Page 39 of Demon’s Snack

“You absolutely have that look.”

The bell chimes again, sharper this time.

I remove the plain cloak and pass it to her. “If anyone asks, I returned through the servants’ gate five minutes ago and went directly to the archive room.”

“You did return through the servants’ gate five minutes ago.”

“Excellent. Then you need only omit the middle.”

“That is how most lies are born.”

“Most useful ones, yes.”

Mira takes the cloak with visible displeasure. “Be careful.”

“I will be accurate.”

“I hate when you say that.”

“I know.”

Lord Vaerith receives me in the mirror gallery.

The room is cool enough to raise faint prickling along my arms beneath my sleeves. Tall mirrors line both walls from floor to vaulted ceiling, their black frames twisted into thorned metalwork that catches the spelllight in sharp silver glints. Some mirrors reflect the room. Others reflect distant corridors or darkened chambers elsewhere in the estate. A few remain blank, which somehow feels more threatening than movement.

The floor beneath my boots gleams like still water. Every sound I make seems to travel too far.

Vaerith stands near the central mirror with one hand clasped loosely behind his back. He does not look at me immediately when I enter. He lets the silence arrange itself first, the way a spider allows tension to settle through silk before deciding which direction to move.

“Isolde,” he says at last.

“My lord.”

I lower my head at the proper angle.

“You were gone longer than expected.”

“The registry clerk had misfiled the west notation under dock ledgers.”

“Astonishing.” His tone remains smooth, but faint amusement ghosts across his mouth as he turns toward me. “Bureaucrats have once again proven themselves the only creatures on Protheka more tedious than priests.”

“Yes, my lord.”

I hold the folio out.

He does not take it immediately. Instead, he watches me with that patient, pale gaze that always gives the impression he is waiting for the room itself to confess something.

“And did you enjoy your errand?” he asks.

“It was damp.”

“How unfortunate.”

“Yes, my lord.”

Only then does he take the folio, fingers brushing the leather with absent elegance. He unties the strap slowly, though I can tell from the angle of his wrist that he is not reading a single page.

“You spoke with someone in the courtyard.”