In his peripheral vision, Artemis saw Miss Book scurry round a corner, stammering into her smartphone. He hoped the publicist/nurse would display more confidence when caring for his mother.

‘I suppose. All my mother’s organs? All of them?’

Schalke was not inclined to repeat himself. ‘I am reminded of lupus, but more aggressive, combined with all three stages of Lyme disease. I did observe an Amazonian tribe once with similar symptoms, but not so severe. At this rate of decline, your mother has days left to her. Frankly, I doubt we will have time to complete tests. We need a miracle cure, and in my considerable experience miracle cures do not exist.’

‘Perhaps they do,’ said Artemis absently.

Schalke picked up his bag. ‘Put your faith in science, young man,’ advised the doctor. ‘Science will serve your mother better than some mysterious force.’

Artemis held the door for Schalke, watching him walk the dozen steps to his vintage Mercedes-Benz. The car was grey, like the bruised clouds overhead.

There is no time for science, thought the Irish teenager. Magic is my only option.

When Artemis returned to his study, his father was sitting on the rug with Beckett crawling along his torso like a monkey.

‘May I see Mother now?’ Artemis asked him.

‘Yes,’ said Artemis Senior. ‘Go now; see what you can find out. Study her symptoms for your search.’

My search? thought Artemis. There are difficult times ahead.

Artemis’s hulking bodyguard, Butler, waited for him at the foot of the stairs wearing full Kendo armour, the helmet’s faceguard folded away from his weathered features.

‘I was in the dojo, sparring with the holograph,’ he explained. ‘Your father called and told me I was needed immediately. What’s going on?’