Constance took a deep breath. “What’s your name?” she asked the young guard.

He seemed taken aback by the question. “Aron.”

“Aron, we can’t waste any time, but we can’t alarm the people of the castle either. Let’s keep this quiet. Take two further guards from the gate and we’ll head to the lower town. We have to speak to these people.”

Aron looked uncertain but nodded. “Yes, my lady,” he said. He hesitated.

“What is it?”

He cleared his throat. “Should we inform Lord Irvine? I mean, if something goes wrong…”

She shook her head. “I am the Protector—and tomorrow I’ll be Duchess. I have to deal with this myself. Brief the guards on the battlements. They can pass on the message at dawn if we’re not back.”

Aron hurried up to the battlements and returned a few minutes later with two older men, both grim-faced, their knee-length green cloaks wrapped tight around their torsos. All three guards slipped on shield-eyes.

“Do you need any, my lady?” Aron offered Constance a pair.

“I’m fine, Aron.” She tapped her brass mask.

He nodded uncertainly.

Although the guards carried lanterns, their lights appeared horribly insubstantial against the darkness and the storm. Glancing from one to the other, she realized she had nothing to lose: everyone knew now. Everyone had probably suspected anyway, on some level. She tapped her cane against the cobblestones, a bright purple light springing from its pommel. Apart from squinting at the sudden glare, the guards remained professionally composed.

“Ready?” She smiled slightly beneath her mask. “Let’s go.” At Constance’s nod, the small group set off down the narrow path, deeper into the storm cloud.

The Hanged Thief had been shut and boarded for two years—ever since the quarantine had cut off the majority of its business. But as they arrived, they saw yellow light chinked between the rough planks nailed across the windows, and the sound of raised voices poured onto the road. The sign over the doors was lit up too: a picture of a man with a bulging purse at his belt, golden coins spinning from his pockets, hanging by his neck from a naked tree.

After a moment’s hesitation, Constance slipped off her mask, tapped off the light on her cane, and stepped boldly toward the door. It swung wide under her touch, the old hinges protesting. The three green-cloaked guards stood close at her back.

A thick trail of fog slid through the opening like a creature of flesh and blood. Aron quickly shut the door, closing the small group inside, and the cloud dispersed. The room was filled with people—at first, nobody seemed to notice their entrance. Men clustered around the bar and a handful of women and children huddled in the corners, nursing steaming cups and drooping sleepily over the tables.