When they step through the wall, it's into a yellowish grey glow of daytime filtered through thick fog. It stinks of exhaust and wood smoke, and the air through which it wafts is clammy and cold.

"Damn it." She grabs Harrow by the hand and spins around to the wall from which they stepped, pulling Harrow through the first door she feels. They step into a Victorian mews that is strewn with drying laundry on clotheslines.

"Sorry about that," she says, letting go of her hand. "That was a killer fog. It floats about sometimes."