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basement. Fairy lights twinkled cosily around the room, illuminating a sagging sofa and widescreen TV, and the layer of film posters and concert flyers that obscured the walls. Gideon was there, holding court in the centre of a group of five or six people. They were admiring something he had on display. A helmet or muzzle of some kind. It was a witch’s bridle.
    As Lucas drew closer, Gideon looked up and met his eye. He smiled. ‘Come and have a look at this, Stearne. You’ll find it quite an education.’
    And Lucas knew that Gideon had not forgotten the incident with the balefire film any more than he had.
    As a matter of fact, Lucas had seen such contraptions before. The bridle was a kind of iron cage for the head, with a metal curb fitted to project into the mouth and hold down the tongue. On this example the curb was plain and flat, but some came studded with spikes, so as to draw blood if the wearer attempted to speak. For many years, people thought witchwork was primarily accomplished through the spelling out of words. They knew better now, but the real point of the bridle was its material. Iron constrained fae. Nowadays, iron cuffs were worn by witches who chose to renounce their fae and live ordinary lives. But in times past, the bridles were used as ready-to-wear, portable prisons.
    ‘This one’s an early nineteenth-century model,’ Gideon was saying, ‘and what’s unusual is the way wrist restraints have been incorporated into the design.’ He held up a chain attached to the back, which ended in a pair of handcuffs. Although the bridle was opened and shut by a simple clasp, the imprisoned witch would not be able to reach up to use it. ‘It would have been state of the art in its day. And just look at the decorative work.’ He gestured to the iron bands, which bore a patterning of birds and flowers. ‘Must’ve been made by a true craftsman.’
    ‘A higher class of torturer,’ Lucas agreed.
    Gideon’s pale eyes were almost colourless in the dim light. ‘People did what they had to do. It was a harsher world back then.’
    ‘And not much has changed since,’ said one of the girls, to murmurs of agreement. ‘Look what happened today with that MP’s office.’
    ‘We might face the same threat,’ Lucas replied, ‘but at least we’ve got better tools.’
    ‘“ We’ve got better tools?”’ Gideon drawled. ‘Funny – I didn’t know you were already an inquisitor, Stearne. Unless there’s an alternative fast-track scheme I don’t know about. Something Daddy’s running, perhaps.’
    Lucas could tell from the ripples of amusement that this was one occasion when he didn’t have the room on his side. Even Tom kept quiet.
    ‘Now,’ Gideon continued, briskly marking the end of the exchange, ‘who’d like a go in the bridle? Any budding witches want to be my victim?’
    People looked round at each other, a little uncertainly. Several girls giggled.
    ‘I’ll try it,’ Nell Dawson announced. She was normally a rather quiet person, but she had just downed a glass of wine, and was tossing her hair about in what was no doubt intended to be a reckless manner. When Gideon looked her way, she blushed violently.
    ‘Good girl.’ He touched her cheek, and Nell blushed again. Slowly, she lowered her head in submission.
    The room was very still as Gideon put the bridle on.
    ‘Open wide,’ he said.
    Nell opened her mouth and Gideon slid the metal curb on to her tongue. Then, less gently, he pulled her arms behind her back, clamping her wrists into the manacles. She made a small muffled sound.
    ‘How’s it feel, Nell?’ various people asked, and she managed a lopsided shrug.
    ‘Haunted, I expect,’ Gideon remarked. ‘Think of all the witches it’s silenced.’
    ‘Careful, Nell,’ said someone. ‘You wouldn’t want to catch anything nasty.’
    ‘Yeah,’ said someone else. ‘Maybe she’ll come down with the fae.’
    ‘Oooh – any harpies in the Dawson bloodline we should know