She shouldn’t do this. Better to take Jace’s broad hint and see a shrink. The psychological underpinnings of her theory were so obvious even she could see them: anger at Mara’s promotion turning to denial of reality, to rationalization, to the spinning of elaborate stories about how the world went wrong. Kevarian had motive enough without any need for conspiracy. The Craftswoman wanted to win her case. This whole exercise was one more piece of proof that Jace was right, that Kai was cracking.

But it wouldn’t hurt to sneak back into the mountain, to take a final look at Seven Alpha’s death, see what dirt Kevarian might find if she went looking. Wouldn’t hurt, so long as no one caught her.

And besides, while she was here she could investigate the poem.

Jace had banned Kai from the pool, but she didn’t need to dive. The mountain’s library held a wealth of information about Seven Alpha’s death. With luck, Kai could enter the library, do the research, and leave without Jace hearing of her visit.

At night she faced a smaller staff, and fewer chances of detection, but she still didn’t want her name on security logs, which ruled out the cable car. She’d have to take the stairs.

Kai returned home, spent a half hour cleaning to settle her mind, and changed out of her heels into walking shoes. She wished she could have dressed for the climb, but though the Order wasn’t as white-shoe as mainland Craft firms, walking its halls in gym clothes would attract notice. So she donned her lightest linen suit and a black shirt, slid her purse over her shoulder, and set out to break the rules.

She entered the forest a half mile from her apartment via an unmarked dirt path overgrown by roots and thick foliage. Soon the forest writhed around her, come to life. If she glanced back over her shoulder she would not see the road or distant streetlights. She did not look back. Hidden wards had welcomed her onto secret ways.

Before the cable car, before pilgrims traveled from around the globe to Kavekana, before the gods sailed off to fight the world’s wars, priests had only climbed the mountain on holy days: a journey of fear and trembling that began with this walk down a narrow dirt path through dense forest that smelled of motherhood and rot.

Trees and heavy air pressed close. Swelling silence overcame insect song. A bird cried. Another screamed. Soon she lost her bearings in the wood.

After a long wander, she found a path to her right blocked by thorny vines. She turned that way and the vines writhed tighter, snakelike. Thorns dripped dew and poison.