But eventually, he decided there was no one keeping watch and whoever was in the house was sleeping soundly. So he made his way around to the rear of the cottage, opened the simple latch lock with little more than a touch, and stepped inside.

He stood where he was once again, listening. He had known he would be coming back here from the moment Aislinne Kray had ordered him off the property. Her sense of entitlement grated on him even now, and he knew he would not be satisfied until he had found a way to make her pay. His plan for her had solidified while he had listened to the Seraphic ramble on about his various schemes and machinations—particularly the one detailing how he had helped the Queen of the Elves murder her husband.

It was in that dark story that he had found the beginnings of an idea for his revenge.

It would be particularly fitting given her relationship with the original bearer of the black staff, whose unexpected demise had cheated him of the chance at a killing he would have relished. At least he could make her suffer in his stead. There was order and symmetry to that.

He finished his vigil, satisfied that nothing was amiss, and began to move through the cottage. He took his time, pausing often in his search. He had to be careful not to wake her unexpectedly. He had no knowledge of where to find her bedroom, or of her sleeping habits. If he made a hasty or wrong move, he would lose her. She was not someone he could scare easily or panic into doing something foolish. His best chance was to catch her asleep and dispose of her before she knew what was happening.

When he had gone far enough through the downstairs to eliminate any reasonable possibility that she was there—convinced that the bedrooms were on the second floor, pretty much as he had expected—he climbed the stairs leading up, his footsteps so silent he might have been a cat. He could move so when it was needed—silent and weightless. He could slow his breathing and even his heart rate, become little more than a wraith passing through with the night.

He found her asleep and alone in her bed. Her husband had not returned from his culling of able-bodied men to defend the pass at Declan Reach. The ragpicker watched her as she slept, wanting to make sure of the deepness of that sleep. Then he crossed the bedroom, bent over carefully, and pinched the nerves of her neck just so, rendering her unconscious. She never woke, barely moved. He smiled at this. He liked the feeling of power it generated inside him.