Severn was in the hall; Kaylin saw that he’d unwound his weapon chain, which made no sense in a space this small—the chain couldn’t spin without embedding the blades in the wall. “I’ve been following your investigation,” he said, as he looked through the doorframe. “This is going to lead to some very, very unhappy Barrani.”

“Why?”

“Because, as Teela is beginning to realize, we can’t abandon the Azoria part of your investigation.”

“No,” a familiar—and disembodied voice—said. “You can’t. Teela is being careful, but it’s in her best interests to leave that room immediately.”

“Hello, Terrano. I’m surprised Jamal isn’t throwing half the house at your head.”

“He’d have to see it,” Terrano replied smugly.

“I can see him,” Jamal said, from down the hall. “You can’t?”

“No. He’s greatly improved by invisibility.” Kaylin waited for Teela to leave the room; the Barrani Hawk shut the door firmly behind her. She turned to Kaylin, or so Kaylin thought. When she spoke, however, she spoke to the familiar.

“Can you protect her if the flower truly blossoms?” The words were formal, almost stilted, the cadence slightly off.

Hope squawked, but the sound was muted, almost devoid of the usual irritation that made him sound like an angry bird.

“I can take care of myself.”

The next series of squawks were the usual ones.

“She’s got me,” Terrano said, his face absent the usual smug grin.

Kaylin wanted to shriek. “Tell me what’s going on, someone?”

“We will—but not here.”

“Is Mrs. Erickson going to be safe here?”

“Demonstrably. She’s lived here for the entirety of her life. I will, however, emphasize that she should not attempt to enter this room; her children are right.”

“But she used to use that room all the time while her parents lived.”

“We’ll talk about that later.” Teela was pale, her eyes midnight blue, her hands slightly curved in fists. She turned to Severn and said, “It is not a room you should enter while you bear those weapons.”

He nodded.

“I’m sorry—we couldn’t carry the painting out of the room,” Kaylin told Mrs. Erickson. The older woman had finished baking a tray of cookies, although by the look of it, more trays would follow. The baking that had been the only good part of a long day at the front desk made Kaylin’s mouth water.

“At this point, we’d like to ask you to follow the children’s lead. Don’t enter the room. Unless one of us is here, don’t open the door.”

Mrs. Erickson looked concerned, but nodded resolutely.

“When was the portrait painted, do you remember?”

“I must have been eleven. Perhaps a bit older—it was a long time ago.”

“Do you remember who the painter was?”