Two years later, and back in the fencing hall Henry watched Charnock, the Cornish sword-master, looking for some opportunity. Henry had improved hugely, closing the gap between him and the likes of Thomas and Robert, at least in the dirty battlefield fighting the Witches taught. Even still, he was out of his depth. Charnock seemed to float out of reach, fading out like a ghost every time Henry pushed the attack, and then sweeping in whenever he showed signs of weakness. The man was broad, with long arms like tree trunks, and a wild beard. He looked more like a farmer than a soldier, but Henry’ shirt was in tatters, his skin a maze of livid bruises and shallow cuts. The man pressed again, and Henry found himself with his back against the mirrored wall, fending off attacks with his rapier and parry dagger.

Every aspect of Henry' training had been taxing. He had learned more in the last couple of years than he had ever imagined possible. And this, the language of violence, was at once the most fascinating and the most difficult for him. For the last few weeks Henry had been drilled non-stop on the forms, practicing in front of an enormous mirror, every tiny error pointed out and corrected. He had studied the human body, the location and purpose of the different muscles, organs, and arteries. But he has not fought with a real sword, until today.

Henry had been dreading this development of his training. He still dreamed of the eyeless face. But despite everything, he felt a fierce elation. Combat was unambiguous, there was an honesty to it that appealed to him. And further, he saw in this training a way to avoid future situations like the alley, or the orphanage. If he became skilled enough, he hoped, then perhaps he might learn how to defend himself and his loved ones without having to really hurt anyone.

Henry sprang to the left, ducking his head and rolling across the wood-paneled floor. He comes quickly to his feet, sword up, as the fencing master starts to turn. He darted in, sword flashing in tight lunges. In, out. In, out. The man swayed, and the point missed by a fraction of an inch. Henry immediately sprang back, trying to get out of reach before the inevitable riposte.

The swordsman's response was lightning fast, his sword flashing out in a series of strikes. Henry couldn’t hope to counter all of them, so he back-pedaled and lost ground until he had his back to the wall once again. Desperate for an advantage, Henry bit his tongue and felt the blood well in his mouth. The salty metallic taste brought the world into instant focus, everything seeming to slow down. Henry noticed two things. The first is that he is aware of the iron in his sword in a way that he hadn't been before, likewise the sword-master's weapon. He could feel when it starts to change direction, how it flexed, where it was going. Second, he could tell that his opponent was using blood as well. He could smell it, see it in the way that Charnock’s skin was flushed and his pupils dilated.

Henry counter-attacked. This time, knowing what his master was capable of, Henry feinted with his blade. He made short jabs, bringing the swordsman's guard high, then lashed out with his foot. It was a crude oblique kick to the inside of the older man's knee, short on technique but long on desperate power. The sword-master stumbled, recovered, and then fell back a step. He reset his guard quickly, but favoured the injured leg. Henry pressed his advantage, mixing kicks and pommel strikes with his sword work, trying to keep his master guessing.

He had no further success. Charnock adapted quickly, and Henry found that he couldn't keep up the blood-trance. He became dizzy, then faint. He lowered his sword and raised his left hand. The fight was over.

The sword-master sheathed his blade, and smiled. “That was good, Henry. I'm impressed.”

“But I cheated!” Henry saw no point in hiding it. If he could see the older man's blood trance, then he knew that his own use must have been obvious.

“Aye. Cheated death, perhaps.”

Henry stared at him, confused.

“Using every weapon in your arsenal is not cheating. If it were, people would only be fighting with fists, not swords and guns. You’ve got one more weapon than most, but still not as many as some.

“And besides,” the Cornishman continues, “I was using blood as well, if only to ensure that I didn't harm you accidentally.” He pulled off one of his gloves, and ran his fingers through his thinning black hair. “You have real talent, Henry. But you're hesitant. You give too much away. You attack too timidly, retreat too readily. You will need to learn to be more aggressive, or it will cost you in the field.”

Henry nodded. Byford has been telling him the same thing since he started. “I will work on it.”

“Don't worry. It’ll come. But remember, if you seek only to defend, then you have only to lose once in order to lose everything. Now, go and get your lunch. If you keep Sir Byford waiting, he’ll be blaming me for it.”

The Taylor's Hall was just the start of the Second Order's shadow guild. Every guild-hall located within the City of London had a second within it, hidden in secret rooms. Each of these secret spaces was devoted to a single aspect of the Order's varied disciplines. Most were tiny, accessed by a secret stair, with just a few permanent members keeping the light of knowledge burning. The Cutler's Hall on Cloak Lane contained the guild’s masters-at-arms, and so Henry found himself in the Cutler's dining room, eating alone at the end of a vast table.

Haemomancy was hungry work, replacing the blood lost in the practice of it required a lot of nutrients. Henry' lunch was an inch-thick slab of rare steak, a heap of vegetables and a small bowl of roasted potatoes. He smothered it all in gravy and started eating with the habitual speed of an orphanage boy, as if his meal might be taken from him at any moment.

He didn't notice that he was no longer alone until someone coughed politely at his elbow. Henry startled, leaping to his feet with his small table dagger held ready.

Maggie laughed, and sat down in the next chair, poaching a potato from Henry' plate and eating it with the same practised haste that Henry showed. Embarrassed by his reaction, Henry sat back down as well, and dug into a heap of wilted spinach.

Maggie didn’t talk, but the silence was comfortable. She hadn’t said much for weeks after Francis had left, but has since grown more outgoing, while Henry, in turn, had become more withdrawn. She continued to poach food until the servants brought her own meal, and then demolished a plate full of sliced ham, turnip mash and roasted vegetables. They cleared their plates, and then sat back in their chairs. Henry was the first to break the silence. “How is your apprenticeship coming along? I'd not have expected to see you in the Cutler's Hall.”

“Why not?” Maggie flourished her table dagger in a mocking imitation of Henry' earlier reaction. “Seems like fun.”

“It's dangerous, you might get hurt.” Henry scratched his head, embarrassed, and mumbled ”I don't like the idea of you learning to fight.”

“I'm a girl, not an invalid. And I need to know how to protect myself.”

“The Masters aren't entertaining you in this, surely?” Henry swiveled in his chair until he was facing Maggie squarely. “Does Byford know?”

“Byford suggested it. And the Masters say that I am quite the natural with a light blade.” She scowled, and crossed her arms. “Now, I'll not hear another word from you on this, Henry Grey. Not one word. It's my decision, and I've made it. And if you don’t like it, we can fight over it. Though, by the sounds of how things are going, that wouldn’t work out very well for you.”

Henry opened his mouth, but the look on Maggie's face convinced him to shut it again.

“Have you found him yet?” he asked.

She shook her head.

He nodded, and put his hand on her shoulder. Then, he pushed his plate away and stood up. His chair squealed as it scraped across the floor behind him, and he strode off without another word.

The walk from Cutler's to the Taylor's hall was short, if you are just a gentleman merchant. For Henry and the other witches, it was a long tour of the back-streets of London, stopping periodically to check for signs that they were being followed. At any time, one of the more senior witches could be waiting for them, ready to set up a tail or an ambush. More than one of Henry’s classmates had been caught out, one literally with his pants down.

Henry tried to use the walk to give himself time to think, but he burned with embarrassed anger, feeling at once righteous, and sick with fear. He stopped in a doorway, pretending to adjust his starched collar while he marshaled his thoughts, but he couldn't concentrate. His eyes refused to settle, to relax into the unfocused observation that he was trained in. Instead he was distracted by flashes of colour, by the sounds of the massed humanity around him, the hunched form in the gutter that might be a corpse or just another passed-out drunk.

He moved on, walking too fast, drawing attention to himself. Someone whistled at him, and he was startled by a sudden feeling of deja-vu. He glanced over to see three burly men stand up from a game of shoff-grote and start walking after him.

He didn’t break stride, just looked forward as if he hadn't noticed. But a man and a woman emerged from behind a wagon and moved to block him. Henry stopped, and the thieves surrounded him with the casual competence of experienced muggers. The leader was a familiar barrel-chested woman with long, powerful arms and a heavy jaw. She nodded a greeting at him, and gestured with her long kosh. “Purse.”

Henry shook his head. His palms were sweating, but he drew his dagger. All of the robbers were armed, just like last time. He was honestly surprised they hadn’t all been hung by now. The boy's mind flicks back over his instruction, and he fell into a fighting stance. “I don't want trouble.”

The woman growled “Gi’s a purse den, ye' liddle shite.” She stepped forward, brandishing the kosh. Her comrades crowded a little closer, pulling long knives and crude clubs from their belts.