Richard followed the path between the burning candles, which led him through the angel's vault to the Great Hall. He recognized his surroundings: this was where they had drunk Islington's wine: an octagon of iron pillars supporting the stone roof above them, the huge black stone and metal door, the old wooden table, the candles.
    Door was chained up, spread-eagled between two pillars beside the flint and silver door. She stared at him as he came in, her odd-colored pixie eyes wide and scared. The Angel Islington, standing beside her, turned and smiled at Richard as he entered. That was the most chilling thing of all: the gentle compassion, the sweetness of that smile.
    "Come in, Richard Mayhew. Come in," said the Angel Islington. "Dear me. You do look a mess." There was honest concern in its voice. Richard hesitated. "Please." The angel gestured, curling a white forefinger, urging him further in. "I think we all know each other. You know the Lady Door, of course, and my associates, Mister Croup, Mister Vandemar." Richard turned. Croup and Vandemar were standing on each side of him. Mr. Vandemar smiled at him. Mr. Croup did not. "I was hoping you would show up," continued the angel. It tipped its head on one side, and asked, "By the bye, where is Hunter?"
    "She's dead," said Richard. He heard Door gasp.
    "Oh. The poor dear," said Islington. It shook its head sadly, obviously regretting the senseless loss of human life, the frailty of all mortals born to suffer and to die.
    "Still," said Mr. Croup chirpily. "Can't make an omelette without killing a few people."
    Richard ignored them, as best he could. "Door? Are you all right?"
    "More or less, thanks. So far." Her lower lip was swollen, and there was a bruise on her cheek.
    "I am afraid," said Islington, "that Miss Door was proving a little intransigent. I was just discussing having Mister Croup and Mister Vandemar . . . " It paused. There were obviously some things it found distasteful actually to say.
    "Torture her," suggested Mr. Vandemar, helpfully.
    "We are," said Mr. Croup, "after all, famed across the entirety of creation for our skill in the excrutiatory arts."
    "Good at hurting people," clarified Mr. Vandemar.
    The angel continued, staring intently at Richard as it spoke, as if it had heard neither of them. "But then, Miss Door does not strike me as someone who will easily change her mind."
    "Give us time enough," said Mr. Croup. "We'd break her."
    "Into little wet pieces," said Mr. Vandemar.
    Islington shook his head and smiled indulgently at this display of enthusiasm. "No time," it said to Richard, "no time. However, she does strike me as someone who would indeed act to end the pain and suffering of a friend, a fellow mortal, such as yourself, Richard . . . " Mr. Croup hit Richard in the stomach, then: a vicious rabbit punch to the gut, and Richard doubled up. He felt Mr. Vandemar's fingers on the back of his neck, pulling him back to a standing position.
    "But it's wrong," said Door.
    Islington looked thoughtful. "Wrong?" it said, puzzled and amused.
    Mr. Croup pulled Richard's head close to his, and smiled his graveyard smile. "He's traveled so far beyond right and wrong he couldn't see them with a telescope on a nice clear night," he confided. "Now Mister Vandemar, if you'll do the honors?"
    Mr. Vandemar took Richard's left hand in his. He took Richard's little finger between his huge fingers and bent it back until it broke. Richard cried out.
    The angel turned, slowly. It seemed distracted by something. It blinked its pearl gray eyes. "There's someone else out there. Mister Croup?" There was a dark shimmer where Mr. Croup had been, and he was there no longer.

    The marquis de Carabas was flattened against the side of the red granite cliff, staring at the oak doors that led into Islington's dwelling.
    Plans and plots whirled through his head, each scheme fizzling out uselessly as he imagined it. He had thought he would have known what to do when he got to this point, and he was discovering, to his disgust, that he had absolutely no idea. There were no more favors to call in, no levers to press or buttons to push, so he scrutinized the doors and wondered whether they were guarded, whether the angel would know if they were opened. There had to be an obvious solution he was missing, if only he thought hard enough: perhaps something would occur to him. At least, he thought, slightly cheered, he had surprise on his side.
    That was until he felt the cold point of a sharp knife placed against his throat, and he heard Mr. Croup's oily voice whispering in his ear. "I already killed you once today," it was saying. "What does it take to teach some people?"

    Richard was manacled and chained between a pair of iron pillars when Mr. Croup returned, prodding the marquis de Carabas with his knife. The angel looked at the marquis, with disappointment on its face, then, gently, it shook its beautiful head. "You told me he was dead," it said.
    "He is," said Mr. Vandemar.
    "He was," corrected Mr. Croup.
    The angel's voice was a fraction less gentle and less caring. "I will not be lied to," it said.
    "We don't lie," said Mr. Croup, affronted.
    "Do," said Mr. Vandemar.
    Mr. Croup ran a grimy hand through his filthy orange hair, in exasperation. "Indeed we do. But not this time."
    The pain in Richard's hand showed no indication of subsiding. "How can you behave like this?" he asked, angrily. "You're an angel."
    "What did I tell you, Richard?" asked the marquis, drily.
    Richard thought. "You said, Lucifer was an angel."
    Islington smiled superciliously. "Lucifer?" it said. "Lucifer was an idiot. It wound up lord and master of nothing at all."
    The marquis grinned. "And you wound up lord and master of two thugs and a roomful of candles?"
    The angel licked its lips. "They told me it was my punishment for Atlantis. I told them there was nothing more I could have done. The whole affair was . . . " it paused, as if it were hunting for the correct word. And then it said, with regret, "Unfortunate."
    "But millions of people were killed," said Door.
    Islington clasped its hands in front of its chest, as if it were posing for a Christmas card. "These things happen," it explained, reasonably.
    "Of course they do," said the marquis, mildly, the irony implicit in his words, not in his voice. "Cities sink every day. And you had nothing to do with it?"
    It was as if the lid had been pulled off something dark and writhing: a place of derangement and fury and utter viciousness; and, in a time of scary things, it was the most frightening thing Richard had seen. The angel's serene beauty cracked; its eyes flashed; and it screamed at them, crazy-scary and uncontrolled, utterly certain in its righteousness, _"They deserved it."_
    There was a moment of silence. And then the angel lowered its head, and sighed, and raised its head, and said, very quietly and with deep regret, "Just one of those things." Then it pointed to the marquis. "Chain him up," it said.
    Croup and Vandemar fastened manacles around the marquis's wrists, and chained the manacles securely to the pillars beside Richard. The angel had turned its attention back to Door. It walked over to her, reached out its hand, placed it beneath her pointed chin, and raised her head, to stare into her eyes. "Your family," it said, gently. "You come from a very unusual family. Quite remarkable."
    "Then why did you have us killed?"
    "Not all of you," it said. Richard thought it was talking about Door, but then it said, "There was always the possibility that you might not have . . . worked out as well as you did." It released her chin and stroked her face with long, white fingers, and it said, "Your family can open doors. They can create doors where there were no doors. They can unlock doors that are locked. Open doors that were never meant to be opened." It ran its fingers down her neck, gently, as if it were caressing her, then closed its hand on the key about her neck. "When I was sentenced here, they gave me the door to my prison. And they took the key to the door, and put it down here too. An exquisite form of torture." It rugged, gently, on the chain, pulling it out from under Door's layers of silk and cotton and lace, revealing the silver key; and then it ran its fingers over the key, as if it were exploring her secret places.
    Richard knew, then. "The Black Friars were keeping the key safe from you," he said.
    Islington let go of the key. Door was chained up beside the door made of black flint and tarnished silver. The angel walked to it, and placed a hand on it, white against the blackness of the door. "From me," agreed Islington. "A key. A door. An opener of the door. There must be the three, you see: a particularly refined sort of joke. The idea being that when they decided I had earned forgiveness and my freedom, they would send me an opener, and give me the key. I just decided to take matters into my own hands, and will be leaving a little early."
    It turned back to Door. Once more it caressed the key. Then it closed its hand about the key and tugged, hard. The chain snapped. Door winced. "I spoke first to your father, Door," the angel continued. "He worried about the Underside. He wanted to unite London Below, to unite the baronies and fiefdoms--perhaps even to forge some kind of bond with London Above. I told him I would help him, if he would help me. Then I told him the nature of the help I needed, and he laughed at me." It repeated the words, as if it still found them impossible to believe. "He laughed. At me."
    Door shook her head. "You killed him because he turned you down?"
    "I didn't kill him," Islington corrected her, gently. "I had him killed."
    "But he told me I could trust you. He told me to come here. In his journal."
    Mr. Croup began to giggle. "He didn't," he said. "He never did. That was us. What was it he actually said, Mister Vandemar?"
    "Door, child, fear Islington," said Mr. Vandemar, with her father's voice. The voice was exact. "Islington's got to be behind all this. It's dangerous, Door-- keep away from it--"
    Islington caressed her cheek, with the key. "I thought my version would get you here a little faster."
    "We took the journal," said Mr. Croup. "We fixed it, and we returned it."
    "Where does the door lead to?" called Richard.
    "Home," said the angel.
    "Heaven?"
    And Islington said nothing, but it smiled.
    "So, you figure they won't notice you're back?" sneered the marquis. "Just, 'Oh look, there's another angel, here, grab a harp and on with the hosannas'?"
    Islington's gray eyes were bright. "Not for me the smooth agonies of adulation, of hymns and halos and self-satisfied prayers," it said. "I have . . . my own agenda."
    "Well, now you've got the key," said Door.
    "And I have you," said the angel. "You're the opener. Without you the key is useless. Open the door for me."
    "You killed her family," said Richard. "You've had her hunted through London Below. Now you want her to open a door for you so you can single-handedly invade Heaven? You're not much of a judge of character, are you? She'll never do it."
    The angel looked at him then, with eyes older than the Milky Way. Then it said, "Ah me,&qu............