Alice sat up cautiously, feeling herself for injuries. There still wasn’t much pain, but she felt a strange tickle at the back of her mind. When she reached for her threads, it took real effort to grasp them.

Power, she thought. She’d exhausted herself, not physically but magically—something in the ward had gone badly wrong, and it had siphoned off far more of her energy than it had been supposed to. The last time she’d felt like this had been in Esau’s fortress, after hours of fighting, and then the depletion in her magic had been matched by her aching muscles. She’d need to rest before her powers would come easily again.

“Regardless,” Pyros said, watching her closely, “my people owe you a great debt. In truth I did not expect assistance from Geryon at all, let alone so promptly. Your master . . . surprises me.”

“My master is away,” Alice admitted. “I came here of my own accord.” It was not quite a lie—she had come here on her own, just not to answer any request from the fire-sprites. But if he wants to believe that, all the better.

“Ah. I thought as much.” Pyros cocked his head. “In the past, Geryon has seemed interested in our tribute, and little else.”

Alice said nothing. She felt as though the sprite were sounding her out, testing the extent of her loyalty to Geryon, and she wasn’t sure how far she could trust him. After a moment’s pause, he sat back, white hair rippling.

“Well,” he said. “We are saved, and that is all that matters. They are feasting already, down in the hall, and drinking toasts to you and young Flicker.”

“I’m glad you’ll be safe,” Alice said.

“You said you had something to request of us,” Pyros said. “Might I know what?”

He looked worried. Alice frowned. “Is something wrong?”

“If it is additional tribute you seek, some of my people may react . . . poorly.” Pyros schooled his face to a smooth mask. “Of course, we are obligated to you and Master Geryon, and I will arrange it as best I can, but—”

“I don’t understand,” Alice said. “What sort of tribute?”

She’d wondered about that since he’d first mentioned it. She couldn’t imagine what Geryon could possibly want from the fire-sprites—certainly gold or gems, or even intricately carved glass, held no appeal for the old Reader.

Pyros cleared his throat with a crackle. “By the terms of our agreement with Master Geryon, he grants us permission to live here, safe from other Readers. In return, we provide him one of our own, every two years, as tribute.”

“One of your own?” Alice blinked. “You mean one of your people?”

Pyros nodded. “To be written into a prison-book. I understand he trades the books to the other Readers. Our . . . services . . . are quite valuable.”

Alice just stared.