If there was one thing I couldn’t bear, it was being beholden to someone. But when he spoke to me next, I would listen. I would hear him out. I sat up. No, not when he spoke to me next—now. I had to talk to him. Trusting him was my only chance. I would not die here. I had to know, once and for all, what Arcturus Mesarthim wanted. I had to know if he would help me.

I got out of bed and went into the chamber. Empty. Outside, the rain thundered from black clouds. The grandfather clock chimed four in the morning. I picked up the note on the writing table.

I have gone to the chapel. I will be back before dawn.

To hell with sleep. I’d had enough of games, of crossing wires with him. I pulled on my boots and left the tower.

The wind howled outside. There was a guard in the cloisters. I waited until she passed before I ran. The thunder and the darkness gave me cover, letting me slip past unnoticed. But above the rain, there swelled a new sound: music. I followed it into another passage, where a vast door stood ajar. Beyond it was a small chapel, set apart from the rest of the building by an elaborate stone screen. Candlelight flickered in the darkness. There was someone up there, playing the organ. The sound rang in my ears, through my chest.

A small door stood open in the screen. I went through it, up the steps. At the top was the organ. Warden sat at the bench with his back to me. The music resonated through the ranks of pipes, up to the ceiling: a sound that rose through the chapel, above it. A sound that surged with terrible regret. Nobody could play this without some degree of feeling.

The music stopped. He turned his head. When he didn’t say anything, I sat on the bench beside him. We sat in the dark, with only the light from his eyes and the candle.

“You should be sleeping.”

“I’ve slept enough.” I touched my fingers to the keys. “I didn’t know Rephaim could play.”

“We have mastered the art of mimicry over the years.”

“That wasn’t mimicry. That was you.”

There was a long silence.

“You have come to ask about your freedom,” he said. “That is what you want.”

“Yes.”

“Of course it is. You may not believe it, but it is what I desire most in the world. This place has afflicted me with a terrible wanderlust. I long for your fire, for the sights that you have seen. Yet here I am, two hundred years after I arrived. Still a prisoner, though I masquerade as a king.”

I could empathize with his wanderlust, if nothing else.