“Not now you mention it.” Sevaka shrugged her defeat and looked Rosa up and down. “That’s why you’re dressed up like a vranakin?”

“If I get caught, it needs to be about me, and only me. I won’t drag my chapterhouse into dishonour.”

“But you’ll drag me along?” Sevaka asked deadpan. “Should I be flattered?”

“You’re not coming inside. You’re the feint . . . the distraction.”

“I know what feint means, thank you very much.” Her eyes narrowed. “How am I being distracting, exactly?”

“See that?” Rosa pointed towards Swanholt’s darkened west wing. “Those are Viktor’s rooms. He and his father don’t care for each other’s company.”

“I had heard.”

“This is the closest point of approach through the grounds. I can handle the wall . . .”

“A six-foot wall topped by a four-foot railing? I don’t like your chances. ’less you’ve a pair of wings yourself.”

Rosa scowled. The last thing she wanted was a discussion about why she felt confident of an impossible jump. “Like I said, I can handle the wall, I’d like the patrols looking the other way. That’s where you come in. Head around the far side, make a bit of noise.”

“Like what, exactly?”

She shook her head in exasperation. “I don’t know. Sing Deverett’s Requiem for all I care. Bellow a shanty and throw rocks at the railing. Don’t tell me you never did something like this as a child?”

“You’re mad.”

Rosa had to give her that one. Breaking into the home of a dear friend because of hearsay. But it wasn’t hearsay, was it? It was Kas’ word, delivered by a grieving mother to whom he’d been the only source of joy. And now Kas was dead. If she found nothing, she’d live with the stain on her honour for the hope it offered that Kas had been mistaken about Viktor, or that Ebigail had misrepresented his words for reasons of her own. But if she uncovered anything that even hinted at a connection with the vranakin . . .

She fished the ring from her pocket and held it out. “Do you recognise this?”

Sevaka’s eyes narrowed to slits. “My grandmother’s ring. Where did you get it?”

“I was with Malachi during last night’s attack. I took it from the kern-claw’s hand . . . after I severed it.”

Sevaka’s brow knitted in suspicion. “And where did he get it?”

“When he killed Kasamor.”

“No.” Her face, already pale in the shadows, lost the last of its colour. She gagged, and grasped at the wall for support. “No. No. No. You must be mistaken. You must.”

“I’m not. I was there. It was the same man. He remembered me – and I’ll never forget him.”