The only light source came from a glow lamp sitting on a desk where papers and books lay strewn. The edges of the room were steeped in darkness. Upon a long workbench sat implements for experimentation, strange looking things made of wires and tubes that passed fluids from one bell jar to another. There were magnifying glasses, and contraptions of sharp, twisted metal. Above the bench, shelves were filled with bottles and jars, the contents hidden in the gloomy light.

There was a smell in the room, a smell Clara did not care for.

She noticed her medicine tin sitting on the desk like a paperweight.

'This is my laboratory,' Hamir said. 'And there is someone here I believe you know.'

At the back of the room, a ceiling prism glared into life and shone down onto a square glass tank. It was no more than four-foot high, wide and deep, filled from top to bottom with murky water. The naked body of a man was trapped in the water. Twisted and contorted, his fat was pressed up against the walls of the tank. His face, unshaven and flabby, stared out at Clara, cross-eyed and vacant, his nose flattened against the glass. It was a face she knew all too well.

'Fat Jacob,' she whispered.

Hamir cleared his throat. 'If you have any lingering doubts as to who sold you to Charlie Hemlock, Clara, then you need not doubt any longer.'

Clara's hands began to tremble. 'Why are you showing me this?'

Hamir brushed past her to stand before the tank and spoke with his back to her.

'I have been trying to ascertain who Charlie Hemlock is working for,' he said. 'Who is it, Clara, that purchased you from your former employer?'

Clara swallowed, shook her head, but made no reply.

Hamir continued. 'Unfortunately, Jacob here also says he does not know who employed Charlie Hemlock. However, he has told me an interesting story about a spectre. Jacob claims he was recently visited by a ghost made of blue light, and this ghost told him that you were ... special, shall we say?'

Special? Did Hamir know she was a changeling?

'Does that mean anything to you, Clara? Have you seen any ghosts lately?'

What was he talking about? 'No,' she said, but it sounded more like a grunt.

'Ah, then the mystery remains.'

In the tank, Fat Jacob suddenly flinched and his eyes gained focus. He looked as Clara, and the recognition in his eyes was full of panic, full of pain and hatred. His body shook, and pink, slug-like fat splayed as he tried in vain to escape his prison. Bubbles streamed from his mouth, but his scream was muffled by water and glass.

Hamir's chuckle was frightening in its amiability. 'Jacob feels quite ready to die, but until he decides to be more cooperative ...' He clucked his tongue. 'Well, I can keep him on the brink of death for as long as I choose. I can keep filling his lungs with air, giving him false hope that he might just live yet, and then drown him again. A thousand times over, if I so choose.'

Fat Jacob's eyes rolled back and he shuddered as water again filled his lungs.

The owner of the Lazy House was a heartless bastard, but Clara could not have wished such torture on anyone.

The ceiling prism darkened, and the tank fell into shadows once more. Hamir turned to face Clara. Although his expression remained impassive, the bright green of his eyes swirled and darkened as if ink had been dripped into them. The scar on his forehead practically glowed in the dimness.

'Waste no sympathy on your former employer, Clara. However, I sincerely hope that you are feeling more cooperative than you were in Captain Jeter's interrogation room.'

Clara had heard stories about necromancy and the magic-users who liked to play with death. But the Resident, the governor of this town, practising death magic in his home? Allowing this aide to perform it? In that moment she feared for her life. The blood in her veins was the blood of a changeling; it was a priceless substance to magic-users, perhaps most especially to necromancers. She looked at the scab on her forearm. Evidently, Hamir had already taken some.

'Why have you brought me here?' Clara's voice was tight. 'What does the Resident want with me?'

Hamir bobbed his head in a quick bow. He backed away a few paces and his eyes returned to their bright green colour. He smiled at Clara as a new voice spoke from the room's shadows.

'A magicker is an illegal presence under the law of Labrys Town,' it said.

Clara swung around, but could not see anyone else in the room.

The voice continued, deep and resonant, confident and precise. 'For the time being, you have been allowed to enter the Nightshade under amnesty. This, you understand, is at the behest of a mutual friend. Yet I wonder – why should I trust you?'

The shadows wavered and an imposing figure stepped into the room, carrying a cane of deep green glass. Tall and broad, he was dressed in a loose shirt and trousers that shimmered and flowed as if reflecting the night sky. The dim light shone off the dark brown skin of his shaven head. On his strong face, two dull metal plates covered his eyes. Seemingly fused to the bone of the sockets, they glared with reflected light.

Somewhere deep inside her head, Clara felt Marney's lingering presence. But it gave no comfort as the dark, imposing man towered over her.

'Van-Van Bam?' she asked meekly.

He cocked his head to one side and held his green cane across his thighs. 'Welcome to my home, Peppercorn Clara.'