Ptolemy's Gate

cake."
    "That's very kind. Thank you, sir." Kitty sat on the sofa arm and did.
    "Perhaps you should take the afternoon off, Lizzie" Mr. Button said. "I shall be working on my demonic index and that will keep me busy. So many demons! You'd think the Other Place could scarcely cram them in!"
    Kitty's mouth was full of cake crumbs. She swallowed them. "Pardon me, sir, but what exactly is the Other Place? I mean, what's it like?"
    The old man grunted. "A region of chaos, a whirl of endless abominations. Dulac, if I remember rightly, called it 'a sump of madness.' We cannot begin to imagine the horror of such a realm." He shuddered. "It's enough to make a man want a third spiced bun."
    "So magicians have visited it?" Kitty asked. "I mean, they'd have to have done, to know what it was like."
    "Ah. Well." Mr. Button shrugged. "Not exactly. In general, the authorities used reports from reliable slaves. To venture t here in person is another matter. It risks both body and soul."
    "So it hasn't been done?"
    "Oh, it's been tried. Dulac's master Ficino, for example. He hoped to gain demonic power. Instead he lost his mind— literally so: it did not come back. As for his body. . . No. The details are too revolting."
    "Oh, go on, sir."
    "Certainly not. There has been a smattering of others, but all were left insane or worse. The only magician who claimed to have succeeded in the journey was Ptolemaeus. He left details in his Apocrypha, but they are of dubious value. In effect, he implies that the procedure can only be achieved with the help of a benign demon, whose name is invoked to create the Gate." He snorted. "Palpably, the notion is ridiculous—who would seriously trust a demon with their life? And it is likely that Ptolemaeus himself suffered as a result of his experiment. By most accounts he didn't live long afterward."
    Trust. Bartimaeus had emphasized exactly that. Ptolemy had been willing to put his trust in him. As a result, there was no limit to their bond. Kitty gazed up at the ceiling, remembering the djinni's challenge to step out of the circle. She hadn't done it, for the obvious reason that he'd have probably torn her limb from limb. No trust there. On either side.
    A great anger flared inside her once again: anger for wasting so many years in pursuit of a hopeless dream. She slipped off the sofa arm. "Do you mind if I do take the afternoon off, sir?" she said. "I think I need a little air."
    As she retrieved her coat from the hallway, she passed a pile of books that she had lately sorted, ready for stacking on some newly purchased shelves. Among them were works from the ancient Near East, within which. . . She halted, checked. Yes. There it was, three from the top: a slim volume. Ptolemaeus's Apocrypha.
    Kitty curled her lip. What was the point? Bartimaeus had said it was written in Greek, claimed it would be useless to her. She moved away, only to stop again halfway down the hall. She looked back. Well, why not? It couldn't do any harm.
    Old investigative habits died hard. She departed the house with the book in her pocket.
    That evening, with time on her hands, Kitty walked to the Frog Inn. She had hoped the exercise would burn off a little of the frustration swelling uncontrollably inside her, but if anything it only made it worse. The faces of the people she passed were pinched and sullen, their shoulders hunched; they gazed at their boots as they trudged along the road. Vigilance spheres whirled above the streets; Night Police loitered arrogantly at major intersections. One or two roads were barricaded off. There had been disorder in central London; now the authorities were cracking down. White police vans passed her more than once. Faintly she heard sirens in the distance.
    Her pace grew slower, her gaze dulled and unseeing. She felt weighed down by the utter futility of things. Three years she had been shut up in libraries and dusty rooms, playing at being a magician. And all for what? Nothing had changed. Nothing would change. A cloak of injustice lay upon London, and she, like everyone else, was smothered by it. The Council did what they pleased, oblivious to the suffering they caused. And she was unable to do anything about it.
    At The Frog a similarly somber mood prevailed. The taproom had been tidied, the devastation of two nights previously cleared away. At the end of the counter a shiny new piece of wood filled the hole made by the demon's attack; it did not quite match the rest of the bar, but