The patrol trudged past, their stride that curious mix of unhurried and urgent practised by purposeless lawkeepers everywhere. Sevaka lingered in the shadows, groping tiredly for options.

Not the constabulary. Not the navy. Not family. Friends? That was a poor joke. She’d none in the city save Rosa, and she was compromised.

That left only one possibility. Malachi Reveque. He’d no reason to help her, but perhaps that wasn’t the point. It wasn’t really about her, was it? Even in her own life, she was a bystander. But there was still time to change that.

She sucked down a deep breath. It wasn’t far. Three streets, no more.

Apara stumbled out of the mists, the portal to Otherworld already closing behind. As much as Otherworld sometimes resembled the mortal realm, it was all illusion. The slightest wavering of attention, and the mists delighted in steering you wrong. Caught between the dread of disappointing Lady Kiradin and the fear she was already too late, Apara’s attention had wavered like never before.

Despite everything, she’d come true to her destination: the ruined bell tower amid the granite ribs of Strazyn Abbey. Not somewhere she’d have come by choice, even though she knew that the rumours of cyraeths and revenants owed more to the thinness of the boundary between the mortal realm and Otherworld than deathless malice lurking among the weeds.

But the bell tower offered unparalleled vantage of the nearby streets. Of patrolling constables, and packs of ne’er-do-wells risking curfew for a dubious thrill. And there, in the alleyway to the west, a lone figure running with uneven gait, a Freemont hearthguard’s cloak flapping behind.

Apara cast the raven-cloak wide, and gave herself to the wind.

Sevaka clutched at the rough brick of the townhouse wall and whooped air into heaving lungs. Across the street, the railings of Abbeyfields glinted in the flicker of a firestone lantern. Almost there. One last effort, and she’d be safe.

Pulling her hood low, she pushed away from the corner.

A bell clanged out. “Hey! Halt and be recognised!”

Sevaka threw a glance over her shoulder, gauging her chance of outpacing the pursuing constables. Not nearly good enough. She shuddered to a halt and turned about. The constables approached with hands on swords but faces devoid of hostility.

“You’re in breach of curfew,” said the nearest, a matronly woman with more years behind than left ahead. “Let’s have your name.”

“Please,” Sevaka gasped. “I must see Lord Reveque. He’ll vouch for me.”

The last vestiges of friendliness slipped from the constable’s expression. “You not hear me, missy? Curfew. If you want to slip into his lordship’s bed, you do it before dusk or out of my sight.”

“Listen to me, please . . .”

“What’s the point? It’s the cells for you. Bind her up, Garsh. We’ll take her in.”