Note: This was used on me; it leached the strength from my body. But I was taken by surprise. It is wise to be on our guard against such a threat and not allow a haizda mage to get close. Perhaps a scarf worn across the mouth and nose would provide an effective defense. Or perhaps plugs of wax fitted into the nostrils.—Tom Ward

The following day I tried to settle back into my routine, but I soon became restless. Apart from the three hauntings that I’d investigated, each a direct result of the incursion by the haizda mage, things had been quiet for months.

The Battle of the Wardstone had resulted in the destruction of the Fiend, and the dark had now become unusually quiet in the County. But the god Talkus had been born, and the Kobalos would eventually wage a war to exterminate us.

That was what had obsessed Grimalkin. I doubted that she had been performing the routine work that was demanded of the Malkin witch assassin: dealing with the enemies of her clan. She was traveling and gathering information about our future Kobalos enemies. And now she could study this dead mage’s lair. It was good to have made a useful contribution—though I still wondered if I should have insisted on staying involved.

I was the Chipenden Spook, but I now had no clear task ahead of me. I was at a loose end, so I decided to visit Grimsargh and reclaim my tinderbox from the girl. It was a precious link between me and Dad, something that kept him in my mind. It had helped me out of difficult situations more than once.

I had been hoping for a bit more sun and warmth before the winter set in. The air was still cold for the time of year, but it was dry, so I set off southeast toward Grimsargh, striding out at a good pace.

As I approached the Calders’ cottage, Jenny opened the door, stepped outside, and closed it behind her. It was almost as if she knew I was coming. Had she been watching from behind the curtains? I wondered.

She met me about twenty paces from the door; she was carrying my tinderbox and held it out toward me.

“No doubt you’ve come for this,” she said sheepishly, avoiding my eyes.

“Of course I have,” I said brusquely. “It’s of great sentimental value. It belonged to my dad—it was the last thing he gave me before he died. . . . There’s one thing I want to ask you,” I went on, putting the tinderbox carefully into my bag. “Why did you run from the haunted house?”

“Does it matter?” she asked me, her voice bitter.

“Yes, it does. You were brave when dealing with the beast in the tree. I thought you’d have been brave when facing ghasts.”

“In the tree I was the creature’s prisoner. I had no choice in the matter.”

“No! I mean before that. You risked following it. You found out where its lair was.”