“In any case, he said they can get by with just three Lyctors to take down Number Seven, so if I can step into Ortus’s shoes now that I’m not ‘problematic’—you can see I took my lumps, Nonagesimus—he can buy you an hour, after dinner.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow.”

“How?”

“Didn’t say—but it’s Augustine the First, my child. He’s the first and oldest Lyctor. These three are all the oldest—and the last—that’s why they’re Patience, Joy, and Duty … three virtues. If Augustine is going to distract God, that means he’s going to distract God. He’s very old, and I hate to admit it, but he’s enormously quick … and sophisticated … and devious. Anyway, I’ve taken care of him, and he’ll take care of Teacher, and you’ll take care of Duty.”

“You’ve really—ensured this?”

“Fight him and win, Harry. Call it payment for the arm … You sound surprised.”

You found yourself murmuring, almost more surprised with yourself than with her: “Warrior proud of the Third House! Ride forth now as my sister.”

There was a rustle from her side of the bed, and you saw that she had sat up a little, her exposed and metal-skinned humerus garishly propped on the covers.

“Was that poetry?” she demanded.

“Debatably,” you said, and she lay back down. Then you said: “I accept your help. I am forced to admit that I cannot do this alone.”

“I live for your forced admissions,” said Ianthe. “It would have been a pain if you’d said no. I’ve already organised everything.”

You both fell silent. The canopy of the four-poster bed obscured the fresco on the overdecorated ceiling, which was a relief to the eye. Her covers were softer than the covers in your room, though you thought the mattress too squashy for real comfort. One sank down into it like a bog. You were not used to so many pillows, nor were you used to the slippery chill of satin on your skin, nor were you used to hearing someone else’s breath, insubstantial, beside you. For a moment you thought Ianthe had fallen asleep.

Then she said, idly: “Coronabeth and I spent three nights apart in all our lives, and the second time she cried so hard that she threw up … I hope she’s sleeping easy now. When she doesn’t, she gets bags under her eyelids you could carry water in.”

It seemed as though a response was expected, but you did not want to speak of dead twins. You simply said, “I have always slept alone.”

“You don’t say.”

You heard the primness in your voice when you said, “I am betrothed to the Locked Tomb, Tridentarius. I slept on a cot in my cell.”

“I always forget you were an honest-to-God nun … and six years old to boot, if you listen to Mercymorn. How old are you, really, Harry?”