They marched through the streets to the eastern edge of town and the black, granite offices of the Trans-Siberian Mining Company. At the bottom of the front steps they stopped to look up at the two gas flames billowing like orange silk on either side of the oak doors. ‘Stone keeps them burning because he can afford to,’ said Verity. ‘He likes people to remember who has all the wealth and power around here.’ India, who was used to never feeling warm in their dank London cottage, was shocked by the waste of fuel. Inside, the building smelled of waxed wood and polished brass. Verity marched up to a fat guard, who was seated behind an ornate desk, cleaning his ears with a pencil. ‘I need to see the Director immediately,’ she said, flashing her business card at him and leaning across the desk menacingly. ‘I have some important information that he’s going to want to hear straight away.’ The guard inspected the end of the pencil and then peered suspiciously at Calculus.
