Who were you? Nina wondered. Did you survive?

An old-fashioned musket hung above the hearth beside one of the whips Brum had innovated for restraining Grisha.

She made herself focus on Brum’s desk. The drawers and cabinets weren’t locked. They had no reason to be; this was the safest, most secure place in the Ice Court. But Nina wasn’t sure where to begin searching for Queen Tatiana’s letters. She combed through schedules and ship manifests, and set aside entire files of what looked like trial transcripts. There were coded messages she didn’t know how to decipher, as well as detailed plans of the military base at Poliznaya and a city plan of Os Alta. There were markings on both that she couldn’t make sense of. She touched her finger briefly to the squares labeled as the Little Palace, the grounds, the school. Home. Move, Zenik.

But the letters weren’t in the desk. So where were they? She looked behind the portrait of a blond man in antiquated armor—Audun Elling, she suspected, the founder of the drüskelle. Then she felt along the walls, knocking softly, forcing herself to slow down, to be thorough. The Elderclock sounded the quarter chime. She’d been gone for almost fifteen minutes. How much longer did she have before Brum returned or the guards noticed Hanne was alone?

She knocked gently against the wall beside the mantel—there, a hollow thunk. She trailed her fingers over the panels, looking for some slot or indentation, pressing carefully. A fur hat hung from a hook at just above eye level. She pulled gently on it. The panel slid to the right. A safe. The letters had to be inside. She was definitely not a safecracker and hadn’t bothered to study the art while in Ketterdam. But she’d anticipated that the letters might be locked away. She removed the bottle of scent from her coat pocket, opened it, and poured in a few drops from the second vial the gardener had handed her. No more than three drops, he’d whispered, or it will eat through the walls of the safe too. And Nina didn’t want there to be any visible damage. When she was done, all that would remain was the scent of roses.

She pulled a slender rubber tube from her pocket and fitted one end over the nozzle of the bottle, then wiggled the other end through the narrow space between the door of the safe and the wall. She pumped the bulb attached to the bottle, forcing air through the tube, listening closely. A faint hissing came from behind the safe’s door. Whatever treasures lay inside were slowly disintegrating.

A sudden sound made her go still. She waited.

It came again—a low moan. Oh Saints, what now? Was a drüskelle dozing in the room next door? Or was something worse waiting? Had Brum brought Grisha here to torture and interrogate?