“And of course, we couldn’t possibly have a coronation without you, Anya. Taking into account travel time and the paucity of holidays at the school, I expect you won’t be home for several years, if at—”
He stopped himself, his lips twitching. Anya knew he’d been about to say, “if at all.” He just couldn’t help himself. The next thing, he’d be wringing his hands together and cackling. This was yet another side effect of too much evil magic. Being cold, talking too much about plans, and eyeteeth that grew ridiculously long and sharp were all side effects. In the final stages, evil sorcerers even forgot to breathe, but sadly this didn’t stop them from thinking they were still alive and carrying on as if they were.
“You can’t have Morven’s wedding either, in that case,” said Anya. “A formal wedding would need me there too, and our stepmother.”
“Oh, a formal wedding would, no doubt,” Rikard retorted. “But one hears so often about runaway matches, a chance meeting with a well-meaning priest or a tipsy druid, happy to celebrate any wedding. It could happen tomorrow … ”
“I won’t let you marry Morven off to suit yourself,” said Anya through gritted teeth.
“You won’t be here. In fact, you will depart for school tomorrow morning at dawn,” said Rikard, once again smiling his not-so-secret smile. “It is going to rain, so it will be suitably miserable. Do you understand?”
“I understand all right.” Anya eyed one of Gotfried’s paper knives on the desk. But there was no point physically attacking the Duke. He was protected by his magic from all normal weapons. The way Rikard’s power was growing, she was afraid that even Moatie’s great teeth might not be able to harm him now, and so their ultimate defense against him might no longer be effective.
Rikard nodded and turned to Gotfried.
“Librarian. I require a copy of the second volume of Tench and Watkins on the transmogrification of birds. You might recall when I spoke to you yesterday I wanted both volumes, not just the first?”
“Yes, Your Grace. I’m very sorry, Your Grace. It won’t happen again, Your Grace.” Gotfried was terrified of the Duke but also somewhat admiring of him, because Rikard had become the powerful sorcerer he had once wanted to be himself. “I will fetch the second volume for you.”
“Bring it to my study,” instructed the Duke. He turned, swirled his black cloak around behind him, and vanished into the shadowed stair.
Anya took in a shuddering breath and looked at her hands, willing them to stop shaking. She always told herself that the next time she saw the Duke would be different. That she wouldn’t feel the fear.
But she always did.
Anya checked the staircase after the Duke had departed to make sure he wasn’t simply crouched down on the tenth step under his cloak, as he had been known to do so he could listen to what people said about him. But the staircase was empty, and the door at the top locked shut.
When she came back down, Gotfried had gone owl. He was perched on top of one of the bookcases with his head tucked under his wing.
“Oh, Gotfried!” exclaimed Anya. “I wanted to talk to you.”
“Can’t,” said Gotfried, his voice muffled by feathers. “Have to find a book for the Duke. Have to take it to his … his study.”
The Duke’s study was a frightening place. It was impossibly tidy and the walls were very brightly whitewashed, the surface so smooth people thought all kinds of ghastly things must be hidden away behind secret doors. Anya wasn’t sure there were any secret doors or horrible things hidden away; it was possible that the Duke was just extremely orderly. But Gotfried imagined the walls could turn on pivots to reveal a dungeon, or a laboratory so evil it would turn him into an owl forever, or perhaps turn him into an owl and then kill him on the spot, stripping the feathers and flesh from his bones to make him another skeleton in the Duke’s collection.
If the Duke had a skeleton collection. Gotfried was sure he did, behind those white walls.
“Hiding your head under your wing isn’t going to help,” said Anya sternly.
“I’m just taking a moment to gather myself,” said Gotfried. “Before I deliver the book.”
Anya waited for a minute or two, but Gotfried’s head did not emerge from under his wing.
“Gotfried!”
“I’m still gathering myself,” mumbled the owl. “Then I’m going to get the bird transmogrification book and take it to the Duke, and then if I don’t end up as a skeleton I’m going to gather myself some more.”
“I need to ask you things,” said Anya. “I don’t know what to do! I’m going to be sent away tomorrow. At dawn! And I promised Morven I would find Denholm! A sister promise!”
Gotfried didn’t answer. He shivered on his bookshelf, feathers trembling.
A soft, wet nose touched the back of Anya’s hand.
“You should talk to Tanitha,” said Ardent.
Relief flooded through Anya. She had panicked for a moment, losing her normal self-possession.
“Of course,” she said.
Unlike normal dogs, the royal breed lived as long as humans, or even longer. No one knew how old Tanitha was exactly, but she was by far the castle’s oldest inhabitant, and remembered people and dogs long since dead.
Tanitha did not move much now from her place by the vast fire in the castle’s Great Hall, but a constant stream of dogs and people came by to keep her informed. Her word was law to all the dogs and other animals in the castle and beyond. Even the castle cats, a semi-independent band that primarily roved the roofs and attics, gave their allegiance to Tanitha, even if they sometimes pretended otherwise.
With the relief of knowing she could talk to someone wise, Anya’s swift-thinking brain began to work properly again.