The witches claimed that a note had arrived at the chapter house, in Cathrynne’s hand, saying that she was returning to Arioch by ship. Yarl was back at Everfell. Gavriel had sent word to watch the docks, but he did not believe she had left Arjevica. Not of her own free will.
“She is here,” he muttered. “I can feel it. Either hiding or being hidden.”
“The witches deny involvement,” Suriel said. “I have spoken to the Morag herself, as well as the heads of the chapter houses.”
“What about the White Foxes? I don’t trust them.”
“They claim ignorance.”
“Of course they do!” he erupted. “Someone is lying. And when I find out who it is . . .” He launched into the air again, aflame with restless energy.
If something had happened to her . . . No, he could not allow himself to think that way. Yet the prospect of losing her tightened around his throat like a noose.
“I will not remain here another hour,” Gavriel said, striding for an open archway. “The witches can tell me to my face that they know nothing! And I will judge their honesty myself.”
Suriel looked weary of his ranting. “Go, then,” she said. “But I have asked the birds and rats for aid. If Cathrynne Rowan is in my city, I will know by sundown.”
Communing with animals was Suriel’s special talent. He nodded brusquely and launched into the air. He flew direct to the chapter house, alighting on the wide marble steps. The ornate Beaux Arts building rose before him, windows reflecting the overcast sky. A pair of witches at the entrance eyed him with hostility.
“I require an immediate audience,” he said, not bothering with pleasantries.
One went inside. The other watched him in silence. After a moment, the first witch returned. “Come, Lord Morningstar.”
She brought him to a tiny room with a wooden chair and a stack of broadsheets folded on a table. The message was clear: wait like any other petitioner.
He paced for a while, then scanned the gossip rags. With no fresh developments, Casolaba’s murder was fading into the back pages. Levi Bottas, Casolaba’s aide, had still not been found.
Gavriel threw the paper down, unable to focus. An hour passed, then two. He was about to go find someone and demand a meeting when the door opened. It was the same witch who had brought him there.
She led him up a staircase to a wood-paneled study. Another witch stood at the window. Her waist-length white hair glittered with jeweled pins, a testament to her age and authority.
“Lord Morningstar,” she said crisply. “I am Nestania Lenormand. Please state your business.”
He did not sit down, and she did not invite him to.
“I would like to know what you are doing to find Cathrynne Rowan.”
“The cypher from Kirith?” Nestania’s silver eyes revealed nothing. “Inquiries are being made.”
“What sort of inquiries?”
“That is witch business.”
“It is my business. She is from my province and was assigned to protect me. I am responsible for her.”
“Then perhaps you should go home and see if she has returned.”
“My secretary Edvin Yarl has already done so. She is not there.”
Nestania clasped her hands. Each finger had a stack of rings. “I have spoken to Felicity Birch, the head of the cyphers in Kirith. We are doing all we can.”
“Which is what exactly?”
Her chin lifted. “I do not answer to you, Morningstar.”
“No, you do not,” he agreed. “Yet you seem remarkably unconcerned that one of your own has gone missing. Is it because she is a cypher?”
Her eyes narrowed. “You go too far. I must ask you to leave.”
