My knees wobble with relief when light bursts from me and hits the compass before the pointer starts circling and then indicates down the passageway to the right. I stride purposefully in that direction, zigzagging through the labyrinthine hallways as I follow the silvery object in my hand. I pass the room I share with Cami, but then veer off around a new corner, following a left, right, right, left, left sequence that takes all of my focus to memorize. If I’m unable to Speak the compass into directing me back, I’ll need to retrace the path I took from memory alone.

Just when I’m beginning to question how far the catacombs spread, the pointer starts spinning, indicating that I’ve reached my destination. I place it in my pocket before stepping up to the only door carved into this section of the passageway and rapping my knuckles against it.

I wait a few moments, hearing nothing from within, and try again.

When still there are no sounds of movement from inside, I call, “Smith? It’s me—uh, Alyssa. Alyssa Scott.”

It feels strange to say my own name—my real name. While I’m getting used to others using it, it’s been years since I introduced myself to someone, years since I said the two words together, one after the other.

“Smith?” I call again, louder.

This time I hear a shuffle from the other side of the door, but still no one answers.

Frowning at the barrier, I call, “I know you’re in there. I’ll let myself in if I have to.”

Resorting to threats probably isn’t my wisest move, but I’m desperate. And it gets results, because three seconds later, the door is wrenched open, with a disgruntled Smith poking his head out into the corridor.

Disgruntled is perhaps too generous a term.

He’s irate.

And I can’t say I blame him.

“What the hell do you want?” he demands, squinting at me. I’m not sure if it’s due to the brightness of the flaming torch in the passageway, or if it’s because he’s not wearing his glasses and can’t see anything. One side of his ginger hair is pressed flat against his head, the other side even messier than it was when I last saw him. In the pale light, the scars covering half his face stand out in stark contrast to his unmarked flesh, and I can’t help wondering what he went through to have been so grievously injured.

“I’m sorry—I know it’s late.”

“It’s not late. It’s early.” His eyes narrow further. “Too early.”

“I’m sorry,” I say again, and I mean it. “But I need your help.”

“Then come back in the morning.”