The only person who came by was that pale gray cat, who tugged at Giddon’s heart by jumping into his lap and cuddling against him in a way that reminded him of sitting with Bitterblue and Lovejoy in his big chair at home. She was soft and warm. “I still don’t know your name,” Giddon said.

Above him, Hava tapped on the floor—his ceiling—three times, which was his signal to come upstairs.

—

He found her standing triumphantly inside the small room.

“Good work,” he said.

Aside from a large desk and its chair, the room was empty, uncarpeted. The walls and floor were built of wood, finished but unadorned. It looked like a tiny, stark office. Hava was leaning over the desk under a single, high window.

“No foxes?” he said. “Or severed heads or sacks of money?”

“Just a desk with a million drawers,” said Hava, who was pulling on each drawer, peering inside. “Containing millions of papers.” When she got to a locked drawer, she pursed her lips in interest. “This would be a useful time to have Trina’s Grace,” she muttered.

“Except we don’t know what we’re looking for,” said Giddon. “Can you pick it?”

“The lock is very small,” she said, “but I guess I’ll have to try.”

It took her a long time, much longer than the door had done. While she worked delicately with her smallest lock picks, Giddon lit the lamp on the desk and began to look more closely at the papers in the drawers.

“Records of airship sales,” he reported. “Records of—” He paused, then raised a paper closer to the light. “Hava,” he said, “do you think it’s odd that Quona should have letters written to people who aren’t her?”

“Like who?” said Hava.

“Like Ada Balava,” he said. “Do you remember that name? She’s one of the importers who was cheating Bitterblue out of zilfium. In fact,” he said, skimming the page before him, “this seems to be a letter on that very topic.” He read aloud in Keepish. “‘You’ll find the queen to be selling her rock detritus at an advantageous price, to put it mildly. We suspect this price will last only as long as the queen’s ignorance, so we should buy now while we can.’ It’s from Ada Balava’s director of foreign operations.”

“Weaselbugger,” muttered Hava. Then there was a click and she made a satisfied noise. Sliding the drawer open, she began to rifle through it.

Suddenly, she cried out, “Giddon!”

“What?”

She was flipping through a small notebook. “Are these the scientific formulas for varane?”

“I’m not much of a scientist,” said Giddon, looking over her shoulder.