“Oh, Miss Neven,” she said as if remembering something important, and reached into her apron pocket. “Best you take a remedy tonight, since you lost at Seven Wraiths.”

I held out my palm and she dropped one of Phelan’s vials in my hand. I proceeded to drink it, surprised by its sweetness. Honey with a hint of spearmint, and far more palatable than my father’s recipe.

“Good night, Mrs. Stirling,” I said, and waited until she had descended the stairs before I closed my door.

I went to the armoire first, curious to see what sort of garments hung within. There were a handful of colorful dresses, white chemises, embroidered bodices with ribbon laces, silk shirts, and skirts that seemed tailored to my size. Three different cloaks, to keep me warm on my walks. He had spared no expense. Pleased, I reached for one of the chemises. It was luxuriously soft against my skin, and I unbraided my hair and washed my face with lavender water before stepping into the corridor.

I listened to the strange sounds of the town house as Mrs. Stirling and Deacon left for the night, locking the front door. I listened to the walls pop and groan, as if the wood and nails had something to say to me. As if they knew I was here with ill intentions, and they protested my presence.

Quickly, I worked to set an alert charm on the front gate, so I would be warned of Phelan’s approach when he returned home. I stepped into his room, where Mrs. Stirling had left a host of candelabras lit.

His bedchamber was modest, composed of earthen colors—greens and browns and grays. A mosaic of a forest graced one of the walls and a wardrobe sat in one corner, a writing desk in another. Stacks of books graced the floor, which I found surprising, since Phelan seemed to love tidiness. The curtains were drawn, and his four-poster bed was spacious, a canopy tasseled to the posts. A mirror hung on his wall above a wash station.

I went to his desk and sat down in a rickety chair, proceeding to open the drawers, minding how things were arranged. It didn’t take me long to find the stack of correspondence, bound together with a red ribbon. A stack of letters, all of them addressed to Phelan.

Ravenous, I read the first one. A letter from the duke, and his handwriting was surprisingly crooked on the page, as if he had an unsteady hand.

Your debts have been paid. There is no need to thank me, but let’s meet for tea this Friday, to talk about the new moon and how we can better prepare you.