“Not that I know of. Aiglamene petitioned to give it to Griddle from the Drearburh stock. I signed the order. The box was still wrapped.” The light was not proving helpful enough: she was, in desperation, kicking over piles of the rubble in her own brain. “I hated that damned sword for years. I don’t know why; it just felt strange—rancorous. I cannot deny that I often assumed its edge would be the last thing I saw. I don’t know,” she finished, frustrated.

“Never mind. I’m sure I’ve done worse with more,” said Abigail bracingly. “Get to the perimeter. You’re on point with Dulcie, and I’m pairing Magnus with Protesilaus—and then there’s Ortus.”

“Ortus shouldn’t be fighting.”

“He very much wants to. I hope there won’t be any fighting. Are you ready?”

Harrow’s lips were sore; everyone’s lips were a little cracked and bleeding, and on her and Ortus bloody lips and cracking paint blended in a pinkish-grey mosaic. She found the tip of her tongue worrying the little scabby plates that now lived on her bottom lip. She looked up into the kind face of Abigail Pent, who was dead; and she said: “I owe you a great debt. You have given me much, in return for very little.”

“Oh, Harrow, bless you, I always was a busybody,” she said smilingly. “Don’t thank me for sticking my oar in. You asked me to come, and I came. I understand you didn’t ask on purpose, but I like to think that there was a grain in your soul that saw yourself in need, and perhaps thought to itself, I wish I had Abigail Pent. It takes a great deal of ego to be a psychopomp. Thank you for letting me be yours.”

And she curtseyed to Harrowhark, with enormous grace. Harrowhark bowed in return, and found herself saying, “The body of the Locked Tomb preserve you and yours, Pent,” and meaning it.

“Do you know what’s in there?” asked Abigail, eyes sparkling.

Harrowhark cleared her throat and said, “Yes.”

“Is it intensely mysterious?”

“Yes.”

“God, I love tombs,” said the Fifth House necromancer. “Right-o. The curtain lifts … Places, people.”