“Relax. You’ve made good progress on simple manifestations and combat. And we’ll focus on your spells tomorrow—I’m free all morning. And in the afternoon you can practice on your own.” He reached out to her, squeezed her shoulder. “I ought to be angry with you about today. You shouldn’t have climbed up onto that windowsill, let alone leaned against the glass!” He smiled, the affection clear on his face. “But for some reason I just want to help you. I can’t resist it.”

“Thank you,” Lena said, uncomfortably but not unpleasantly aware of how close he was standing, the weight of his hand on her shoulder. She felt a twinge of guilt at the way her thoughts had been tending—toward Lord Chatham, and Chaos, and the butterfly, and away from everything Emris told her was good and necessary. “You’ve done a lot for me,” she added. “I’m grateful. I really am. I’d be lost here without you.”

He smiled, and she found herself wishing she could trace the lines of his scars with her fingers. His voice was husky when he spoke next. “I’ll see you in the morning, Lena. Get some sleep.”

But even as she lay in bed, Lena still felt wide-awake, feelings and thoughts spinning around in her mind like Hunter chasing mice. And she knew, with sudden clarity, what she had to do.

FOURTEEN

The Dead

Constance followed Captain Trudan down the uneven, slimy steps to the dungeons, where the physician was locked in one of the cells destined for traitors, the lowest of criminals. Unlike the sparse but habitable cellars Constance knew were reserved for the cryptlings and morticians, the dungeons were cold, dark, and damp—the ceiling was distant, the windows at ground level shedding ghostly evening light as if from another world. The straw clearly hadn’t been changed in several years, and rats crawled freely among the old rags and refuse. Constance held a scented handkerchief to her nose.

“We’ve stationed three guards,” Captain Trudan said, offering her a hand down the last two steps of the staircase, which were particularly steep, “but I don’t know what he’s capable of. He’s been drugged for much of the time, as commanded. But if we continue for much longer, his life—”

“I understand,” she snapped, cutting him short. His life might be in danger. If he died, he’d never stand trial for his crimes. She didn’t care: this man had killed her father; in her eyes he was already condemned. But she had to appear to care.

The captain kindled another lamp, leaving his own on a hook beside the staircase. She had tucked her cane under her arm, unlit. “If I could have asked someone else, I would have, my lady.” His broad, stubbled face was concerned in the flickering firelight. “It seems wrong to ask you, so soon after the Duke’s Descent.”