Dimly, Wreneck saw a flash of motion on the stairs behind Envy, and then that form launched itself through the air, landing upon Envy’s back. Arms wrapped tight about her neck, dirty fingers raking red furrows across the girl’s chest, neck and face.

Shrieking, Envy twisted round, as the weight of the other girl, wrapped about her by the neck, dragged them both to the floor.

The other girl howled manic laughter as she clawed at Envy. ‘You can’t have him! You’ll never have him!’

Oh, this must be Spite.

He pulled himself towards the edge of the landing, ignoring the hammering fists upon the door behind him, ignoring the two sisters tearing at each other with snarls and lashing nails. Bruising his elbows and knees, he slid awkwardly down the steps.

Keening, the remaining gods closed in around him.

‘Warn the Azathanai, child! Warn the High Mason! These two, these two… these two…’

The words faded, as if the entire chorus of voices uttering them had been pushed off a cliff’s ledge. Wreneck felt very tired. He was lying upon another landing, half in and half out of the dull light from the corridor beyond. The sounds of fighting and thumping fists echoed down the stone steps still, and he found it hard to believe that no one else in the keep could hear.

He shivered in the icy draught that flowed above the tiled floor of the corridor. From somewhere outside, he could hear the wind, gusting and punching at shutters, beating against stone walls.

A winter storm was upon them.

And the dinner bell was sounding, low, like distant thunder.

Wreneck closed his eyes, and let darkness take him.

* * *

‘The lad’s taken to wandering,’ said Yalad. ‘Hunger will draw him to the table before too long.’

They sat at the dining table with the others from the household staff, along with the Azathanai, awaiting Lord Anomander, Ivis and Wreneck.

Sandalath frowned at the gate sergeant. ‘You describe him as if he was a dog.’

Yalad’s soft smile faltered. ‘My apologies, milady. I meant no disrespect. But Lord Anomander found him half starved, and the boy is not yet fully recovered.’

‘He has known too little comfort in his life,’ she replied. ‘I must accept some responsibility for that. I should have stood against my mother, in whom grief fed cruelty. She struck at Wreneck because he was the most helpless among us.’ She shook her head. ‘There is much to mend here.’

Seated opposite Yalad, Surgeon Prok collected up his goblet. ‘Flesh heals quickly when compared to the spirit. Milady, for the child you will need patience. Perhaps indeed your mother was too free with her whip, but that may prove less damaging, in the long run, than simple neglect. The lad has no reason to trust, and no precedent in which to place any faith in the notion itself.’

‘He need not fear me,’ Sandalath said, her tone hardening. ‘I feel castigated by you, Surgeon Prok, for the boldness of my love.’