“You’re afraid of me,” he observed.

A tremor ran through her, but she stood her ground. If she didn’t reveal that she suspected him, she might survive long enough to escape. “You’re a sorcerer,” she rasped, feeling that was answer enough. And then she asked, hoping to distract him, “Who is the Chancellor?”

His eyes narrowed. “If you’re going to play the fool, you’ll need to do a better job than that.”

“I’m not playing.” Her nails dug into her palms. “Who is the Chancellor?”

“That word truly doesn’t mean anything to you?”

She shook her head. He leaned in for a closer look, his pale eyes searching her face. She waited for something to happen: a bolt of pain meant to force a confession, or an alien presence clawing through her thoughts in search of the truth. Behind him, statues bent their heads together as if they were discussing her fate. She even heard them whispering, in grinding voices of earth and stone. A long moment passed, but the sorcerer only exhaled a single, humorless laugh and withdrew. Relief poured through her.

“Chancellor Ashcroft is the second most powerful person in the kingdom. He’s the current head of the Magisterium.” He paused. “You do know what the Magisterium is?”

“It’s the sorcerers’ government. I’m to be taken there.” If you don’t kill me first. Clad in only the threadbare, too-short dress, she had never felt more defenseless. “The journey to the city takes three days,” she ventured, struck by an idea. “I don’t have any of my things.”

The magister, Nathaniel, glanced at the door. “Ah, yes. I’d nearly forgotten. One moment.” Bowing his head, he murmured an incantation. The Enochian words sizzled when they struck the air, like grease spattered on a hot stove.

Elisabeth tensed, uncertain what he meant to do. Prepared for the worst, she nearly missed the curious whistling sound that came from above. A shadow appeared on the ground beside her, rapidly growing larger. She leaped aside as a sizable object came plummeting from the sky and landed with a thud on the gravel.

The object was her own trunk. She gaped at Nathaniel, then rushed to the trunk and flipped its latches open. The inside contained several dresses she hadn’t worn since she’d turned thirteen, neatly folded. Her rarely used hairbrush. Nightclothes. Stockings. No apprentice’s robes, but then, she hadn’t expected those. As the spell dissipated, an emerald glow shimmered over the trunk’s contents.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he inquired.

“You used a demonic incantation to pack my stockings!”

He raised an eyebrow. “You’re right, that doesn’t sound like something a proper evil sorcerer would do. Next time, I won’t fold them.”

She didn’t have a chance to dig deeper inside the trunk without arousing suspicion. She had hoped for an opportunity to fetch her belongings herself. She doubted that Nathaniel had included anything she could arm herself with, certainly not Demonslayer, but there might be something of use. She would have to take a closer look later, in private.

She straightened, and the blood rushed from her head. She staggered, overcome by a wave of dizziness. The dungeon had left her body weak.

A hand caught her elbow. “Steady, miss,” said a soft voice beside her.

She turned to find a servant standing there, supporting her, and realized this must be the coachman, though somehow she hadn’t seen him until now. He was a young man dressed in old-fashioned livery, his hair meticulously powdered white. He appeared to be around Nathaniel’s age, and he was slight of build and quite short—not as short as Katrien, but still a good deal shorter than Elisabeth. In all other respects he was unusually forgettable. What an unremarkable person, she thought, and then frowned. She never thought of anyone as unremarkable. Where had that come from?

There was something strange about this servant. Try as she might, she couldn’t seem to describe anything else about him, not even the color of his eyes, though she stood less than an arm’s length away.

“Excuse me,” he said in his courteous, whispering voice. “Shall I take your trunk?”

She nodded dumbly. When he bent to lift her trunk, she reached out, feeling as though she should help. He was so slender, he looked likely to hurt himself.

“Don’t worry about Silas,” Nathaniel said. “He’s stronger than he looks.” His tone held the air of a private joke.

Was Nathaniel mocking him? She inspected the servant’s face for any sign of discomfort, but found none. Instead, he wore a faint smile. Where Nathaniel’s smile was villainous, this boy’s smile belonged to a saint. Elisabeth wondered why she had only just noticed how beautiful he was, almost ethereal, as though he were spun from frost or alabaster in place of flesh and blood. She had never seen anyone so beautiful, never known it was possible; a lump formed in her throat simply looking at him.

As if he sensed her attention, the servant looked up and met her eyes. And her breath caught on a scream.

His eyes are yellow. He isn’t human. He’s—

The observation vanished like a candle snuffing out. Yes, he truly is an unremarkable person, she thought, watching the servant return to her side.

“May I help you into the carriage, miss?” he asked.

She nodded and took his gloved hand. She trusted him, though she didn’t know why. Strange; she could have sworn—sworn there was something. . . .

“Is Nathaniel cruel to you?” she asked under her breath. She could not imagine what it would be like to be a sorcerer’s servant, forced to witness depravities day in and day out.

“No, miss. Never. I am essential to him, you see.” As he assisted her up the steps, he lowered his voice even further. “No doubt you have heard that sorcerers bargain away their lives to demons in exchange for their power.”

Elisabeth frowned, but Nathaniel spoke before she could wrap her head around the servant’s words.

“Make yourself comfortable, Miss Scrivener. We have a long journey ahead of us. The sooner we get started, the faster I can get back to tormenting widows and scandalizing the elderly with my nefarious black arts.”

She bolted inside, requiring no further encouragement. The interior of the coach was as opulent as its exterior, full of deep green velvet and glossy woodwork. She had never ridden in a carriage before. Her closest experience was sitting in the back of a wagon on the road down to Summershall, holding a chicken on her lap.

She pressed herself into the corner, folding up her legs to fit the space, waiting for Nathaniel to follow. Would he sit beside her, or across from her? Perhaps he planned to amuse himself at her expense before he killed her. She tensed when the carriage dipped beneath someone’s weight. But the door closed, leaving her inside, dry-mouthed and alone.

Hooves clattered, and the coach swayed into motion. To distract herself from the queasy churning of her stomach, she tugged the curtains open. Nathaniel’s spell was wearing off the courtyard outside. She watched the angel sheath its sword and sink back into its original position, closing its eyes as though falling asleep. The gargoyles yawned, blinked, tucked their faces beneath their tails. Everywhere faces settled, pinions furled; the hooded men turned away and clasped their hands in silent prayer. She released a held breath when the last statue went still, returning the courtyard to lifeless stone, as if its occupants had never moved, never spoken, never opened their marble eyes.