's urgent," I whispered.

"Hmm. Do you think chief torturer Nolieti has a cold?"

the Doctor asked, rising from her chair and pulling on her long jacket, which had been hanging on the back of the seat.

I helped her on with her black jacket. "No, mistress, I think there is probably somebody being put to the question who is, umm, unwell."

"I see," she said, stamping her feet into her boots and then straightening. I was struck again by the Doctor's physical presence, as I often am. She is tall for a woman, though not exceptionally so, and while for a female she is broad at the shoulder I have seen fish-wives and netwomen who look more powerful. No, what seems most singular about her, I think, is her carriage, the way she, comports herself.