Up on the second floor, the telltale sounds of whores plying their trade came from behind closed doors. The place reeked of alcohol and sex. Clara headed for her room, praying that no one would hear her, that no door would suddenly open to catch her with a bright glare of accusing light. But there was already a streak of illumination on the hallway carpet coming from one door that was open just a crack. With caution and a thudding heart, Clara sneaked up to it and peered through.

She saw two policemen standing in the bedroom beyond. Obviously not here for pleasure, they wore the dark uniforms of the street patrols. Short rifles hung from their shoulders, and long batons were holstered at their waists. Their helmets completely concealed their heads and faces in bowls of black glass: receptor helmets, attuned to the eye devices on the streets.

One of them spoke, his voice muffled. 'You know why we're here?'

'Yeah,' replied a girl's voice. 'I know why you're here.'

Although Clara could not see the speaker, she recognised the voice as that of her work colleague, Willow.

The other policeman took over, 'We're going to ask you some questions, and I needn't tell you the seriousness of withholding information.'

'Withholding information?' Willow chuckled dryly. 'I was there when you arrested Fat Jacob. You think I want to be treated like that?'

Fat Jacob arrested? He was the owner of the Lazy House, and a vicious master whom all the girls did their best to steer clear of.

Willow continued, 'Good riddance is what I say. I hope it's as bad as it gets for that fat bastard. I hope you took him to the Nightshade for the Resident to deal with.'

'Miss Willow,' said the first policeman, 'you've confirmed Miss Clara has been missing for three days now. Any further information you might have will help our search.'

'I've only heard the rumour,' said Willow. 'Fat Jacob sold her to that arsehole Charlie Hemlock. It must be true or I don't suppose you'd be here.'

'Quite. Do you know why she was sold?'

Willow's only response was a snort.

Clara understood why. Willow knew as well as any that Fat Jacob's contempt for his employees showed itself in the acts he sometimes forced them to perform. Selling off one of his girls would mean nothing more to him than extra beer money in his pocket.

'Have you any idea of Charlie Hemlock's whereabouts?'

Willow scoffed. 'Your guess is as good as mine.'

He's dead in the Great Labyrinth, with any luck, Clara thought.

The policeman continued, 'Then do you have any information on who he is working for?'

'Whoever pays the best,' Willow said with finality. 'This is Charlie Hemlock we're talking about ...'

Clara had heard enough. She moved past Willow's room and slipped into her own.

The lights of Green Glass Row glowed through the window like an early morning haze and illuminated the chaos of Clara's room. When people disappeared in Labrys Town, they rarely resurfaced. The other whores of the Lazy House obviously thought Clara would never return, and her room had been turned over by scavengers. What remained of her clothes and belongings lay strewn across the floor. Her colleagues had helped themselves to everything that was worth selling, it seemed. But they were welcome to it all – apart from the one thing she needed now.

Clara stepped through the mess of clothes and books, and onto her bed, careful to limit the creaking of the springs in the mattress. Reaching up, she pulled free the grille of a vent above the bed, pushed her arm inside and searched around until her fingers closed on a small tin taped to the vent's ceiling. Clara took it out and stepped back down onto the floor.

The tin was filled with little white tablets. She took one and popped it into her mouth. The taste was bitter as she chewed; her tongue and throat prickled as she swallowed. Almost immediately, a sense of calm descended, and Clara felt a little strength returning. Her thoughts became less cloudy. She closed her eyes and felt a little safer.

Peppercorn Clara: she was a wild ride, they joked; only a real man could survive a night with her. Clara's clients never realised how close they were to the madness of magic; that only her medication prevented a monster escaping its cage—

'What are you doing in here?'

The ceiling lamp glared into life, bathing the room in light. Clara wheeled around to be confronted by a patrolwoman. She stood in the doorway, the black glass of her receptor helmet glinting like the eye of a giant insect. Clara slipped the medicine tin into the pocket of her ill-fitting trousers, fully aware of the baton in the patrolwoman's hand.

'Name?' the officer demanded.

'Uh – Rosa.' The lie came quickly. 'I was just – you know – seeing if there was anything left in here worth taking.'

The patrolwoman was quiet for a moment, and Clara prayed she would find nothing suspicious about her drenched and oddly-matched clothes and bare feet. But she obviously knew the Lazy House catered for most fetishes, and finally said, 'We're investigating the activities of your employer, Miss Rosa. You might want to make yourself available for questioning.'

'Oh, no problem,' Clara said brightly. 'I'll be downstairs if you need me.'

The patrolwoman allowed her to leave the room. But as Clara hurried towards the stairs, the door to Willow's room opened and the other two policemen emerged, followed by Willow herself.

Willow blinked. 'Clara!' she blurted. 'You're alive ...'

Clara bolted down the stairs.

Shouts and heavy footfalls followed her.

The backdoor was now blocked by a fourth police officer. Clara dodged his grabbing hand and burst through the door to the main nightclub instead. Pounding music and flashing lights hit her as if she had run into a wall; the humidity, the stench of bodies, like a thick fluid to swim through.

The Lazy House was in full swing.

Dancers, drunk or high on drugs, swore at Clara, pushed and slapped her, as she clawed a path through the bodies to the other side of the club. As she ran up a wide staircase she saw two of the patrolmen behind her, struggling to follow her through the dancing sea. Then she was through the entrance doors, across the foyer, out onto Green Glass Row ... and straight into the wide chest of Roma.

'Clara?' The doorman caught her by the arms. 'I thought you were dead.'

'Another time, Roma,' Clara panted. 'I have to go.'

'Hey!' he gripped her arms tighter. 'The police are asking about you. Fat Jacob's been arrested. What's going on?'

Through the doors to the Lazy House, Clara could see receptor helmets entering the foyer. Her panic rose. 'Well, it's like this, Roma—' and she kneed him hard in the groin.

The big doorman groaned as he doubled over, and Clara ran into the rain, onto Green Glass Row, with no idea where she was headed.

She hadn't run very far when the patrolwoman appeared from the side of the Lazy House and smacked a baton into her legs. Clara yelled in pain and collapsed onto the wet cobbles in a skidding heap. The patrolwoman pounced, pinning Clara to the ground, roughly cuffing her hands behind her back.