“I’m sure you did,” I agreed. “The girl who sold it to you—she was quite thin, about eighteen years old, with curling dark hair, no?”

Her eyes narrowed until they nearly disappeared behind her round cheeks. “If you know Zaira, why are you asking?”

“We’re looking for her, to help her. Do you have any idea where she went?”

There was a soft clink as Marcello laid a coin at the edge of the display table. The shopkeeper’s eyes drifted to it.

“Maybe I remember something,” she said. “Maybe she asked me if I’d seen a certain person.”

Clink. Another coin. “Try to remember,” I encouraged her.

“She sold me the necklace about an hour ago. She was going to see old Gregor, the ragpicker,” the shopkeeper said. “I do seem to recall.”

“Is he a friend of hers?”

The shopkeeper laughed, harsh as a crow. “Zaira doesn’t have any friends.”

I swallowed a lump like a mooring knot. “Where does this ragpicker live?”

Marcello slid another coin onto the table as punctuation.

“Across Lost Ring Bridge, on the Street of the Ratcatchers. The blue door.” The shopkeeper swept up the coins along with the rest of the trinkets on the table and bustled inside without another word.

The sky deepened to a rich purple, and the canal waters flowed black below Lost Ring Bridge. Someone had lit a candle at a tiny wooden shrine to the Grace of Luck tucked up against the bridge railing—perhaps in hope of finding something, such as the eponymous ring. Or a missing warlock.

“I hope she’s all right,” I said. “If I were up to no good, I would strike when it got dark.”

“We need to find her soon.” Marcello let out a nervous puff of air. “If it comes to it, and we have no other choice, be prepared to release her seal. So she can defend herself.”

The night air went dry in my throat. “I understand.”

“You remember the word to reseal her power, right? ‘Revincio.’”

“Revincio,” I repeated. “Yes.”

“Only as a last resort,” Marcello cautioned. “She can’t control the balefire, and it could spread quickly enough to kill you before you reseal her. But if, say, twenty armed louts come after us and we’re about to die …”

That didn’t make me feel any better.

The Street of the Ratcatchers was so narrow I could touch the buildings on both sides at once. They loomed like disapproving fathers as we waited for the blue door to open to Marcello’s militant knock.

After an uncomfortable wait and a second knock, an old man holding a candle opened the door. His lined face showed more wear than his surprisingly clean shirtsleeves. His eyes traveled from Marcello’s uniform to my velvet coat.

“Yes?” he asked. “Can I help you?”