"Through here." Martin led them from his front door, down a short corridor and into a wide room. The first thing Ess noticed were the floor-to-ceiling windows that ran the entire thirty feet of the penthouse, through which the weak spring sun shone. Beyond the balcony she could make out the converted apartments on the far side of the Thames.

"My God, this is gorgeous," she said.

"Welcome to my garret," said Martin, flicking a short smile at Oz.

"Ye Gods. And you pay for this with your painting?" asked Oz. "How much would you charge for painting my living room wall?"

"Your wall? I did a mural for a New York bank last year. Oh, wait, this is a joke, right?"

"Well, one of us is taking the piss, that's for sure."

"It's a lovely view," said Ess.

"Yes. Daisy's work. She wanted to put in shrubs and stuff, but that would interfere with the light. We'd get into fights about it. Not real ones, just teasing, you know?"

Ess refocused, tearing her gaze from the river view to the balcony, alive with flowers.

"Gosh. Are those sweet William? Already?"

"Daisy does it. She can wake them up early. Plus it's a sun trap there. South facing. For the light. Do you want anything? Tea? Coffee?"

"No, we're fine."

"Right. Well, make yourself at home. I'll be back in a moment."

As he left the room Ess performed a slow pirouette. Three easels stood on plastic sheeting, facing the windows, though only one had a canvas on it, covered with a cloth. A large worktable stood in the centre of the room, covered in a mess of paints, brushes, tins and rags. Against the other three walls leant painting after painting, stacked against each other.

"He's a busy boy, at any rate," said Oz. He walked over to a stack of canvases and started leafing through them. "Who knew you could actually make money painting?"

"Oz, be nice," she said, though it was just a Pavlovian reaction. She was too absorbed by the faces that stared at her from three sides of the room. A couple she recognised. Many she didn't, but felt she would know the person the moment she met them from their portrait. And from quite a few Daisy stared back at her. Daisy laughing. Daisy staring at a distant horizon. Daisy looking innocent and devilish at the same time. Daisy draped in a sheet with a face that dared the onlooker to pull it free. The paintings all showed more than just the subject's features. Somehow they seemed to show an extended moment, a short clip of film frozen yet dynamic. You knew just by looking at the picture what had happened seconds before, and seconds after.

Martin returned.

"You wanted proof?" he said.

"What? Oh, yes." Ess blindly took the papers he handed her. "Martin, this is amazing. This is all just so beautiful. These pictures..." She waved a hand at the array, unable to express her feelings in a way that wouldn't seem understated or bland.

He shrugged. "Thanks." He waved at a couple. "They should go to my agent, I guess. That's a private commission, just waiting for him to come back in the country. Those need touching up, but I can't, not at the moment, not with Daisy - not with things like they are. And the others -" His eyes flicked from one Daisy to another. "Well, they're not for sale."

"I understand."

He shook his head. "No you don't. I mean, I can't. I can't finish, I can't start, I can't paint. I've not painted anything for a fortnight. I've not painted anyone except her for months."

"What about that one?" Ess pointed at the easel.

"That's crap." He stalked over to the easel and threw the cover aside. Ess joined him and looked at the canvas. Daisy stood there, naked, facing away from the viewer but looking cheekily over her shoulder. Around her buzzed an oil slick of colour.

"Oh, they're wings," she said.

"No, they're a shitty attempt to capture her wings, but it's crap." Martin grabbed the frame and hurled it across the floor.

"No!" Ess couldn't help it. It was such a sacrilegious act.

"It's crap. How can you capture something like that? You can't. I mean, I tried, my God I've tried, even when she was here, even when she was showing me, but how can you capture that?"

"Van Gogh and the sun," said Oz, putting a painting down.

"Yes, yes, that's it. She's my sun, in everything I paint and impossible to paint at the same time."

"Just remember what happened to him, old son. Obsession is all well and good, but you don't want to take it to extremes."

"Yeah, well, might be a bit late for that."

Oz walked over to the despondent artist, wrapped an arm around his shoulders and squeezed. Ess feared for his health and braced herself for the sound of breaking bones.

"Listen to a veteran of love, sunshine. I've been there. You can't keep it up. No one can, not like that. A man has only so much fuel to burn, like a match. Bang, and the things explodes, but then it settles down. Imagine a match that was all head. All explosion and no stamina. I want to ask you a question, and you won't like it, but this Daisy of yours. She's glamorous, right? I mean in every sense of the word. She can make herself seem like all your Christmases at once. Don't you think it's possible you've been flim-flammed into this?"

"You think I haven't thought of that? Of course I've been glamoured. Everyone who's ever met her has. Not deliberately, it's just the way it is. But it's different with us. She's glamoured me, but I've glamoured her. Not with magic, or maybe it's all magic, or whatever. It doesn't matter. It's how I feel, and she feels, even if she doesn't exactly feel it the same way. That still doesn't mean it's not real." He pushed Oz away and waved his hands as if to erase a board in front of him. "Whatever. I'm not good with words, not like a brush. But it is what it is, and that's what I have to deal with."

Embarrassed at the emotion, Ess turned away and looked at what was in her hands for the first time. There was a passport booth strip of photos, the sort every couple takes at some point. Martin and Daisy, crammed together in the tiny booth, laughed and kissed and pulled faces. In the final one a blur of wings framed them. With it was a letter, the script cursive and elegant. Ess glanced at the letter, then folded it, blushing. She turned, holding the letter and the photos out at arm's length.

"I believe you," she said. "I only read the first paragraph." She didn't want him to think she was prying. It had been enough. Too much.

Martin took them back and nodded. "Yeah. Doesn't take much. But that's her. She just says what she feels. Do you need the photos?"

"I'm pretty sure people will know who we're talking about. Besides, I'm not sure the wings would help."

Oz looked over Martin's shoulder.

"That's a neat trick. How does she do that? Her wings, I mean. Do they sort of retract or what?"

"No. If she wants you to see them, you do. If not, you don't. Not just people, but cameras too. They're still there, just not there." Martin waved his hand. "Magic."

Ess dug into her bag.

"Okay, Mister Prescott. We'll take on the case. No guarantees, though. We need to be up front and honest on that." She pulled out her notepad. "So we're going to need a few pointers, to get us started." She looked around. The studio was devoid of furniture. "Um..."

"Want to sit out there?" said Martin, cocking his head at the balcony. "We've got a swing. Daisy used to like -" He clamped his mouth shut and shook his head. "Daisy likes to sit out there."

"Sure."

They stepped out onto the balcony. He was right; it was a sun trap. Ess and Martin sat on a hanging bench, while Oz leant against the low balcony wall. Ess rested the notepad on her knee and clicked the pen.

"When did you last hear from her?"

"Three weeks ago. The Saturday. We went to a gallery. I owed the owner a favour and he was showcasing some new talent. She was there with someone or other. We left about ten, caught a cab back here. When I woke, she was gone."

"She didn't say goodbye?"

"No, but that's nothing unusual. She just does that. You can't tell when she's going to come or go, it just happens. And she always gets up with the sun. Not me. Not really a morning person."

"And after that? Do you know her movements?"

"She did a shoot with Nick on Tuesday, but that's all anyone's heard of her."

"Nick?"

"Nick Hever."

"Hever? You mean Lord Hever?" asked Oz. "The guy that does the royal snaps?"

"Yeah. I'll drop him a line if you think that's a useful line of enquiry."

"I think chatting to old Nick might be a start."

"Family?" said Ess, refusing to think about how Oz might behave in the presence of nobility.

"Regents Park. That's all I know."

"Friends?"

"Close friends? I don't know. No one special that I can think of. Just the usual crowd. Plus some fairies, I guess, but she never said."

"The usual crowd?"

"Yeah, you know. The people you meet at the parties, the exhibitions, that sort of thing."

"Oh, those."

"Look, I can get you in the next time something's on. I'll ask around. If you think that'll help."

"Sure. And a list of names and contacts, if you can. What about work? Who did she work for?"

"No agency will have her."

"Really?"

"Well, you can't blame them. She's not exactly reliable. She's got an agent, Terri Gibson, but all she does really is collect the money for her. Daisy's not exactly business woman of the year. If she likes a photographer's work, she'll turn up, but not necessarily the day he asked, or even if he asked at all." He sighed. "I'm not much help, am I."

Ess patted his hand and looked at his aura. The blues and purples drowned the colours that should be there.

"We'll find her," she said. "If anyone can, we will."