Not as many, though, as the five loose and folded sheets that fluttered out from the notebook when Kai fanned its pages. The sheets were vellum, not paper, which told her everything. On Kavekana, only the Order used such expensive material for bookkeeping, and then only for Craft-readable records. These pages had been sliced neatly from a ledger, and she recognized the format: a list of true names, and beside each, columns of numbers. Someone had cut these sheets from an idol’s records, no question. The script was right, and the watermark, and the silvery Craftwork glyphs that headed each column of the table.

As for which idol, she did not need to wonder. Each page, at its bottom, was stamped with a long number that ended with a dash and the symbols “7A.”

Most of the names on these pages were cryptic, like those earlier in the book, but one she recognized. A few thousand thaums of grace had been dispensed to Edmond Margot.

Kai read the ledger pages twice, but the name remained.

Howl, bound world.

She folded the parchment again, returned the pages to the notebook, and tied the book with its ribbon. She moved to the kitchen and found a glass, and whiskey, and ice cubes from the icebox. The ice clinked in the glass. The shadow of glass and ice lay long on the counter, sparked in its middle with focused light. Kai threw the ice into the sink, and turned on the water. The ice pitted, shrank, vanished. She turned off the water, poured herself a finger of whiskey, threw back the whiskey, washed the glass, and returned bottle and glass to their cabinets and the notebook to her purse. She stood alone in the living room and listened to the night. Wind, insects, a whooping bird she could not name.

Margot was a poor poet, no follower of the Grimwalds, no mainlander hoodlum. But if these records were correct, he had drawn power from the Grimwalds’ idol.

Any discrepancy must result either from negligence, or from malice.

Back in the database nightmare, Ms. Kevarian had accused Mara of manipulating records. Another baseless accusation, Kai had thought. More intimidation.

But here, in Kai’s purse, were vellum pages cut from the Order’s own ledgers. A handful of people could access the ledgers in person—and of that handful, Mara was the most likely culprit. Why would she hide the pages with Kai, then turn her in to Jace? Unless Mara hoped Jace might search Kai and find the papers. Unless she planned to frame Kai for the cover-up.

Mara was her friend. Mara had come to her this morning, to apologize.

To apologize for what?

Kai could go to Jace with this theory, about Mara trying to frame her—for what exactly? What was Mara trying to hide? Margot, perhaps, but what did Margot have to do with anything? He was an awkward poet with a three-month-old case of writer’s block.