She stops at the heavy wooden door to Quinton’s office and pulls a key from her cardigan pocket. “Yes, and I’m sure you want to show him just how infuriating he is. While in his bed. With no clothes on.”

I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out. I don’t expect that kind of comeback from someone as innocent as Laasya.

An opposite door opens, and two women step into the corridor. Both wear the same brown linen dresses as Laasya, their salt-and-pepper dreadlocks piled high with leather ties. When they spot us, they walk straight over.

Laasya stiffens and pushes me behind her, but she greets the two witches with a friendly cheek kiss. They turn to me with immediate interest.

“Is this the Wielder?” asks the older lady with quick brown eyes.

“Yes. Tulsy, Petre, this is Michael. We really must go.”

The women hustle past her and peer up at me. I feel like a rare curiosity under their squinting gazes. A prickle passes over my neck, and I sense the fumble of fingers poking into my mind.

Laasya grabs my arm. “Yes, well, it’s very nice to see you, but we must get on.”

Without thought, I stamp an imaginary foot at them both.

The fingers jerk away, and the eldest witch blinks, stepping back.

“Bye.” Laasya shoves me into the room and slams the door behind her.

She leans back against it, straightening her glasses. “I’m sorry about that. They were attempting to read your mind. It’s not allowed, but witches don’t have many scruples when it comes to collecting gossip.”

“Yeah, I noticed.” Note to self, avoid witches. “Can you read my mind?”

Laasya sighs, shoulders sagging. “It’s an ability that never developed for me. But every other witch in Blackriver is psychic to some extent. So I think we should just avoid them from now on.”

I quirk my head in agreement. “Sounds good.” I don’t want some random witch seeing what happened in the cage. They’ll think I’m in league with Alexei. I know I’ll have to face Quinton’s all-seeing gaze soon, but I’ll deal with that when I get there.

The councilor’s office hasn’t changed since I was last here. Dust still covers every surface. It still smells of burnt paper and chlorine. The line of fancy pens, the inkwell, the stack of papers are in exactly the same position on the desk. Something about that memory causes a shudder. I don’t know why it should. Quinton is eccentric and unsettling, but he’s been friendly so far.