‘Months with you doing nothing to avenge my parents,’ said Clariel. She could feel the rage rising in her again. It was unbearable to be treated in such a way, to be put somewhere safe without any thought for her own desires and feelings. She took a deep breath and managed to hold it, Tyriel watching her carefully, his sun-wrinkled eyes narrowed.

‘Caution is a virtue,’ he said, as she finally let the breath out, very slowly. ‘Kilp will pay for his misdeeds in due course, but you must be patient. Read the book on controlling your rage. Rest. Enjoy the gardens, and the fishing. Grieve for your parents.’

‘I will,’ said Clariel. ‘That I will certainly do. But I will not stay here. No matter what you think.’

The Abhorsen sighed.

‘You will. You might even thank me in time.’

He took a step towards the gate then paused, looked at the silver bottle under his arm, and handed it to the sending.

‘Take this to the usual place.’

The sending took it, with a curious meshing of the Charter marks that limned and defined its fingers with those wreathing the bottle. Tyriel looked at Clariel again, gave her a glance she couldn’t decipher, and went out. The sending closed the gate after Tyriel, before striding off quickly towards the house, carrying the bottle at arm’s length.

‘Where do I go?’ called out Clariel. She tried to lift the bar on the gate, as a test. It was stuck fast, so immobile it might as well all be one piece that never moved, even though Clariel had seen it open easily enough a few moments before.

Another sending appeared at her elbow, coalescing out of the path of rosy, faded bricks. This one had the appearance of a cowled figure, only its hands and a shadowed face visible under a dark robe. It appeared human save to close inspection, when the Charter marks that made up its strange skin and even its clothes could be seen.

The sending beckoned, and started towards the blue-painted door of the main house. Clariel looked at the gate and the sky above, then followed wearily.