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captured as a sign of abject surrender, as if to say their lives were at their master’s disposal. There’s one thing, she reckoned, that hadn’t changed all that much over the years.)
    The picture scowled at her; which is to say, it scowled all the time, thanks to Pietro del Razo’s idea of a serene expression, but on this occasion it was more than usually appropriate.
    Why are you doing this?
    She curled her lip. ‘Listen, sister,’ she growled. ‘When you’ve been a painting as long as I have, you’ll know. Now stop pulling faces or you’ll frighten the baby.’
    Baby? What baby? I . . . Oh my God, how long’s that been there?
    â€˜Since thirteen ninety-something,’ Maria replied. ‘But it only bites if you annoy it. Bye for now.’
    She picked up the raincoat she’d found in Ms Esterling’s wardrobe, pulled it on over her bikini, left the office and hailed a taxi.
    â€˜Ciro’s,’ she said. ‘No hurry.’
    Fortunately, the driver seemed to know where Ciro’s was, because he didn’t try and argue the toss. They’d been driving for something like four minutes when Maria leaned forward and hammered on the glass partition with the heel of her hand.
    â€˜Stop!’ she shouted. ‘Here, as soon as you can.’
    She jumped out of the cab, not bothering to shut the door behind her, and sprinted up the street until she was standing directly underneath an advertising hoarding, on which was plastered a toothpaste advertisement. She looked up at it and narrowed her brows.
    â€˜What did you just say?’ she asked.
    â€˜Sh,’ replied the poster. ‘People are staring. Look, get rid of the taxi and come round the back where we can talk. All right?’
    Maria nodded and strolled back to the taxi.
    â€˜Excuse me.’
    â€˜Miss?’
    â€˜Could you possibly do me a favour?’
    â€˜Do me best, miss.’
    â€˜Thanks awfully. Right, here’s two hundred and fifty pounds. I want you to go to Ciro’s, find a party of eight Japanese men and buy them lunch. Do you think you could manage that for me?’
    The driver looked at her. ‘I’ll give it a go,’ he replied. ‘Japanese, you said.’
    Maria nodded. ‘Tell them you’ve taken over Mr Philips’ job, all right? That’s terribly sweet of you. Ciao.’
    The taxi drove off, swerving as it did so to avoid an oncoming van. Maria waited till it was out of sight, and then slipped into the nettle-infested space between the hoarding and the wall. Apart from the nettles, there were broken bottles, empty cans, some decomposing newspapers and a dead cat. All in all, it reminded Maria strongly of fourteenth-century Milan.
    â€˜Hello?’
    Ah, there you are. I was beginning to wonder where you’d got to.
    Maria bent down and rubbed a nettle-bitten ankle. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘I’m here now.What’s so important I’ve got to miss my free lunch?’
    A slight breath of wind rifted between the hoarding and the wall, making it tremble a little.
    Ah. Listen.

CHAPTER THREE

    Y ou know that moment in the high-budget adventure films where the hero’s just fallen through a trapdoor into a dark and sinister pit; and he strikes a match and looks around, and sees that the place is knee-deep in irritable poisonous snakes?
    Think what it’d be like the other way round. Imagine you were a decent, law-abiding puff-adder, and one moment you were sidling along mind your own business, and the next you found yourself in a dark, sinister pit full of heroes . . .
    A part of Artofel’s brain urged him not to overreact; they were, after all, just a load of humans, while he was a Duke of Hell and a member of the Infernal Council, with his own parking space with his name on it and his own key to the executive toilet; if there was any terror knocking around in this situation, he ought to be inspiring it