From the evidence of his eyes, he stood knee-deep in a boiling hot spring. But there was no blistering pain, no water spilling into his clan-made boots. He took another step, and another, gritting his teeth, forcing himself to go on. He slitted his eyes, trying to limit the warring sensations in his brain.

Now he was waist-deep, then up to his neck. Two more steps, and the boiling water closed over his head. He continued to breathe normally, continued to descend until he reached the bottom of the steps.

The mirage dissolved, and Han stood, still alive and totally dry, in a rock chamber. The walls weren’t even damp.

His heart thudded in his chest, and he felt dizzy and sick. Surely Alger Waterlow didn’t go through this trauma every time he came and went from his tunnel system. There must be another way in, he thought.

A web of magic opposite the steps marked the exit. When Han’s heart settled a bit, he pried away the barricade charm and gently pushed at the door.

The door opened into a cellar that stank of earth and stone. Han scanned the room. There, in one corner, the joining between walls and ceiling was smudged with glamours. Running his sensitive fingers over the surface, Han found two long bolts embedded in stone. When he slid them back, a hatch dropped open.

Han leaped, caught the edges of the hatchway, and pulled himself up and through. He was in a small storeroom, stacked with dusty barrels and bins.

Feeling filthy and dank-smelling from his journey, Han set down his saddlebags and changed into his wizard finery, doing his best to steam out the wrinkles with the heat from his fingers. He finished with the stoles that Willo had made for him, emblazoned with the Waterlow ravens. Stuffing his old clothes back into his saddlebags, he dropped them down through the hatchway, then dragged a barrel over to cover it.

He wove his way through the maze, in what he hoped was the direction of the exit. It was as nasty as any cellar. Nobody would spend any more time here than necessary. Each time he encountered a staircase, he climbed to where the ceilings were higher and the walls less damp. Rounding a corner at a near trot, he came face-to-face with an apple-cheeked girlie, her apron loaded with onions. She stared at him, wide-eyed.

“Sorry, love,” Han said. “Lost my way.” As he passed her, he brushed his fingers across her forehead, gently wiping away the memory of their encounter. He was glad when he reached the main floor, where his presence could be more easily explained.

Using the servants’ corridors, he traveled out of the pantries and into the more formal areas. Ahead, he could hear a jumble of blueblood voices. Seeing stairs off to the right, he loped up them, looking for a place to clean away the traces of his journey.