Tom’s body had been removed from the prince’s tent to a smaller one, slightly closer to the water. Guards surrounded it, and people sat about on the grass staring at it.

What did they want? Had they been there all night? I wondered.

I followed Grimalkin into the tent. Lanterns had been lit to dispel the gloom. Tom’s body, wrapped in a blanket, was lying on a low trestle table. His eyes were wide open, as if staring at the ceiling, but when I touched his face with the back of my hand, it felt ice cold.

I was not proud of the thoughts that drifted into my head. They came unbidden, but I couldn’t easily get rid of them. I wondered what would happen to me now. Here I was, alone in the far north, with no hope of returning soon. Would Grimalkin even take me back to the County? I had only been tolerated because I was Tom’s apprentice. She might well abandon me to my fate.

If I did manage to return home, I would have to live with my false mother and father in Grimsargh. I’d little hope of continuing my apprenticeship unless I could find some as yet unknown spook to train me. The others I’d met—Judd and Johnson—wouldn’t take me on; nor did I wish to be trained by them. So unless I could find some other way of making a living, I’d end up married off to some man who just wanted me to cook, clean, and look after our children until I was old and bitter like my foster parents.

I thrust those dark thoughts from my head and forced myself to concentrate on the task before me. Water was brought, and rags. But first we had to strip Tom’s clothes from him. It wasn’t easy, and Grimalkin used her knife to cut away his breeches. When the shirt was peeled off and the wound in his belly was revealed, Grimalkin gave a gasp of surprise.

“Bring the lantern nearer!” she commanded.

I hastened to obey, and when I returned to the table, she was tracing around the wound with her forefinger. There was something strange about it. It had almost closed up, but it appeared ridged, and what looked like scales had formed.

“If only I could have staunched the bleeding a little longer,” she said. “Perhaps I pulled the blade out too soon. . . . He would have healed himself, I’m sure of it. Do you see those scales? The process had started, but death ended it.”

“Yes, but why scales and not skin?”

“He has lamia blood in him, from his mother.”

“Lamia?” I said in puzzlement. “Isn’t a lamia a type of witch? Don’t they have wings?”

“The ones with wings are rare; mostly they crawl or walk. His mother raised him on a farm, and assumed human shape while he was young. Only later did she reveal the truth to him. She is dead now, and sadly he has not outlasted her by long.”