Beside the tomb, his back propped against stone, stood a tall, thin man in a beaked and black-feathered domino mask. A neatly trimmed beard showed beneath the mask. Pale skin at the neck and cuffs of his severe black suit.

Apara’s throat tightened. She wanted to run, but to do so was to make matters worse. So she bowed her head, closed her eyes and begged not to be noticed.

“Well?” The Raven sounded impatient and amused all at once. A father disappointed in his children’s inevitable flaws. “What have you brought me?”

“A failure,” said one.

“He is kin no longer,” said another. “You may take from him all that he owes.”

Nikros sobbed. Apara glanced up. He lay sprawled in the mist beyond the gate, bloody stump clutched to his chest.

The Raven squatted and shook his head in lament. “Pray, don’t bawl so. I’m not the one who brought you here, am I?” He offered a languid sigh. “No one ever wants to pay the price.”

It seemed to Apara that his eyes were not on Nikros in that moment, but the three elder cousins. They shrank away from the arch, heads bowed.

The Raven rose. Nikros stood with him. His sobbing fell silent. His motions were stiff as a man transfixed. He turned, offered one last, lingering glance through the arch. Then he was gone, lost in a storm of ebony feathers that bled through the mist like smoke.

Apara clapped a hand to her mouth, too slow to smother a horrified gasp.

The Raven’s expressionless gaze met hers. “She is his replacement?”

“Yes,” said one.

“She is a faithful cousin,” said another. “She will not disappoint.”

The Raven sighed again. “They all say that.”

He stepped through the arch. Though he was but one shadow among many, his presence filled the cellar. Even the air tasted different, like dust undisturbed for ten thousand turnings of the world. Apara fought for breath that wouldn’t come.

“Please,” she gasped. “I’m a thief, not a ripper. I steal . . .”

The words died on her tongue as the Raven took her nerveless hand and pressed it to his lips.

“I understand.” He spoke with cold charm, and a hint of . . . regret? “But your cousins wish you to be both. Family are nothing but trouble. Even when they’re not really family at all.”

The firestone lantern flickered and went out.

Ellren stared up at the double doors, too lost in apprehension to appreciate the swirling thorns and vibrant roses depicted on its panels. Every servant in Silvane House knew you didn’t disturb Lord Tarev in his chamber. Maids had been cast out for less.

Though a city-girl by birth, Ellren’s parents were southwealders, and she’d borne the rose-brand since her fifth year. If she trespassed she’d end in Dregmeet, her papers burned.

But lots had been drawn, and she’d lost.