Tenebrae chuckled and Craven bristled. “What I mean to say is that while she may have the makings of a fine sorcerer, I have yet to be convinced that she will ever have the power to become the Death Bringer and initiate the Passage. And even if she does have that potential, she is, as you say, not even seventeen. She won’t experience the Surge for another three or four years. You want us to wait four years to see if she might be strong enough?”

“You have an alternative to waiting?” Wreath asked. “Did someone invent a time machine while I wasn’t looking?”

“Your sarcasm notwithstanding, I think it would be a mistake to put too much faith in a girl so heavily under the influence of Skulduggery Pleasant. Besides which, we have plenty of our own candidates. Take my protégée, for example. I believe that Melancholia St Clair has been showing signs of definite—”

“Melancholia?” Tenebrae interrupted. “You’re still insisting on her? Cleric, I haven’t seen anything special about that girl at all. The only extraordinary quality she seems to possess is the ability to look extraordinarily annoyed whenever I see her. Which hasn’t been for quite some months now.”

“Begging your pardon, High Priest, but I have been spending a lot of time as her personal tutor, and I think she could be the one.”

Tenebrae sat back in his chair. “You’re tutoring her?”

“Yes, High Priest.”

“But I thought you wanted her to excel,” Tenebrae said, laughing while Wreath smirked. Craven’s face burned, but he managed a grateful smile nonetheless.

“Waste your time however you want,” Tenebrae said, waving his hand. “But right now, the Cain girl seems to be the one viable possibility we have. No other Temple around the world has any candidates of worth. All eyes are resting on us. Cleric Wreath, I hope she doesn’t let us down.”

“As do I, Your Eminence,” Wreath said, nodding instead of bowing. Tenebrae didn’t seem to mind.

Craven stormed into the depths of the Temple, replaying the conversation in his head, substituting the things he had said with the things he wished he had said. They were so much better, all the caustic witticisms that occurred to him afterwards. They made him sound strong and smart and in control. In his imagination, he never blushed.

He reached the heavy wooden door, and spent a few moments calming himself. Tenebrae’s days were numbered, as were Wreath’s. Quiver, he wasn’t so sure of. Quiver never mocked him. Quiver never mocked anyone.

He entered the room, and Melancholia raised her head.