The runner from the Church of Kos found Tara an hour and a half later. She’d mainlined two more cups of coffee-adjacent liquid to stop the glyphs from squirming beneath her knife as she carved them. The cinnabar was the good stuff after all. Once Tara was in motion, she found the chill invigorating.

Occasionally as she worked she added up the fees she would have billed for this job in private practice—like humming, only with regret instead of music. She could be off with Ms. Kevarian in the Archipelago, jetting from case to case rather than miring herself in local politics. Certainly she’d have made more progress on her debt. But then who would have been left to help these people? Or deal with Gavriel Jones?

Or to swear a blue streak when she opened the sealed scroll the runner brought her and read: representatives from Grossman and Mime arrived to meet with Cardinals, come at earliest convenience?

Cat spun around and dropped into a fighting crouch when Tara stormed onto the deck. “What the hells is going on?” She had to sprint to catch Tara.

“I’m done downstairs,” she said, and tossed Cat a scroll. “Get Raz’s signature; this will wake them when the time’s right. Meanwhile, make sure no one goes inside, and if anyone does, don’t let them touch anything. I have to leave.”

“What is it?”

“I’ll explain later.” She ran down the gangplank to the docks, past the Blacksuit cordon into a haze of spice and silk and shouted sales pitches. A kid tried to pick her pocket but she caught her wrist and let her go. Past the market, she raised one hand and swore to pass the time until a cab arrived.

Abelard met her at the sanctum doors. He paced outside the front steps, leaving little holes in the gravel when he turned. Just like old times.

“Bede’s meeting the Craftswomen now,” he said. “They arrived an hour ago. Took a red-eye from Dresediel Lex, they said. Two of them. I didn’t get their cards. They just showed up and demanded to speak with the Cardinals. The senior’s a woman named Ramp.”

He led her through the forechamber with its stained glass and pointed arches and vaulted columns and kneeling faithful. No amount of people gathered here could possibly make the place feel full, but the pews were packed, and even side shrines occupied. Abelard led her at a jog down a hall so narrow it seemed more like a fissure in rock than a space built for humans. “Madeline Ramp?”

“That’s the one.” They stopped in front of a lift. Abelard pushed the UP button, and as they waited, asked, “You know her?”

There were many ways to answer that question. “She’s a demonic transactional specialist. She was coauthor on a paper I read back at school. Very high-level stuff.”

“What was the subject?”