Her heart was beating so hard and fast she had to stop part-way down the staircase and sag against the banister until she’d breathed herself calm again. Then she looked and listened down the stairs. Silence, still. A miracle of sorts. Lord Danfey must be sleeping. And perhaps Rumm had gone somewhere on an errand. Prompted by the notion, she looked back up to the fourth floor.

Somewhere above her, beneath the mansion’s roof, was Morgan Danfey’s attic workroom, where he pursued his mysterious magework. She needed to see it. If she was going to learn the man, what better place to study him?

Motionless as a doe in a thicket when the hounds sniff the air, she waited. Listened. The silence persisted. Not even a servant’s drabbling broke the hush. This might be her only chance.

And if I don’t take it, I know I’ll be sorry.

She tucked the tin of beeswax and the polishing rag in a shadowed corner of the third landing, then hurried back up the stairs. The councillor’s hair clasp bounced heavy in her pocket. Past the fourth floor landing the stair treads quickly narrowed, plunging into darkness without the smallest flicker of glimfire to light the way.

The landing at the top of the last stair-flight was a miserly disc. Pausing, she listened again then, reassured, continued along the dark corridor. The uncarpeted wooden floor creaked, loud as a purloined shopkeeper’s shriek. She paused again, heart lambasting her ribs… but no, she was safe. Only the corridor was so gloomy she could hardly make out the wall right beside her, never mind the door that must lie at its end.

Tentative, she walked on, trailing her fingertips at waist height along the old, rustling wallpaper. She felt bumps and blisters, little tears, a few gaps. The plaster beneath the paper was old and dry. Dusty. And then she stopped, abruptly, because in the darkness before her she could feel the attic door, a muffled whisper of power like a faint breeze against her skin. It was warded, which meant she couldn’t get into the workroom beyond.

Unbidden, her fingers crept into her pocket to close around Morgan Danfey’s enamelled hair clasp. Another muffled whisper, the echo of an echo. Caught between the soundings she closed her eyes and felt his magic… even though she wasn’t meant to feel anything at all.

And what does that mean? Why can I feel it? Why can I feel him when his binding won’t let me feel anyone or anything else?

She didn’t know. Wasn’t even sure the why mattered. There might be a way she could use it to her advantage. That was what mattered.