He wasted no time once I had finished. He turned and led us among the rows of shelves, deep into the crypt. We passed many tomes and codices whose spines were barely legible, and many robed custodians who pored over illuminated manuscripts on large tables. They did not look up from their work. Eventually, we came to the restricted archives. These were gated in a similar fashion to the crypt, but my title did not allow me unsupervised entrance here.

The blasphemous works held here were reserved for only the holiest of souls – only they could resist their sorcerous influence. Many dark incantations, rituals, and hexes were trapped on these shelves. Page upon page too dangerous to be freed, and too dangerous to be destroyed.

As Ignatius fumbled with his extensive set of keys I was reminded once more of St Leonars: the gate here ran from floor to ceiling, much like those in the warden’s block. Bars that kept the dangerous within, and the unsuitable or unsuspecting without. Ignatius ushered me through and locked the gate behind us. So secured, he asked his questions in a hushed voice. ‘Teeth, you said. You’re quite sure? It wasn’t bone?’

‘Teeth. They were unmistakable.’

Ignatius pushed his spectacles higher on his nose. ‘Northern Kettoman shamans were once recorded as eating the eyes of their mentors to gain their insights. This would have been, oh, six hundred years ago, before the Kingdom of Reikova was formally founded. Poul was the scholar, I believe.’ Then abruptly he was off, and it was no small effort to keep pace with the custodian. That gave me little chance to be distracted by the bent and twisted-looking inhabitants of these restricted shelves, whose leather bindings spoke of the unspeakable.

‘But he did not eat his eyes,’ I said to Ignatius’ back, aware of how simply I stated such a thing.

‘No? But the teeth.’ He turned a corner, then stopped. With great care he lifted a lantern from its sconce. ‘We rarely light these shelves. Some believe the codices here prefer the darkness. That they are… restless in the light. I remind you not to touch anything, Inspector.’

The darkness all but swallowed us and our small lantern. The stacks were monstrously tall here, and the texts packed tightly. Who could believe so many unholy words had been committed to the page? I did my utmost not to let my gaze wander, but even over the shoulder of Ignatius I saw texts ahead of us that seemed to wriggle and squirm in the lantern light. One such spine was adorned by a serpent, as were many, but this particular embossed creature was eating its own tail. Its scales flashed as emeralds might, but softly, softly, and so it called, softly, softly. If I were just to—

‘Inspector!’ Ignatius slapped my hand; I had not realised I’d raised it towards the shelf. He looked to the text in question. ‘Bartrey’s History of the Baalimine? Possibly, Inspector, possibly. Was the boy from Drekenford a heathen?’