Lena ignored the comment. “What spell did the butterfly have inside it?”

“I don’t know. As I said, I made it empty. It would’ve been up to Lady Patience what she wished to fill it with.” Chatham sliced the cake. “Now, how much do you want for it?”

Lena’s mind was occupied, and it took her a few moments to process what Chatham had said. When she did, she blinked in confusion. The fire flickered, and the shadows near the ceiling crowded down like eager observers. “Excuse me?”

“How much do you want? A hundred gold pieces?” He lifted a slice from the cake stand and lowered it carefully onto a plate. He tried to hand it to her, but she didn’t move.

Lena shook her head. “It’s not for sale,” she said. The butterfly sat on the small table. They both looked at it. Chatham reached out to pick it up, but Lena was faster, cupping it protectively in her palm. “I’m sorry, but I’m not interested.”

“Now, now, Miss Grey. I think we’ve established that this little creature isn’t really yours anyway,” he said, still holding the cake knife. “It’s out of pure generosity that I’m happy to compensate you for the loss.”

Lena raised her chin. “Why should it belong to you? It belonged to Patience Santini, and she’s dead.”

“Well … by rights, it belongs to her daughter, Constance.”

She blinked. Constance. The masked mage. Chatham’s apprentice.

“And I’d just love the opportunity to return it to her,” he went on. “Constance and I are old friends, you see.”

“I thought she was your apprentice. I thought she stole something from you when she ran away,” Lena said, her voice slow and quiet. “Doesn’t sound like you were friends, to me.”

Chatham nodded. “Emris has told you … Well, I shouldn’t be surprised, I suppose: the huntsman appears to treat you as something of a confidante. I’ll tell you something else: Constance wants this butterfly.”

Lena looked at the creature in her palm, not quite understanding. “What?” she breathed.

His voice was sharper, tinged with something sour and unpleasant. “Oh yes. That little butterfly may be next to worthless, but for reasons of her own, I believe Constance desires it.” He looked genuinely angry now. “Isn’t that marvelous, Lena? If you let me have the butterfly, I’d have something she wants, and she’d have to come back and get it. And so the little butterfly flies into the net, along with the priceless treasure she stole from me.” He held out his hand. “So you see, it’s absolutely necessary that you give me the butterfly.”

“No,” said Lena firmly, holding it tighter in her hand.

Chatham slammed his fist into the table. His face had grown twisted and ugly—he looked ten years older than he had moments ago. “What value is the damn thing to you?”