The sound sent a gout of juice through Storm—fear or excitement, he couldn’t tell which. But it gave him energy. He made to move again. Sophia dug her heels into the floor.

“I just think …” she said. “I think we should just …”

“Shh,” he said.

He slipped his arm free of her grasp. He went to the wooden door and opened it. Flipped on the light.

He stood looking down the empty corridor. The dusty runner under the yellow lampglow. The chairs and tables against the walls. The doors shut all along the Way. And the arras with the many-headed dragon hanging against the wall at the far end.

Tick-tick

It was louder now. Distinct, persistent, purposeful.

He stepped across the threshold.

“Richard …” Sophia rushed to him, clutched his arm again.

“This is the way you went, right?” he said.

She nodded, her face pale, the dancing sparks of panic still clear at the bottom of those pale brown eyes.

They moved along the corridor towards the sound.

“What was it?” he said. He felt the sweat roll down his temples, but his mind felt brighter by the moment. His blood was up. “What was it?”

She didn’t answer. He could hear her breathing rapidly. Could feel her palm damp against his sleeve.

Tick-tick.

“Jesus!” said Storm. He searched for it. Over the runner, over the walls, over one closed door after another. Another staring portrait, a crumbling Roman temple in the mist. “Where did you go?” he whispered. “The last door, you said. Your father’s study.”

“I don’t know.”

“Yeah? Don’t you?”

“Richard …”

Tick-tick. Tick-tick.

This time, she let out a noise at the sound, as if she’d been struck, as if it had pierced her.

They were nearing the end of the hallway and the many-headed dragon reared before them, all its mouths opened, all its teeth bared.

Storm tried to think. “They were fighting, right? And your mother was on the floor,” he said. “And they were all covered with blood, and your father stood up and had something like a knife.”

“Stop it, Richard. Stop.”

“And what was making that noise, Sophia?”

She didn’t answer. And then she said, “There was something,” in a voice so small it was barely audible.

“What? What was it?”

Tick-tick. Tick-tick.

Her hand spasmed on his arm as the noise repeated. He felt it too, a double jolt of adrenaline. The last door was drawing close to them. He was almost dragging Sophia along. His free hand was rising, reaching for the knob.

“Something in the center of the room,” she said quickly.

“That’s right. You told me that. What was it?”

“It was a storeroom. There were just old things there.”

“What was in the center of the room?”

He reached for the door to Sir Michael’s study.

Tick-tick.

“Stop,” said Sophia.