One day near the end of three months, Khabir turned up with something familiar in his hand.

“My briefcase,” said Miranda, eyeing the unusually battered item with curiosity. “Where has it been?”

Khabir was almost smug in his satisfaction. “A young man called Ajit returned it to me yesterday. His father’s a tracker, and he says they found this in some streetcomber’s store.” Khabir pronounced “streetcomber” in a tone that heavily insinuated “thief.” “Still locked, still filled with papers. Pity it took so long to get back here. I spent ages replacing all the court documents after your accident. I thought they were gone for good.”

Miranda reached out her hands, and he let her hold it half-tilted on her bed table. Some memories had been lost, some memories were false, but she still recalled the lock code.

He laughed at her eagerness. “You must really be bored to want to look at those old papers again.”

She raised one shoulder in the best shrug her body could manage. “It was quite a case. You said so yourself.”

Khabir shivered, or perhaps he was shaking off a fleeting flashback. “Never seen anything like it, before or since. But it would make a good play, don’t you think? Perhaps there’s a reason these old papers turned up after all.”

Smiling in agreement, she unlatched and raised the flap. She peered in, then stared, dumbfounded.

There was a hairy-legged spider perched on the edge of her case file.

“What?” said the Trickster. The voice was a tiny chitter, but it was unmistakably him. “I told you to leave the briefcase to me. Now get to work. You still have a task to do.”

“Pardon?” said Khabir. “I didn’t catch that.”

Miranda flipped the briefcase shut, her eyes wide. “Nothing.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

A spider in the house is easily ignored, even when it talks. The Trickster was both amused and peeved to discover that Miranda could only see him in his ordinary arachnid form and would then conveniently persuade herself that the voice she was hearing was in her own head. He kept to rafters and doorways, watched her steadily, and grew more amused. Now there was another active player in the game.

“Narrow doors. Steep steps. Small rooms,” Khabir listed patiently.

“Yes, yes,” Miranda acknowledged, her voice crisp with irritation. “I get it.”

The country villa was beautiful, with all the comforts of the City contained within a high-walled enclosure. It was also well staffed. The Trickster had already seen a nurse, a driver, a cook, and a housekeeper.

“Busy streets,” Khabir added.

“Are you done?” Miranda cried out, exasperated. “If I have to hear you tell me one more time why I can’t go home—”

“You’re not very good at this convalescence thing, are you?” he observed.

“I’m sorry. Thank you. I am grateful.”

“Hush,” said Khabir. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

She fell silent.