CHAPTER 22
Longinus had never felt so grateful for Cruikshank’s workshop, sodden to the bone as he was. Cruikshank was working, although for once she didn’t look like she was heralding the apocalypse. Instead she was at her workbench, tinkering with pliers so fine they looked like tweezers, two bright vapour lamps on either side of her.
“How did it go?” she asked, without turning from her bench.
“Your curiosity will have to wait until I’m changed,” replied Longinus.
Once he was dry, changed, and feeling almost human, he returned downstairs. Rory handed him a chipped porcelain mug. “Here,” she said.
“Ah, Cruikshank’s famous approximation of coffee,” said Longinus. He sipped at it and grimaced. It was burnt and bitter, and so hot it scalded the inside of his mouth. Still, he needed a li
