safety of a House, the Cohort is authorized to take command—”
“In a combat zone—”
“The Fifth are dead. I take authority for the Fifth. I say we need military intervention, and we need it right now. As the highest-ranked Cohort officer present, that decision falls to me.”
“A Cohort captain,” said Naberius, “don’t rank higher than a Third official.”
“I’m very much afraid that it does, Tern.”
“Prince Tern, if you please,” said Ianthe.
“Judith!” said Corona, more coaxingly, before an interhousal war kicked off. “This is us. You’ve come to all our birthday parties. Teacher’s right. Who would have killed Magnus and Abigail? Neither of them would have ever hurt a fly. Isn’t it possible that the hatch was left up, and something happened, and it’s such a long fall … Who was in there? Ninth, wasn’t it you?”
With marked frostiness, Harrow said: “We locked the hatch before continuing in.”
“You’re sure?”
Gideon, who had been the one to turn the key, was oddly grateful that Harrowhark did not even bother looking in her direction: she simply said, “I am certain.”
“How many people had these hatch keys other than the Ninth?” said Corona. “We had no idea the basement was even there.”
“The Sixth,” said Camilla and Palamedes as one.
Dulcinea said, small and tired: “Pro and I have one,” which made Gideon’s eyebrows raise right to her hairline.
“Colum has the copy given to the Eighth House,” said a voice from the floor.
It was Silas. He had sat up and was now mopping his face with a very white piece of cambric. His eye was red and shiny and swollen, and he dabbed carefully around it: Corona gallantly offered him her arm but he refused, pulling himself to stand heavily against a chair. “He has the key,” he said. “And I told Lady Pent of the existence of a facility beneath this floor, after the party.”
It was Harrow who said, “Why?”
“Because she asked,” he said, “and because I do not lie. And because I’m not interested in the Ninth House ascending to Lyctorhood alone … simply because they guessed a childish riddle.”
Harrowhark closed herself up like a folding chair, and her voice was like cinders: “Your hatred of us is superstition, Octakiseron.”
“Is it?” He folded the dirty handkerchief neatly and tucked it inside his chain mail. “Who was in the facility when Lady Pent and Sir Magnus died? Who was conveniently first on the scene to discover them—”
“You have one black eye already, courtesy of the Seventh House,” said Harrow, “and you seem to yearn for symmetry.”
“That was the Seventh, then?” The Eighth necromancer did not seem particularly displeased. “I see … it happened so swiftly I wasn’t sure.”
Gideon had thought Dulcinea asleep again, she was so limp and prone in Protesilaus’s arms, but she opened her big blue eyes and struggled to raise her head. “Master Silas,” she said thickly, “the Seventh House begs forgiveness of the merciful Eighth. Please grant it … this would be such an embarrassment to the House. Pro reacts quicker than I do. You wouldn’t duel me, would you?”
“Never,” said Silas gently. “That would be heartless. Colum will face the cavalier of the Seventh.”
Gideon felt her fingers clench into fists as Dulcinea took a deep, wobbly breath and said quietly, “Oh, but please—”
“Stop this now,” said Coronabeth. “This is madness.”
The laughing golden butterfly was gone. She stood now, hands on her hips, chilly amber. Her voice rang out like a trumpet. “We must make a pact,” she said. “We can’t leave this room suspecting one another. We’re meant to be working for a higher power. We knew it was dangerous—we agreed—and I can’t believe that any of us here would have meant harm to Magnus and Abigail. We need to trust one another, or this’ll devolve into madness.”
The Captain of the Second rose too. Her intensely dark eyes settled on each of them in turn before ending on Teacher.
“Then what must we logically assume?” she said. “That, as Teacher has said, there is a malevolent or obstructive force within the First House? Vengeful ghosts, or monsters born of some necromantic act?”
The awful necromantic teen rose to stand now. His eyes were raw and red, and his fists were dirty with blood. The numb agony on his face was like an animal in pain: when he spoke one expected only tortured baying.
But he said, “If there is a monster—it’s got to be hunted. If there’s a haunting—it’s got to be banished. Whatever was strong enough to kill Abigail and Magnus, it can’t be