Succinct and tantalizing. I wished there was more. The date read July 12. I folded it back into its envelope and moved on to the next. A bill, a receipt, a reminder about the dream tax, and how much Phelan’s streets would owe. I passed through them all, the paper rustling beneath my hands. And then I came upon a small portrait.

The painting was of Lennox Vesper. He was young, perhaps thirteen, and he looked morose, as if the last thing he had wanted was to pose for a picture. The tone and style of art was familiar, like the feeling of crossing paths with someone I had met before, unable to recall their name. It tugged at my memory until I tilted the portrait, to study it closer. And Lennox morphed into Phelan.

I stared at this younger version of him. Still poised with a hint of sadness in his eyes, his dark hair bound by a ribbon. I watched him melt into his brother, and then back again, and I wondered what it would be like to have a twin.

It came to me then. The same artist who had illustrated the Seven Wraiths cards in the drawing room had painted the brothers’ portraits. Phelan must know a deviah magician of art, and I was suddenly hungry to know for myself who created such wondrous portraits.

I continued to sort through the letters, sensing what little time I had left. A piece of parchment slipped from the stack, floating to the floor. I stared at it for what felt like an entire winter, and an icy finger traced my spine as I leaned down to recover it.

I recognized Phelan’s writing. I had been reading it day after day in the book of nightmares, and I had come to know it well.

Stark and simple, the paper read:

Hereswith:

Ambrose Madigan, Warden.

Clementine Madigan, his daughter. Apprentice? Partner?

I stared at my name.

Trembling, I tucked it away, burying it beneath a sea of wax-sealed envelopes and stray sheets of parchment and the two-faced portrait. I wanted more, though, even as my bones ached, and I was just opening another letter that looked to be from the countess when a chime sounded.

My alerting spell.

Phelan had reached the gate.

I was robbed of breath as I swiftly returned the contents to his desk, just as I had found them. But my hands quivered, and the tang of iron haunted my mouth as I rose, darting across his room, the firelight the only witness to my ransacking.

I shut my bedroom door just as the front door swung open.