Ravel felt a shifty stab of panic. Indigo had an inquisitive new hobby. He’d taken to chopping things into pieces and this was not, Ravel felt, quite sane. More than that, it was rank with menace. Ravel wavered: ‘Indigo,’ he whispered, ‘what are you doing?’ In a dilapidated mansion overrun by rats, Ravel and Indigo Kesby have gone to war. In this house, there’s no such thing as brotherly love.