The room we’d entered was a bedroom, decorated in pink and white. A muted yellow light cast a soft glow, illuminating a hanging mobile. Stuffed animals were piled on an armchair, and a small table held a reading lamp and a notebook with loopy writing on the cover that read My Diary. The bed was frilly and fluffy, with more stuffed animals propped up against the headboard, and a small girl was sitting up in it. She was dressed in a white nightie and couldn’t have been more than nine years old. “Are you my daddy?” she asked me.

I stared at her. Her eyes were blue, without any sign of fright, or worry . . . or anything. I looked into the futures and felt a chill. The girl’s futures were solid lines, reacting to our input without any initiative or variation. Just like a construct.

“I’ve been good,” the girl said.

I felt my skin crawl. I turned and headed for the other side of the room, where a connecting door was half hidden by a wardrobe.

“Jesus,” Slate said. He was staring at the girl.

“Are you my daddy?” the girl asked.

“Guys,” I said, not looking at the bed. “Come on.”

Slate was staring at the girl, but Trask and Caldera followed me. “Door’s locked,” I said. A muffled shout sounded from somewhere off to the left, followed by gunfire. “Keep it quiet.”

Trask nodded, and I stepped out of the way. The big man put a hand to the door handle: there was a blue glow and the handle, the locking mechanism, and a six-inch circle of door puffed into dust. Trask pushed it open. “Slate,” I said over my shoulder. Slate tore his gaze away from the girl and followed. The girl watched us go with dead eyes.

The next room was panelled in stone, with a medieval theme. A fire burned in a fireplace, and oil lanterns were mounted on the walls. At the centre was what looked like an old-fashioned version of a medical examination bench. A side table held a tray of gleaming metal implements that could have been dentists’ tools, if you didn’t look too closely. I was glad Luna wasn’t here to ask questions. None of us spoke; we moved through and out.

Another door, another corridor. Someone almost ran over us as he came around a corner. He wasn’t dressed like one of the White Rose soldiers, but in a business suit: one of their clients, maybe. Slate stunned him with an enervation spell and we kept moving . . .

And then all of a sudden we were there. We’d come to what was obviously a cell block, metal doors with sliding windows on the outside. “He’s—” I began.

“He’s in there!” Slate said. Death mages can sense living creatures: it’s not as precise as lifesight, but Slate obviously knew what to look for. “Get the door!”

Trask turned the lock and most of the door to dust. Inside was a plain cell, a toilet, a bunk . . . and Haken, lying unmoving on the bed. Slate took a step forward.