It was said that the bird nourished her offspring with her own blood, and, in truth, these fledglings were pecking at their mother’s breast. Geraint saw blood, blood in his mind’s eye and not on the card, and his body almost convulsed. The triangle of tufted hair at the nape of his neck rose and a cold chill ran down his spine. The champagne lay flat in the glass now, having become merely poor, thin wine. Show me help, he begged the cards, show me what I can reach to. Is there anyone there?

* * *

Rani was breathing a little heavily as she gave the five-rap signal on the reinforced door. Her brother Imran drew back the bolts, saw her face in what remained of the streetlights, and hurriedly pulled the chains from their pins. He drew her into his arms and half-dragged her inside, fumbling the bolts and heavy steel chains back into place to seal out the harsh night. He brushed back the hair from her forehead, examining her face carefully. Reassured that she was unharmed, he still wanted to know what had happened.

“It was nothing. Just a pair of dweebs in an alley in Shoreditch, up by Den’s chippie, the one who sells that crap cod, you know?" She was talking too fast, unsettled. “One came up behind me and I swivel-kicked him. I don’t think he’ll be having any kids in future. The other one didn’t back off right away, though. Bastard had a meathook with a honed edge. I think he wanted to get some practice barbering." She laughed a little too loudly and tears welled in her large brown eyes. ‘‘Doesn’t matter. Happens all the time.”

Imran hugged her tight again and shushed her, stroking the back of her head. Then he ushered her into the living room with its barred windows, peeling gilt wallpaper, and frayed carpets. She could see Sanjay with his thermometer and glass retorts in the kitchen beyond, the acrid smell of acetone and isopropyl biting through the air. She looked despondently at Imran, then flicked her eyes back toward kitchen, her face almost despairing.