I entered through the main doors, removed my hat, then crossed myself and offered a prayer to the Holy Mother. I pulled my cross from beneath my shirt and kissed the simple wood. The cross was a gift from the Archbishop, but it was not his guidance I sought that evening. The high vaulted ceiling created a vast space of still air – an aspect of the cathedral that never failed to inspire a kind of peace in me. Nor did it fail to remind me how small I was in the presence of our Lord.

I made for a side aisle, not wishing to disturb those at prayer on the pews. Some wore the robes of the clergy, but many more were regular citizens seeking solace from the dark streets of Esteberg; the cathedral was awash with the light of hundreds, if not thousands, of candles. The way to the crypt and the library was gated and locked at all times – the simple ironwork gate one of the few unadorned items in the entire cathedral. There was no desire to draw attention to what was held below. My station as a King’s Special Inspector provided me a key, as well as the impetus, to enter such a place. I opened the gate as quietly as I could and was sure to lock it behind me. The descent was well-lit, though I held the rail regardless. Cooler air wafted up from below, which carried the dusty smell of books. As many books as the cathedral had candles.

At the main desk I was fortunate enough to find the very man I sought. Custodian Ignatius was deep in conversation with another custodian – evidently regarding a matter of categorisation of a particular text. Was it a codex, an incunable, or a manuscript?

‘Good evening, brothers,’ I said, not entirely certain which address to use with the cathedral’s librarians. ‘I’m afraid I must interrupt, and ask for your assistance.’

‘Special Inspector Morden, it has been too long,’ Ignatius said, adjusting his plain brown robe. The other custodian took this interruption as an opportunity to retreat to the stacks.

‘Too long?’ I said. ‘Given the dark troubles I bring with me, I imagine the reprieve was somewhat welcome.’

‘You do God’s work, Inspector. That is not always as painless or as godly as we might hope.’ Despite being many years my senior, Ignatius had lost none of his fervour. He had, however, lost all of his hair and much of his sight – he wore thick spectacles to compensate. ‘Now, how might I be of service?’

‘Your library has helped me identify sorcerous acts before a hunt,’ I said. ‘I need your help again, Ignatius.’

For the second time in as many nights I recounted the tale of the Harsson boy and his sufferings in the cell of St Leonars. Ignatius was attentive and nodded often. He was not shocked. Between the stories I had brought him over the years and the endless accounts of what befell saints and sinners shelved in his own library, he had heard it all before. That was why I sought him out: his knowledge of unusual suffering was second to none.