There were no fire chips to be found, so Alec made do with flint and steel over the wood that had been laid in the fireplace. He struck sparks half a dozen times before the tinder caught, and even though the kindling was cedar, it was slow to burn. He blew gently on the flames, trying to coax them higher. The wood caught at last, but the fire was dull and smoky.

“What’s wrong?” Seregil asked from the couch, where he’d curled up in his cloak.

“The wood must be damp, too.” Alec joined him, legs stretched out toward the hearth. Without much hope of the bed drying anytime soon, he pulled his cloak over him and went to sleep.

A loud knocking woke them both sometime later. The fickle fire had burned down to embers, the candles were guttering, and the room was colder and damper than ever. The knocking came again, sounding from somewhere down the corridor. It was loud, even at a distance, more of a dull pounding.

Alec went to the door and peered out.

Micum was at his door across the hall. “Is there a fire?”

“That’s what I was wondering.”

They walked down the corridor together, toward the sound. Many of the night lamps had gone out.

“Who’s there?” Alec called softly, not wanting to wake the whole house. “Dorin, is that you?”

There was no answer, but the knocking stopped and they both heard someone walking off in the other direction, toward the stairway.

“Must have been one of the servants,” Micum said with a yawn.

“Knocking the whole house awake? And all the rooms at that end of the corridor are empty.”

“Very odd. Well, it seems to have stopped. Good night, Alec.”

“What was it?” Seregil grumbled as Alec returned to the couch.

“Nothing, I guess. No one’s raising the alarm and the noise has stopped.”

“Thank the Light. I’m exhausted.” Seregil burrowed down into the folds of his cloak again.

Alec was headed for the bed to check the state of the sheets when he noticed that the side window was open again. He closed it and checked the latch; it didn’t appear to be loose. The sheets were damper than ever, though, so he blew life into the embers, rebuilt the fire, and rejoined Seregil. “I guess we’re spending the night here,” he sighed, pulling his cloak around him and resting his head against the back of the couch.

Seregil’s only answer was deep, even breathing.

Alec was nearly asleep when he heard a tiny rattle from the direction of the window. As he watched, it slowly swung open again. That latch clearly needed replacing.

He gave the fire a stir with the poker and threw on another chunk of wood to brighten the room, but even that couldn’t banish the dank chill. As he approached the window, tendrils of sea mist curled into the room, then dissipated in the marginally warmer air. Going to the window, he felt a deeper chill here that he suddenly knew had nothing to do with the fog. As he leaned out, he felt wetness under his fingers. Two wet handprints had appeared on the windowsill, just where he’d rested his fingers—where anyone would rest their hands—dark against the weathered wood, and so wet that they dripped down the wall underneath. He pulled back quickly, wiping his hands on his coat. Just then he sensed movement to his right, through the panes of the window.