Isabella watched Jerry go. “That man has definitely been here before. I just cannot work out when or how...”

“He does seem to get around. So... um, what should I clear first?”

Isabella waved a hand airily. “Oh, I wouldn’t bother. Daddy will have the servants do it tomorrow. I’ll just take the cards and sheet back to my room.”

“You have servants?”

“If you can call them that... I am not sure they qualify as human. Their idea of tidying is just to pile things into stacks. I mean, just look around you! I once came home to find my bed on top of my wardrobe...”

“Oh. Was it comfortable?”

“Surprisingly, yes! Guess that makes it official...” Isabella spread her hands wryly. “I’m not a princess after all!”

Clive was still scanning. “A fish-shawl?”

Isabella was all regret... “It’s an old Swedish tale.... you probably never...”

“No.”

There was a long silence. Neither of them quite knew how to bridge the gap, or even which conversational scenic route would take them around the deep pool of awkwardness and back to where they wanted to be.

Fortunately, they were saved by music. Faint, echoing, haunting, somewhere outside on the Bridge.

“Wait… what’s that sound?” Clive said, “It sounds like…”

“A recorder! That’s little Tommy Tinkle. He walks up and down along the Bridge every evening – playing out his little heart...”

Despite himself, Clive rushed over to the window. Isabella was right, he was getting used to it. He looked up at the street above the window. Sure enough, an inversion of a small boy with a cap and recorder was wending his way, stuck firmly to the empty Bridge above Nonsuch. The moon below was out in full, bathing the wood in silver.

“Is he lonely?”

Isabella was suddenly at Clive’s side. “He’s ill. Some problem with his kidneys. He thinks the sound of the water passing the Bridge will help him to… you know...”

As if on cue, the boy above stopped playing and stepped up to the railing, before fumbling with his trousers. It took a moment for Clive to realise he was trying to relieve himself. Sadly, nothing was produced. Shaking his head, the boy did his trousers back up, and resumed his lonesome tune.

Isabella’s voice was soft beside Clive’s ear. “It must be awful, keeping it all pent up inside like that…”

Clive turned. Isabella was very very close. He looked at her mouth. It was slightly open, like a fish that had expired mid-swallow. Like any good actor, Clive sensed this was a cue of some kind, but, being Clive, he fluffed it entirely:

“I should probably go!” said Clive.

Isabella withdrew slightly, looking down and straightening her skirts. “Oh, yes. Well it’s... it’s late, so...”

“No, I mean, I need to go! Go! Pay a visit to your... House of Office, so to speak. Spend a penny! Have a Tommy Tinkle of my own! That recorder song really works – well, for me, anyway!”

“Oh, I see! It’s... right this way...”

Isabella led Clive down three winding flights of stairs to what was, presumably, the ground floor. The small but luxurious guardez l’eau (the seat was carpeted!) jutted out over the river, which, from this angle, could just as easily have been below or above Clive’s brazen cheeks. Fortunately, whatever direction gravity was pulling, it did not reverse mid-stream. Isabella waited outside the door patiently.

When he emerged, Clive looked much happier. “All done!” he said, like a pooch expecting a treat.

Isabella wrinkled her nose prettily but obliged all the same. “Good boy!” she said.

“So – where were we?”

“Well, we were at the window earlier. Now we’re in the stairwell outside the lavatory.”

Clive was starting to realise that the previous location had had significantly more romantic potential than the current one.

“Let’s just sit for a moment, shall we?”

Winding staircases don’t have the widest steps, so sitting side by side was rather awkward: their hips were practically jammed together. Clive considered this a silent win. They sat like this for some time. Finally, with no help forthcoming from Isabella, and not a single conversational titbit springing to mind, Clive had no recourse but to fall back on a golden oldie:

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“Isn’t Jerry silly!”

Isabella launched to her feet, fuming: “Oh really, is that the best you can do?”

Clive was askance! “It worked earlier!”

“No, it didn’t! It just gave me an excuse to flirt with you!”

“You were... flirting with me? When?”

“Clive, I’ve practically been throwing myself at you! Why else would I sit on a step that is too small outside a literal shithole waiting for something to happen?”

“Sitting silently saying nothing is... throwing yourself at me?”

“Femalogically speaking, yes!”

“But, I... I thought maybe you didn’t like me?”

“Well, now I don’t! So I guess you were right, after all!”

“You don’t now, means you did... before?!?”

Isabella turned, her shoulders heaving. “You’re just... different to the others. You seemed to actually see me! As I am. As a normal person. Not as a trophy, or a misguided scion, or some kind of scientific experiment. Just me. But you just can’t – excuse me!”

She ran then, up the stairs, away from him.

Clive followed, retracing his steps, but he was slowed by the spiral (falling down spiral staircases, it turns out, takes a lot longer than straight ones). When he finally arrived, the door to her bedroom was closed. He could hear her sobbing inside. He knocked lightly.

“Isabella?” the sobbing abated for a moment. “The truth is... I’m not very good with women... I have only been in love once before, with my leading lady, in a play. He was Ophelia to my Dane: the makeup was very convincing. Of course, every time the curtain closed she ceased to exist. I had no interest at all in Russel the Radish Farmer’s son. I began to feel the only relationship I could have was one that somebody else had written for me.

But with you – for the first time... I am completely off-script. I don’t know my lines, I don’t know my exits or entrances, I am entirely cueless… ok, well maybe that’s not so different from before… but what I am trying to say is… for the first time in my life, I feel I am making up something new… with you! Something that no-one has ever seen before! Our own play, just for us!” The door was silent. “Do you even know what I am trying to say to you?”

The door shuffled, mewled softly… and then it screamed!

And what a scream it was! Half infantile ululation, half raptorial screech… Clive’s hands flew to his ears as the bloodcurdlingly inhuman keening reaved his very soul! He recoiled from the door and the extra-auditory banshee beyond…

“Issy, stop! Please, Issy—”

“Clive!”

Clive turned. The sound had indeed stopped. Isabella was standing before him, holding two glasses. “I was thirsty and went for some water. I brought you one, too.”

“Water?” Clive double took, and then took a couple more for good measure. “But you’re… you’re… who’s in your room?”

“Oh, that’s just Susie.”

“Who’s Susie?”

“My pet vixen. She’s in heat at the moment. She must like you! Your scent seems to set her off. See?” Isabella opened the door. A small fox sat patiently looking up at her with wide eyes. It was the cutest thing Clive had ever seen. This had been the source of that sound? “What were you saying just now?” Issy asked. “No-one’s ever seen you play with a blunderbuss? Sorry, I only arrived at the end…”

“I… oh hell!” Clive launched towards her and glued his mouth to hers, making her spill all of his drink and the remainder of her own. Clive’s eyes were closed, so, fortunately, he did not see the look of surprise in Isabella’s wide eyes. But sadly, he also missed the most sublime change as her eyes rolled over and she closed her lids, surrendering to the kiss.

And so, our lovers finally were as one: here, suspended upside down by the sorcery of Nonsuch; observed only by a small russet vixen in heat; while a small boy outside trod the planks and sounded the solitary notes of a recorder; and, above, a blazing star, recently returned, dragged its tail across the firmament: which all was to say that nothing, but nothing, in London would ever be the–

“ISABELLA! Is that you?”

Isabella broke the kiss. “Daddy!”

Clive blinked. “Er, Clive is fine.”

“No! It’s my father – come on!”

Grabbing his hand, she rushed out into the corridor!

Clive stumbled and tried to keep up. She ran very fast for someone in long skirts. “Will I see you again?”

“I don’t know! Father is very particular about who I see! They normally have to enjoy sacrificing goats...”

“I’ve done things with goats!”

“I don’t want to know! Here!” She pushed him back against a wall. Clive didn’t think it was the same one they had come in from earlier...

“Wait!”

“What?”

“Kiss?”

She gave him an exasperated smile, pouted her lips at him, and pressed the concealed button on the wall.

Clive pivoted out of sight with a yelp, just as the Alchemist hobbled into view. “Ah, there you are, daughter!”

Isabella tried to look casual, like she was just dusting the wall. By leaning against it.

“Doing a little midnight cleaning, I see? Excellent! Is that a dead spider on the wall?”

Isabella decided to sweeten the pudding a little more with an act of contrition. “Yes. And Dad, about earlier... I’m sorry! When it comes to losing to the Undertaker, clearly you know best!”

“Yes, well. Enough of that...” He steepled his fingers, walking around her in a tight circle. “While you were away, certain decisions have been made, certain contingencies have been put into motion. Soon we will no longer have anything to fear from the Undertaker and his half-wit assistant! But tell me, my daughter: I heard a man’s voice as I approached: who was it you were talking to?”

Isabella thought quickly. “Erm... myself!”

“Yourself?”

“Yes… I… was impersonating a male voice!”

“Why would you do that, my daughter?”

“Well… you don’t like me to have male friends – and this way I can… fulfil my desire for male companionship whilst still being a loving, loyal and obediently unsullied daughter!”

“I see. Ingenious! Well, don’t be up too late. I will need your support in the momentous days ahead. Goodnight, my daughter!”

The Alchemist sloped away.

“Goodnight, dad.” Isabella exhaled.