mind. That’s too awful to think about.

Gran was big on privacy, and she’d had to let me learn the lesson the hard way. Because there just

isn’t any other way if you’re born with the touch, she said. And she was right.

I fingered the release on the switchblade and eyed the door nervously. There was the bar on it, even

if someone had the keys for the four or five different locks. Two of the locks didn’t have an outside

keyhole, so that was all right.

But . . . Jesus, someone at my window and someone at my door, too? I could tell whoever was at the

door meant me no good. The warding said as much, sparking and fizzing as it drew together, blue

lines running uneasily under the surface of the visible.

Another scent cut through clotted waxen citrus, filling my nose so my eyes prickled and burned

with the overflow.

Warm perfume and spice. A red smell, like silk and high-heeled boots with tiny finicky buttons up

their sides. Long hair and a vicious little laugh.

What the hell would she be doing here?

Graves muttered shapelessly, as if he was having a bad dream. The listening silence grew even more

intense, and the doorknob jiggled slightly.

Oh, you think I’m too stupid to lock my door? Whatever. But I was shaking badly. She could have a

perfectly valid reason for coming here and knocking. She really could.

Christ. I was even doubting the touch now, something I’d never done before. Gran would have

fetched me one upside the head—figuratively, I mean; she never hit me. Just one glare would’ve

been enough.

Stop dithering about Gran and figure out what you’re going to do!

But that was just it. The door was locked and barred, and I didn’t want to do anything. I just wanted

to hunker down and hide. As a long-term strategy it really sucked. But for the short term—like the

next few minutes, as the last honeyglow of sunset filled the window and turned the garden into a

haze below—it was looking pretty good.

The wards quieted. The thin blue lines went back to their normal patterns, weird circuit-shapes like

that old movie about the guy trapped in the computer game, with complex Celtic-looking knots

Gran taught me to make holding the doors and windows fast. I stepped sideways in my sock feet,

testing the floor for creaks, and was glad about the thick carpet for once.

A few uneasy fizzes. The ward lines dimmed a little but came back, strongly blue. The closer I got

to the door, using the weird gliding step Dad taught me to spread my weight out as much as possible

over the floorboards, the brighter blue they got. Impatience scraped at the ward, tasting like burnt

insulation. I made a face, sticking my tongue out, before I could help it.