She snapped the book closed and hurried to the window, but it was black as coal outside, the courtyard and battlements obscured by the usual banks of gray cloud. She opened the casement and stood still, listening, shivering in the biting, damp cold. Another shout—a man’s this time—broke the silence, and more, and more. Yellow lights danced in the cloud, ghostly and fragile, like fireflies. She stepped into the dress she’d discarded a few hours previously, pulled on her boots, and grabbed her cane. Before she left, she slipped the book into the hidden compartment of the window seat. It was unlikely anyone would search her room, but she couldn’t be too careful.

Constance pulled on a warm fur cloak and opened the door in time to hear frantic footsteps approaching up the stairs of the tower, a young city guardsman stopping, breathless, as he caught sight of her. She recognized him, under his peaked helmet, as one of the guards who had first greeted her upon arrival.

“What’s wrong? I heard screaming.”

“The lower town, my lady,” he sputtered, gasping. “Your presence requested.”

She shut the door to her apartments and followed the young guard downstairs. He grabbed a lantern from a hook on the doorframe and led her out into the courtyard.

“What’s happening?” She slipped the mask from her cloak pocket as they stepped into the storm cloud, fastening it over her face to filter out the effects of the spell.

“It doesn’t make sense,” said the guard, his light bobbing in the gloom. “The townsfolk are running out of their houses into the streets, terrified. They’re ignoring the storm cloud, leaving their eyes unprotected.” He shook his head. “They’re saying…”

Constance saw that his face was ashen, green-tinged. She could tell he was as disconcerted by the mask as by his story. “What is it?”

“They’re saying it’s the Ancestors.” He stopped, his voice sinking to a whisper. “They can hear the Ancestors moving below … knocking on the floors.”

So the final stage has begun at last.

The contractions are starting.

The dead are rising.

Constance felt no shock, but heavy resignation settled on her lungs, nearly stopped her breathing. She’d expected this. She’d known the spell was close to maturity. But this was no comfort.

“What’s the situation now?” she asked. “What are the townsfolk doing?”

“They’re angry—some of the men … they overpowered Captain Trudan and another guard on patrol. They tied them up—I ran to the castle as soon as I saw. A big group was heading toward an old public house, the Hanged Thief.”

They’d reached the gates. Constance’s orders to relieve the pressure on the townsfolk had clearly been too little, too late. Four guards watched over the battlements, mere shadows in the gloom.

“I fear they’re going to get violent, my lady. The ale is flowing. Tempers are high.”