So I said them, silently, inside my head.

Thank you for taking me on as your apprentice, Tom Ward, and for giving me a second chance when I ran from the ghasts. I’ll miss you. You didn’t deserve to die like this. And you would have become a really good spook, one of the best ever—your master would have been proud of you. Thank you for having faith in me. . . .

Suddenly my doubts fled, and I made up my mind. Tom had believed in me and had wanted to train me to the best of his ability. So I would go on, despite my hatred of Judd Brinscall.

I’ll do my best to be a good spook too. Thank you for setting me on the right path. Thank you for everything.

I glanced at Tom’s coffin, which had been set down next to the grave, beside the mound of earth from the excavation. It was hard to believe that his body was lying inside it, cold and still, and would soon be interred in the damp earth. I would go back to Chipenden with Grimalkin while he stayed here, and soon winter would be upon us; snow would cover his grave.

I tried to put the depressing thought from my mind, telling myself that the contents of the coffin were just Tom’s remains. By now his soul would have passed through limbo and gone to the light. But he was so young. He hadn’t had time to live his life fully. That was what made me sad; that, and the loss of the master who would have trained me, guided me, and eventually become a colleague—and maybe, if I was really lucky, a close friend.

I glanced at the headstone and read what had been carved upon it.

HERE LIETH PRINCE THOMAS OF CASTER,

A BRAVE WARRIOR

WHO FELL IN COMBAT

BUT TRIUMPHED WHERE OTHERS FAILED

The final two lines were a warped assessment of what had happened. It seemed no triumph to me. This was all a terrible mistake, and now the lie was inscribed forever upon his gravestone. Tom was a young spook who had fought the dark . . . this should have been mentioned.

I heard a deep growl of thunder and looked up. Dark clouds were above us; the storm was almost here. Moments later, it began to rain hard, and there was a flash of lightning almost directly overhead, along with a boom of thunder that seemed to shake the ground beneath our feet.

The magowie was still chanting, but his voice could not compete with the storm. The pounding rain drenched my hair and clothes. I wondered if the prayers would be cut short—the priest would have neither the nerve nor the sense to curtail the service, but a nod from the prince should be enough.

I glanced at him, but in the gathering gloom his face was impassive. He seemed content to stand there, getting soaked to the skin. It was growing really dark—we’d need lanterns soon.