No, he thought, his heart stalling in his chest. Oh, no.

Han pushed and shoved his way through the onlookers, drawing scowls and curses along the way, until he stood next to the walkway as the healers passed by. He grabbed the sleeve of one of the provosts.

“Ma’am? Who is it? Who’s dead?”

The provost ripped her arm free. “Leave go, boy. We’ll issue a statement.”

“But my friend—she’s missing,” Han said. “Since yesterday.”

The provost stopped so suddenly, the person behind her practically ran into her. She turned off the path, pulling Han by the arm. “What’s your friend’s name?” she asked.

“Rebecca Morley.”

“Come with me.” The guard pushed Han back toward the library. As he passed Abelard, she looked up and fixed him with a piercing gaze.

They walked through the heavy double doors and up the steps. Around and around they climbed, while Han’s heart sank lower and lower.

Finally they reached the top of the staircase and threaded their way through a warren of small reading rooms. The door to one room stood ajar.

“In there,” the guard said.

Han halted just inside the door, half sick with dread. The room was small, with a desk under a window on one wall, a fireplace on the other, a worktable facing the door. Books and papers lay scattered over the surface of the table. A lamp lay smashed on the floor, and bits of glass glittered in the sunlight from the window. Blood splattered the wooden floor between the door and the table.

A stocky man in Wien House master’s robes stood looking out the window.

“Master Askell,” the provost said. “This boy says he’s friends with Rebecca Morley.”

Master Askell turned toward Han, his broad face etched by years of sun, and completely impassive. He took in Han’s attire, the amulet at his neck. “Who are you?” he asked, without preamble.

“Han Alister. Newling at Mystwerk House,” Han said.

“How do you know Rebecca?” Askell asked.

“She was tutoring me,” Han said. “We met back home.”

Askell pointed at the worktable. “See if you recognize the materials on the table as Rebecca’s.”

Sand and glass gritted under Han’s boots. Blotting sand was also scattered across the tabletop, the jar overturned. Here were pages of notes in Rebecca’s familiar, angular handwriting. Here was her ornate pen and enameled ink bottle.

Han shut his eyes and swallowed hard. Blood and bones, he thought. Bloody, bloody bones. Would the carnage in his life never stop?

“These are hers,” Han said, looking at Askell, his voice thick with despair.

The master held up a dagger by its tip. “We found this lying next to the wall,” he said.

“That’s hers too,” Han said. He crossed the room to take a closer look. There was no blood on the blade. So Rebecca hadn’t gotten any back.

I should’ve hushed Bayar when I’d had the chance, he thought. I should’ve stuck with what I know—street rules.