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“I always assumed the trapdoor just leads to another floor, where he keeps his rarest enchantments,” Yannick said.

I’d had the same thought, which meant that was likely where I’d find Vortigern’s book. I paced over to the stairs and made my careful way down to the second floor. It was similar in proportions to the first, and even more poorly organized, with boxes stacked on top of one another, some towering high above my head. It was also brighter, owing to an even larger convocation of spiders.

“This is appalling,” I muttered. I didn’t mean the spiders, or not only them; I’d never seen such a disorganized space. How did Havelock concentrate on whatever unpleasant enchantments he was concocting when he knew this horror lay below him? I wondered half seriously how I’d be able to sleep now—I, who can never retire without putting the shelter in order and writing out tomorrow’s to-do list, ordered into categories. The mouldering skeletons of Havelock’s victims would have been more tolerable than this.

I shuddered and went back up the stairs, almost bumping into Élise and Yannick on their way down. I was tempted to explore further, but I’d only have had Yannick breathing down my neck the entire time.

“Are these all enchantments?” I demanded when we returned to the first floor. “Even these?” I gestured to the closest cabinet, which was full of antique clocks, all stopped at a different hour.

“I believe so,” Yannick said. “Havelock has been collecting Artefacts for years. He trades them, sometimes, for other Artefacts. Some he’s enchanted himself. A few are empty of magic—he experiments, and not every enchantment turns out.”

I stared at him. “You sound like you don’t know what half of them do.”

“Far more than half,” Yannick said with a wince. “Havelock doesn’t keep records. Honestly, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s forgotten most of them himself, particularly those on the lower floors. It’s chaos down there.”

If this didn’t already constitute chaos, I had no desire for him to elaborate. Shaking my head, I turned slowly to take it all in. What astonished me more than the Artefacts, though, were the books.

They were everywhere. A bookshelf twice my height sat to the left of Havelock’s workspace—it had a ladder attached, and its shelves were disorderly, some double-stacked, others gap-toothed. I tilted my head, examining the titles. I wouldn’t have been at all surprised by grimoires full of unreadable symbols, but they were novels. I spotted a few leatherbound classics—adventure tales, for the most part, including Robinson Crusoe—but most were well-thumbed paperbacks, a high percentage of which had magic, witch, spells, dragon, or something similar in the title. One of the shelves seemed to be devoted to mythology and folktales from various cultures. Certainly none resembled a seventeenth-century grimoire.

I went to Havelock’s worktable. Buried beneath a pile of what looked like mariner’s rope and cupboard handles was another novel with dog-eared pages. Edrahil’s Curse and Other Stories.

“He likes to read,” I said, a question in my voice.

“Yes,” Yannick said. “Mostly when he was younger. I haven’t seen him with a book in a while. Well, he doesn’t have much time for it anymore.”

“No?”

“The shop keeps him busy,” Yannick said. “He works mostly on commission these days—someone will come to him with a specific request, and he’ll take the work if it interests him. Not only magicians, some humans, those among the wealthy and powerful, have learned of him. He doesn’t care about the money,” he added. “Only that it allows him to purchase more rare enchantments to take apart and study.”

Élise was crouched by one of the cabinets, examining a vase. “He doesn’t cast the enchantments, then?”

“Not usually. That’s not what he cares about. Magic is—it’s like a puzzle to him. At least I think it is.” Yannick scanned the untidy desk. “Havelock isn’t much given to talking about his feelings. He isn’t proud, I think he just forgets sometimes that he has them.”

I couldn’t connect the affectionate expression on Yannick’s face to either the Havelock Renard I had met or the Witch King of his reputation. I found myself itching to examine the rest of the cabinets, to rip open the boxes and spill their contents upon the floor. It was curiosity of a morbid variety—my respect for magic was no greater than before. But mixed up with it was frustration with Havelock, somehow, though he owed me nothing of himself, as if by rifling through his collection I might also better understand the man himself, or at least dent the mystery of him.

“Havelock could return at any moment,” Yannick said, half-nervous and half-despairing. I realized then what his concern was: Not fear of Havelock, but a desire to avoid—what? Disappointing him? Upsetting him?

I glanced at Élise, who appeared perfectly composed, looking about her with a moue of disapproval. But I could read the tension in her shoulders as easily as a book—she hated spiders, and there was one making its creeping way across the ceiling above her head.

“All right,” I said. “I’ve seen enough. It looks like a load of junk to me, anyway.”

This was not precisely true, but Yannick didn’t argue—he looked beside himself with relief. I allowed him to lead us back up the treacherous stairs, a plan taking shape in my mind.

It was a plan I put in motion that very night.

I made my way through the evening chores first, shadowed by Banshee. I kept stopping to inspect different corners of the building, convinced I’d find some difference, some evidence of its having been transported halfway across the city and back, but there was nothing. Even the dishes were intact.

I settled myself into one of the armchairs by the fire and waited for the hour to advance. Around me the old shop settled with its usual nighttime creaks, which had slowly grown familiar. I didn’t know how long I should wait, but I wanted to ensure I was not interrupted by any uncanny visitors, who occasionally dropped by in the evening hours.

“I know,” I murmured to the empty armchair across from me. It had been a habit of Robin’s and mine to take a glass of wine by the fire together after a long day, and I sometimes still spoke to him then. “You don’t need to tell me this is a terrible idea. But I have to attempt it—for their sake.”

The flames rustled like paper, and I could almost see Robin frowning disapprovingly at me over his newspaper, the light catching in his auburn hair. Though there was also that familiar glint of amusement in his gaze, as if to say, Let’s see how you get on, then.

When the fire had burned down to embers, I stood and made my way to the back room. The cats were mostly asleep in their cages, nestled into their kingly bedding, but I caught one or two tapetum flashes in the dim light. I paused above the trapdoor a moment, listening. But as far as I could tell, Havelock hadn’t returned. I caught myself wondering if Valérie had come upon him somewhere and attacked him again, before reminding myself that it was none of my business what fell out between them.

And yet I was about to make it my business.

Banshee had gone to take a nap, perhaps sensing that mine was a solitary mission—her favourite sleeping spot these days was the old baker’s oven, which filled me with trepidation. I had no reason to think the oven was dangerous—beyond Banshee’s attraction to it, that is—but still I did not trust the thing, and wondered if I should put a grate over it.