The Golem's Eye

loudly, and, as if a heavy curtain had suddenly fallen away inside her mind, Kitty realized the danger she was in. There she was, sitting among strangers, overtly discussing treason.
    "We're mad!" she hissed furiously. "Anyone might hear us! They'll summon the Night Police and carry us away."
    At this the old man actually laughed. "No one will overhear," he said. "Do not fear, Ms. Jones. It is all under control."
    Kitty scarcely listened. Her attention had been seized by a young, blond-haired woman sitting at a table behind Mr. Pennyfeather's left shoulder. Though her glass was empty, she remained seated, engrossed in her book. Her head was down, her eyes modestly lowered; one hand toyed with the corner of a page. Suddenly Kitty became convinced that this was all a sham. She dimly recalled noticing the woman when she first sat down, sitting in a similar pose, and though Kitty had had her in full view all this while, she did not remember her once actually turning the page.
    Next moment, she was sure of it. As if Kitty's gaze had brushed against her, the woman glanced up, caught her eyes, and gave her a cool little smile before returning to her book. There could be no doubt—she had been listening to everything!
    "Are you all right?" Mr. Pennyfeather's voice sounded outside her panic.
    Kitty could hardly speak. "Behind you..." she whispered. "A woman... a spy, an informer. She's heard it all."
    Mr. Pennyfeather did not turn around. "Blond lady?
    Reading a yellow paperback? That would be Gladys. Don't worry, she is one of us."
    "One of—?" The woman looked up again and gave Kitty a broad wink.
    "To her left is Anne; on my right—just beyond this pillar—sits Eva. That's Frederick on my left; Nicholas and Timothy are ranged behind you. Stanley and Martin couldn't get a table, so they're in the pub opposite."
    In a daze, Kitty looked around. A middle-aged, black-haired woman grinned at her from behind Mr. Pennyfeather's right shoulder; on Kitty's right, a spotty, unsmiling youth glanced up from a dog-eared copy of Motorbike Trader. The woman beyond the pillar was obscured except for a black jacket hanging on her chair. Risking a crick in her neck, Kitty checked behind her, catching a glimpse of two more faces—young, serious—staring at her from other tables.
    "No need to worry, you see," Mr. Pennyfeather said. "You're among friends. No one beyond them could hear what we say, and there are no demons present or we'd know about it."
    "How?"
    "Time enough for questions later. First I must make you an apology. I'm afraid you have met Frederick, Martin, and Timothy already." Kitty looked blank again. It was fast becoming a habit. "In the alley," Mr. Pennyfeather prompted.
    "The alley?" Wait a minute—
    "It was they who set the mouler on you. Not so fast! Do not leave! I am sorry that we scared you, but we had to be sure, you see. Sure that you were resilient like us. We had the mouler glass handy; it was a simple matter—"
    Kitty found her voice. "You swine! You're as bad as Tallow! I could have been killed."
    "No. I told you—the worst a mouler can do is knock you out. Its stench—"
    "And that isn't bad enough?" Kitty rose to her feet in fury.
    "If you must go, don't forget this." The old man drew a thick white envelope from his jacket and tossed it contemptuously on the tabletop between the cups. "You'll find the six hundred pounds there. Used notes. I don't break my word."
    "I don't want it!" Kitty was livid, incandescent; she wanted to smash something.
    "Don't be a fool!" The old man's eyes flared. "Do you want to rot in the Marshalsea prison? That's where debtors go, you know. That packet completes the first part of our bargain. Consider it an apology for the mouler. But it could be just the beginning...."
    Kitty snatched up the envelope, almost knocking the cups flying as she did so. "You're crazy. You and your friends. Fine. I'll take it. It's what I came for anyway." She was still standing. She pushed her chair back.
    "Shall I tell you how it began for me?" Mr. Pennyfeather was leaning forward now, his gnarled fingers pressing hard against the tablecloth, scrunching it up. His voice was low, urgent; he fought against his lack of breath in his eagerness to speak. "I was like you at first—the magicians meant nothing to me. I was young, happily married—what did I care? Then my dear wife, heaven rest her soul, attracted the attention of a magician. Not unlike your Mr. Tallow, he was: a cruel, strutting