He raised a hand for silence. She heard a footstep. Together, they retreated behind the prickly evergreen foliage of a winter-bane hedge. Who could possibly be awake? Besides the swalters, that is.

The old custodian padded into the courtyard, lamp in hand. Either the sleep enchantment had worn off, or the man had some kind of protection against it. He held up the lamp, peering around, then saw the dart and, with a grunt of interest, bent to pick it up. With a last glance toward the hillside, he left. The haunt’s elbow brushed Elen’s, paused, pressed: Stay still.

They stood there a while longer, so close she could breathe him in. A yearning caught in her throat, and she wasn’t even sure what she was yearning for. A touch. A caress. A kiss, slow and sweet and hot.

He took in a startled breath and, moving swiftly, stepped out from behind the bush. She followed, angry with herself. Don’t get distracted or sloppy. No shortcuts. Stick to the routine. Stay calm.

She had to focus on the mission, on the here and now, the day to day. But that brought her thoughts back to the washroom and Kem’s parting “fuck you.” Would Kem ever talk to her again? Could he ever forgive her? Compared to Kem’s anger, the rest of this was chaff. Whether the haunt was the prince, or the prince was the haunt, he would walk out of her life and on about the important business of the palace, or the mysterious business of the bell. She would go back to courier duty.

The haunt glanced at her but made no comment about her tense stride and harsh breathing. They returned to the hostel. Fulmo still stood unmoving beneath the starlight. Something tiny rested by his right foot.

It was a dead mouse with a dart stuck in its neck.

The haunt picked it up by the tail, its body dangling limply, empty of life. “A warning. Or a reminder. Not even enough meat to make a meal for the likes of us. What a waste. I’ll burn it in the hearth.”

“What is the bell?” she asked. “What does it mean?”

He kept his gaze on the dead mouse, as if its corpse contained the answers he sought. “The bell is the trace, the mark, the sign of sorcery. That these swalters know nothing of it is unexpected, for their people lived through the days when sorcery almost destroyed the world.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“So it seems. Still, their Clan Mother hasn’t forgotten the past, has she? I could not tell you what it means that they claim to know nothing of the bell. Either they are lying, or they can’t hear it.”