He held up a colorful flyer that proclaimed ‘‘MUNCH! You’ve heard the witches’ sides, now hear ours!’’ ‘‘I had hoped to open next month, but I lost most of my company when they started their own group and decided to tour America. These new imps seem to be all left feet. And so emotional! You’ve never seen such drama queens in your life.’’ His eyes narrowed on me suddenly. ‘‘Who did you say you were?’’

‘‘I don’t think I did. My name is May. And you are?’’

‘‘Misha,’’ he said, nodding dismissively.

‘‘Pleasure to meet you. I’m sorry to appear at a loss, but I wasn’t expecting to find anyone in here.’’

‘‘No one ever thinks of the vault attendants,’’ he said with another sniff. ‘‘Speaking of which, the vault hours are clearly posted in the lobby. I am not obligated to serve customers after hours unless a member of the committee requests it, and I’’—he made a show of shuffling through some paperwork—‘‘do not have any such order.’’

‘‘You’re a spirit,’’ I pointed out, albeit apropos of nothing.

‘‘I’m a domovoi,’’ he snapped back.

That was interesting. What was a Russian house spirit doing acting as an attendant in the committee’s vault? ‘‘I’m sorry, but I’m in a bit of a hurry, and can’t wait until the proper vault hours. I’ll be happy to let you get back to your imp musical if you could just point me to the area where the Lindorm Phylactery is being held.’’

‘‘Room C, row seven, shelf two, box K," Misha said, sitting back down at the desk. ‘‘But you can’t have it.’’

‘‘Why not?’’ I asked, wondering if he was going to make trouble.

‘‘No one is allowed into the back storerooms. Not even Dr. Kostich himself. Besides, it doesn’t belong to you,’’ he answered without looking up.

‘‘Actually, it was taken from me when I was arrested, and I neglected to regain my things when I left. So you see, I do have every right to it.’’

He pursed his lips as he considered me. ‘‘You’re a dragon’s mate, but you’re not a dragon. That phylactery belongs to dragons.’’

‘‘More specifically, it belongs to my dragon,’’ I agreed. ‘‘That is, the wyvern to whom I’m mated. He’ll be along any second to collect it, so if you wouldn’t mind getting the phylactery, I’ll send Gabriel in for it, and you can get on with your . . . er . . . directing.’’

‘‘What was your name again?’’ he said with a much-put-upon sigh.

I told him.

He sorted through some of the papers, extracting one, which he read with an increasingly sour look. ‘‘It would seem your story is true. So far,’’ he allowed. ‘‘But it is well after hours, and if I make an exception to the rules for you, I’ll have to make one for everyone.’’

‘‘Says who?’’