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F ennus strode, cloaked, through the webwork of Thune’s southern alleys. Snow flicked in little curls from the slanting roofs above.

He was extremely cold and extremely irritated.

He’d stayed well clear of the city since the fire—a Thaumic construction of which he’d been quite proud. He was even a little relieved that Viv had survived unscathed. He hadn’t explicitly wanted to cause her injury. Or at least, nothing too extreme.

Roon, Taivus, and Gallina had been less than gracious about it, but he was sure that in time, their misplaced outrage would fade. And if it didn’t, he supposed that might not be such a tragedy, all things considered.

Rumors of the shop reopening had drawn him back, along with the increasingly insistent doubts he’d been harboring since procuring the Scalvert’s Stone. Fennus simply had to investigate.

The shop was, indeed, rebuilt, and it looked at least as successful as before, if not more so. Which begged the question, had the Stone any worth whatsoever? If it wasn’t responsible for Viv’s string of fortunate turns, then what could he expect of it?

Had all of this really been for nothing?

If Viv had been a fool to place her faith in it, then what did that make him? A twice-damned fool?

It really was quite vexing.

Set in a small medallion, Fennus kept it tucked beneath his tunic, next to his skin. The silver of the setting was cold against his flesh.

He rounded a corner, heading toward the docks, when the light at the other end darkened. Someone else had stepped into the narrow, twisting alley.

His neck prickled as another presence fell in behind him.

“I’d heard you might be back in the city,” said a voice he vaguely remembered.

Turning, Fennus placed it. That lackey of the Madrigal’s named… Lack , amusingly enough. The enormous hat really was in poor taste.

Fennus smiled thinly. “Only briefly. I’d ask if I could help you, purely out of politeness, but I’m afraid my schedule won’t allow it. I’m also not feeling particularly polite, at the moment.”

“Oh, we don’t need too much of your time,” said Lack. “But the Madrigal was quite interested in that stone you were kind enough to mention. And I’ve heard tell it might have a new owner. That’d be you, wouldn’t it, sir?”

Fennus’s eyes narrowed. “If you’re all the Madrigal sent, she’s less perceptive than I gave her credit for.” Faster than thought, he drew a slender white rapier from his side, luminous with Thaumic glow and alive with a blue tracery of leaves.

Lack shrugged, unperturbed. “There’s a few more of us, here and there.

And maybe you could cut us all down—not that I’d prefer that, of course.

Partial to my own throat, you see! Let me make an observation, though.

You might not think the Madrigal is perceptive , but I can assure you, sir, that she is persistent . ”

Fennus raised the point of his sword, his arm steady as he angled it toward Lack’s throat. He paused there for a moment, considering.

Then he sighed, and with a swift motion, sprang toward the left-hand wall, catching it with one booted foot and springing toward the opposite side of the narrow alley, arcing higher and higher with each sideways leap, until he caught an eave with one delicate hand and flipped up onto the roof.

He shook out his cloak in annoyance, tossed back his hood, and sheathed the blade, striding nimbly up the tiles to the peak. He heard a commotion in the streets below, the Madrigal’s men circling the building, watching for him to move to an adjoining rooftop or to descend.

There was no easy way for them to pursue him, so Fennus took his time, gazing across the icy cityscape toward the docks and the mast of the ship he’d be catching within the hour.

This was all a minor inconvenience, at best. It really was pitiful. The whole business did nothing to improve his mood, however.

Then he heard a heavy impact and a clatter of tile behind him, followed by a rising, throaty rumble, like an oncoming avalanche.

He whirled to face an enormous, sooty creature, its fur bristling, its fangs huge, green eyes alive with liquid malice.

He had only a final sliver of a second to think, incredulously, Is that the gods-damned cat?

Amity leapt.