“What did the armor look like?” he asked sharply. “Was there anything strange about it?”

I tried to describe it, but I had only been afforded a glimpse of his legs.

“And what weapon did he carry?”

“A sword,” I replied, frowning. “Have you seen this knight in a dream before?” I asked, which was a foolish question, as I had read all my father’s nightmare recordings. Every single one. Unless he had some entries hidden from me. And I inevitably recalled Mazarine’s words, spoken earlier that day. Tell me, Clementine . . . have you read one of my nightmares recorded in your father’s book?

I had never read an entry of Mazarine’s, which meant she either drank remedies and kept dreams at bay, like me, or she did dream and my father had broken a sacred law of wardenship by refusing to record her nightmares. I wondered why Papa would do such a thing—willingly omitting a nightmare from the ledger—and yet I couldn’t find a good enough answer.

The possibility made me tense, and I stared up at my father, measuring his expression by starlight.

“No, I haven’t seen a knight like this before in a dream. Come, daughter. The sons of Amarys are waiting. It’s time to send them home.” My father’s swift dismissal only fueled my sudden reservations.

“You don’t like their family?” I asked, remembering the ice in his voice when he had heard the brothers’ names.

“Their mother is an old acquaintance of mine.” That was all my father would say, and I was too hesitant to pry for a better answer.

Lennox and Phelan Vesper were waiting for us in the center of the market.

They stood like statues as Papa and I approached. They stood like they belonged here, like they had grown roots in Hereswith, and I inwardly despised them for it. Papa and I came to a stop a good distance from them, a safe stretch of grass between us.

“Are you certain you know what you’re doing, Mr. Lennox?” my father called to him. “There is still a chance to recant your challenge and suffer no humiliation from it.”

Lennox grinned that terrible puppet’s smile. “I know what I do, Mr. Madigan. And there will be no humiliation on my part.”

His confidence was unnerving, but I thought I saw Phelan roll his eyes, as if annoyed with his brother’s theatrics. I watched the quiet brother closely, limned in starlight, seeking a weak point in his spirit.

Phelan looked at my father and said, “We don’t want any bad blood between us, Mr. Madigan. Nor do we want there to be any unnecessary injuries tonight.”

He is noble of heart, I thought. Or considers himself to be. Which almost made me laugh, because there was nothing honorable in arriving to another magician’s territory unannounced and seeking to steal it.