Ptolemy's Gate by Jonathan Stroud Read Free Book Online

… made any other mistakes, sir,” she said haltingly, “what would have—?”
    â€œOh, gracious—I wouldn’t worry your head about that. You didn’t, and that’s what counts. Have a chocolate digestive.” He indicated the plate between them. “Settles the stomach, I find.”
    She took a biscuit, dunked it in her tea. “But why did it attack me?” she said, frowning. “Surely it must have been able to tell that the pentacle’s defenses would come into force.”
    Her master chuckled. “Who can say? Perhaps it hoped you would flinch out of the circle as it leaped: that would have instantly destroyed its prison and allowed it to devour you. Notice that it had already tried two childish stratagems to persuade you to leave the pentacle. Hum, it was not a sophisticated djinni. But perhaps it had grown tired of bondage; perhaps it simply wished to die.” He eyed the dregs at the bottom of his teacup musingly. “Who can tell? We understand so little about demons, about what makes them tick. They are hard to fathom. Is there any more in the pot?”
    Kitty inspected it. “Nope. I’ll make some more.”
    â€œIf you would, dear Lizzie, if you would. You might pass me that copy of Trismegistus on your way out. He has some interesting notes on succubi, if I recall.”
    Chill air bit into her as she entered the passage and stomped down to the kitchen. There, leaning close to the blue gas flame hissing beneath the kettle, her self-control finally slackened. She began to tremble—proper heavy body-shuddering shakes that made her grasp the work surface for support.
    She closed her eyes. The demon’s open jaws plummeted toward her. She opened them again at speed.
    A paper bag of fruit sat beside the sink. Mechanically she took an apple and ate it, gulping it down desperately in great rough chunks. She took another, and finished it more slowly, staring sightlessly at the wall.
    Her trembling subsided. The kettle whistled. Jakob was right, she thought, rinsing her mug under an icy stream of water. I’m an idiot. Nobody but a fool would do this. Nobody but a fool.
    But a fool could still be lucky. And so far, for three long years, her luck had held.
    Since the day when her death had been reported and accepted, and the authorities had sealed their file on her with a blob of hot black wax, Kitty had never once left London. No matter that her good friend Jakob Hyrnek, safe with relatives in Bruges and working as a jeweler, sent her imploring epistles weekly, begging her to come and live with him. No matter that his family urged her, during their secretive, irregular meetings, to leave the dangers of the city and start her life afresh. No matter that her common sense cried out to her that she could do nothing useful on her own. Kitty was undeterred. In London she remained.
    Stubborn she still might be, but her old recklessness was now swathed with caution. Everything from her appearance to her daily routine was carefully judged to avoid arousing the suspicions of the authorities. This was essential, since for Kitty Jones existence was itself a crime. To conceal herself from the eyes of those few who knew her, she had cropped her dark hair short and wore it in a bob beneath her cap. She kept tight rein on her mobile features, no matter what the provocation; she did her best to be dull-eyed, stone-faced, nothing but a numeral in a crowd.
    Though perhaps a little thinner in the face from overwork and lack of inessential food, though perhaps a little lined around the eyes, she still possessed the same mercurial energies that had borne her into the Resistance and out again, alive. They supported her in pursuit of a certain ambitious project, and in the maintenance of no fewer than two false identities.
    She had taken lodgings on the third floor of a dilapidated West London town house, in a street near the munitions factories. Above and below her