“Perhaps they’re merely awaiting the arrival of a mage powerful enough to unlock its power,” Cynwrig said.

I glanced at him. “They wouldn’t have started this quest for the Claws without a strong enough mage to use them.”

“They might not have known about the requirement for a mage. It would certainly explain why they’re hiding the crown rather than using it.”

“It’s also not dusk they want to erase, but rather darkness, and they can’t do that without the sword,” Lugh said.

“Then here’s hoping they haven’t found a spellcaster,” I said. “Because the council’s current focus on the guild will surely make it more difficult to hire one.”

“The underground trade in the dark arts is almost as strong as the black-market trade in goods,” Cynwrig said, voice dry. “The council controls neither. Trust me, hiring a caster would not be the problem. If there is a problem, then it’s more likely to be logistical—getting them into the county without either the fae council or the spellcaster’s guild becoming aware of their presence.”

“Let’s hope that’s the case,” Lugh said, somewhat grimly. “It at least gives us more time.”

Amen to that, brother. “I’ll keep you posted on how we go. Make sure you do the same.”

“Oh, I’m sure Darby will if I don’t.”

His voice was dry, and I laughed. “You know what my response to that statement is going to be, don’t you?”

“Yes, and I will remember to leave time for a little fun. But I’m thinking my definition will probably be different to what you and Darby are hoping for.”

“Not the painting,” I said in mock horror. “You’re not going to get the easel out, are you?”

“Well, she might as well know just how intense it can get when I’m lost to the pull of the oils.”

I laughed again—though in truth, he could easily lose hours if not days on those rare occasions when the painting muse struck him—then said goodbye and hung up.

Cynwrig’s apartment was situated on the top floor of a three-story, double fronted, and very gorgeous old Georgian building owned by his family. Unlike many other apartments developed in these grand old buildings, his was one large and airy space divided by furniture into three main zones—kitchen, dining, and living.

The bedroom was upstairs, in the loft, and the only way to access it was via the secret stairwell behind the bookcase to the left of the vast old fireplace.

We walked across the room, and he pulled down the disguised door release—a rather ratty-looking dictionary. There was a soft click, then the bookcase silently swung open. He motioned me through, closed the door behind us, and followed me up into the large open area in the eaves that catered to both his work and sleeping needs.

“You have first shower,” he said, motioning toward the vast bathroom directly ahead. “I’ll check the ferry timetable and book some tickets.”

I nodded and headed in. Once I’d stripped off and tucked the Eye safely into the carry-all’s side pocket, I ran the cold water in the sink to wash the blood spots from my dress, then grabbed a flannel and wiped down my coat. Thankfully, I’d been wearing a trench rather than one of my woolen ones, and that meant it’d be dry in time to use tomorrow. Or today, as the case actually was.