Killington and the armed guards led Giles into the City Hall, a gracefully arched old stone building which seemed like a place from a story.

After a time locked alone in a room which must have been somebody’s office, they brought him into a large room with high ceilings. Killington sat behind a table, just as he had the first time Giles had been on trial, when Tiffany had glamoured them to rescue him. Beside Killington sat Jerry, the festival’s original organizer, his misery carefully smoothed into a neutral mask under his ruffled sandy grey hair and large beard. Behind Killington stood two strong-arm men of the kind employed by any government of any political leaning anywhere on Earth: burly men with dangerous faces and dead eyes, hoping for a chance to hurt someone.

Giles was so sure Tiffany would save him that he relaxed enough to look critically at his surroundings. There were the same observers in folding chairs; why were they allowed if the Planners wanted to pretend this was an ordinary storytelling festival? There was the vapid blond demon in the gold lame skintight again; why was she allowed if the Planners hoped to learn secrets of the demon world without letting the demons know?

Maybe they didn’t know she was a demon. She looked like an ordinary human. In fact, how was he so certain she was a demon? Had he seen her in in some haunting cellphone picture on the internet? That was how most people had seen demon faces: someone had caught one appearing or vanishing or doing something magical and posted the picture online.

Besides, Tiffany looked like an ordinary mortal and everyone knew she was a demon! He had recognized her instantly, even though everyone else, even Killington, had thought she was just a festival big shot.

How had he recognized her? Didn’t everyone know about Tiffany? But he seemed to hear Hiyako’s voice from another reality saying, “Not everyone knows. Be careful.” When had Hiyako talked about Tiffany? In fact, for that matter, when had Jasmine said Tiffany would save him? During that sweet visit when he’d seen his mother’s face radiantly peaceful in death?

For a moment he remembered the other reality when he’d spoken with Jasmine in the secret corridors. He frowned, picking at the memory, not certain he ought to. Wasn’t this like the secret conversation between Doree and the young reporter, in his story? He shivered at the layers within layers, at the folds of secrecy … and a chilling memory of the sleepy dark, the wall of black from which Jasmine had dragged him back with her small hands.

Just then Killington muttered, “I think we can keep this brief.”

He paused, tilting his walrus head to the side. He’d said those exact words at the earlier trial but Tiffany had glamoured them away. He frowned, picking at a memory just as Giles had.

Fortunately, he was an important man with no time for minor irritations. He shook himself and said, “Giles Hammond, you stand charged with claiming knowledge you should not possess. Tell us, if you would, why you thought it proper to reveal vital secrets to such a large crowd?”

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From the swirl of doubts and questions, Giles spoke aloud words he would never before have dared to say. “What do you expect us to do? We’re supposed to speak whatever images come to mind and find out secrets of the demons. How are we supposed to know when we stumble across a secret of yours?”

The courtroom got intensely quiet.

Eyes lifted from reports and fixed on him. Voices stopped whispering. Jerry made a half-hearted motion with hands and eyes, telling Giles to be quiet.

“Son,” Killington said, “You want to think really hard before you say another word.”

For the first time, he didn’t mutter. His blue eyes rimed with ice.

Giles stared back, trembling inside. If Tiffany didn’t rescue him this time, he was dead. “What did I actually say? You say I claimed knowledge I shouldn’t have had but what did I say?” he demanded.

It was only partly bravado: he really wanted to know what the Planners had heard. His eyes flicked from left to right but he didn’t see Tiffany. His head throbbed.

“I was just telling a story,” he pressed, desperate. Jerry put his head into his hands. “What did I say that was so wrong?”

The courtroom was silent but now eyes turned to Killington. He made a V with his thumb and index finger and squeezed his lower lip. He didn’t know what he had heard! Perhaps a story about a mineral spring on a mountain side and a girl and a man who sat on the hilltop and talked about nothing.

Killington’s eyes fixed on a point behind Giles. Was that good or bad? Did it mean Tiffany was there? Was she glamouring him right now?

With relief as sweet as rainwater, he heard those cultured Oxford tones say “Way, please. Let me through.” He turned and watched her sweep imperiously into the courtroom. The blond in the gold skintight was gone.

His relief was lined with anger. Why had she let him go through this trial at all? And he still felt dread that something must go wrong. He was too much of a storyteller to believe that the same trick could work twice.

But it seemed to go as smoothly as before. Killington’s steely blue eyes lost their keenness, became respectful.

Tiffany closed her fingers around Giles’s arm, saying “We’ve only an hour to prepare our presentation. If you’re quite finished?” Faces around the courtroom filled with the satisfaction of a proper outcome.

Still dreading that something must happen differently this time, Giles babbled, “Yes, Tiffany, yes, I’m coming. To our presentation.”

He felt the power of her name as it left his lips.

A susurration of breath wriggled like a snake around the edges of the courtroom. Tiffany…Tiffany… voices whispered. Killington’s voice breathed, “Aaaahhhh.”

Her fingers on his arm gripped tighter. “Come along, quickly now dear,” she said brightly. “Clip clip.”

But Killington’s voice, mumbling again but irresistible in the silence, stopped her. “Madam Tiffany, is it? I’ve heard so much about you. What a pleasure to meet you at last.”

He made a gesture and the strong-arm men bulled across the room with anticipatory smiles. The shorter one wore a T-shirt that said “He is Risen” with a frightening picture of fog drifting from an open tomb, as though Jesus was a slasher movie monster. The taller one with the handlebar moustache had a tie pin in the shape of a Wiccan pentagram.

The hard smiles with which both men grabbed him was sickening.

Tiffany said, “Oh dear,” and then – she was gone.