The passage beyond the hall was quiet and dim, and I could breathe more easily. A few guests wandered the corridors, speaking in low voices.

I found the washroom unoccupied. Fat yellow candles burned in glass bowls on the basin. I turned the faucet on and let the water pour over my hands. My reflection in the mirror looked ridiculous. This whole subterfuge was ridiculous. I drank from the tap and then shut it off. Who knew what Rhyanon wanted that account number for? I only had Osan’s word that Herald Kalis Nortem was a false identity; she could very well be a real person. Rhyanon might intend to defraud a completely innocent woman. Or blackmail one; she clearly had experience in that area. My reflection scowled.

I can get you out of Renewal duty.

I walked with purpose, and nobody stopped me. The stairs leading to the second floor of Kisme’s house were roped off. I made sure I was alone, then ducked beneath the barrier and hurried upstairs.

The second floor décor was simpler, wood-panelled corridors and soft green rugs. The floor creaked, but over the noise of the party, I doubted I would draw attention. I passed empty bedrooms and a painter’s studio. On the easel rested a half-complete watercolour of leafless trees against a pale sky.

I found Kisme’s office in the southern corner of the building, the only room with a lock on the door. I pressed my ear to the wooden surface and listened. No sound from within. I took the key out of the bodice of my dress, unlocked the door, and stepped inside.

Moonlight broke through the gap between the heavy drapes. I shut the door. The office overlooked the gardens; through the windows I could see the intricate constellation of lanterns, and the silhouettes of the city beyond the manor gates.

I could not risk lighting the lamp, so I drew the curtains further apart. Bright enough to read by, if I strained my eyes. The room contained three cabinets and a large desk. A huge ornamental fireplace took up most of the right wall, and a selection of pretty spun glass figurines decorated the mantel.

“Hope you’re organised, Reverend,” I muttered, and pulled open the top drawer of the closest cabinet.

She was. She had her records sorted first according to rank—one cabinet for Oblates, another for Acolytes, and the last for Heralds and Reverends—and then by name. I riffled through the neat pages, skipping ahead in the alphabet till I reached N. Many of the files were annotated with a cramped, small script; hard-to-decipher notes about a Sister’s proficiency or misdemeanours.

Hah.

Herald Kalis Nortem on paper. I sat below the window, angling the file toward the light. No notes on this file; judging by her brief record, Kalis was thoroughly unremarkable at her job. And there, in sharp black ink, was the account number. TBN7825C.