Byron was either incredibly brilliant or incredibly naïve; until I thought about his plan some more, I had no idea which. For now, however, I’d do whatever I could to help him. ‘Then,’ I said softly, ‘let’s get a move on.’

Chapter Ten

As we tiptoed out of the door and headed down a long, dark corridor, Byron insisted on holding of my hand. It was a bit weird and if I thought about it too much I’d probably have been annoyed but it was also oddly reassuring. To be fair, if I’d thought he’d died I might have not wanted to let go of him either. I kept my mouth shut and let him lead me past old portraits of frowning Moncrieffe Clan Chieftains until we reached a set of stairs down to the ground floor.

‘His study is that door at the bottom on the right,’ Byron whispered. ‘He keeps it locked when he’s not here and no one ever goes inside. I think I’ve only been in on six or seven occasions in my entire life.’

I couldn’t help being reminded of the Bull and his own special snowflake version. These old men with their secrets. I shook my head. Idiots.

We waited for a moment or two. When Byron was confident that everyone in the castle was either asleep or elsewhere, we padded down to the door. I reached up to my hair for the tiny lock pick I’d concealed there but Byron was prepared. As I watched, open-mouthed, he pulled his own version from his pocket, knelt down and got to work.

‘You have been busy,’ I murmured.

‘I’ve not been twiddling my thumbs for the last few months, Integrity,’ he sniped, obviously still not completely over the news of my resurrection.

It took him more time than it would have taken me but he managed to get the door open. Go, Byron. With a swift glance at me, he nodded and we entered. In comparison to the Bull’s study, this place was far neater. Other than old books on the shelves, there was little on display. The room possessed a certain shabby chic which, had I not known what Aifric was like, might have made me admire him.

Carefully closing the door behind me, I looked at Byron. ‘Do you know where he’s likely to keep the most incriminating documents?’ I asked.

‘One of my earliest memories is when I was a kid,’ he said. ‘I must have escaped from the nursery and come here to find my father.’ His expression soured. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so angry as when he realised I’d sneaked in.’

My heart went out to him. Since he’d discovered the truth about Aifric, he’d probably spent hours – days even – poring over their relationship and everything that had occurred between them. He’d have wanted to know if he could have accepted the truth earlier, or if there had been any clues that his own flesh and blood was a murdering maniac. I’d spent most of my life believing the same of my father and, although the circumstances were very different, I wasn’t insensitive to how Byron probably felt.