a large bucket of soapy water probably left by Hern’s cleaners, for Miranda couldn’t imagine the Spiritualist scrubbing his own floors. Still, it gave her an idea. She stepped sideways, scooping up the sturdy bucket by its wooden handle and holding it carefully behind her back as she began to climb the spiral stairs.
Though they might vary greatly in style according to the individual, all Spiritualist towers were built the same. The first floor was cut into multiple rooms for private living, while the second, connected by a wide spiral stair, was one open room that served as the Spiritualist’s office, work floor, meeting room, and library. Hern’s tower was no exception. Miranda emerged from the spiral staircase at the center of an enormous room. Dozens of lamps hung from the pointed ceiling, and Miranda had to shield her eyes from the sudden brightness. Even so, it was immediately obvious that Hern’s taste for nice things didn’t stop at his professional space. This room was every bit as elaborate as the rooms below. Fine silk furniture clung to the rounded walls, arranged in little, inviting clusters perfect for confidences. The wooden floor was smothered in fine rugs and the walls were strewn with paintings, mostly cityscapes of Zarin and lovely lounging women wearing very little.
But what caught her attention the most wasn’t the glitz or the opulence, the fine statues or the heavy bookcases filled with leather volumes seemingly arranged by color rather than author or subject. Instead, her focus was instantly drawn to a wooden box sitting on a stone end table just in front of her. It was a simple thing, rough-hewn wood and an iron latch with a heavy lock, but Miranda’s heart leaped to see it, or rather to feel what was trapped inside. In answer, something inside the box rattled, a beautiful, tinkling bell sound of gold on gold as her rings clattered together.
“Not another step, if you please,” a charming, hated voice sounded from somewhere on her left.
Miranda turned, slowly. There, lounging in a chair beside an opulent liquor cabinet, with a sifter of something golden dangling from his jeweled hands, was Hern himself. The arrangement was so contrived Miranda couldn’t help wondering how many setups he’d experimented with before settling on this one. He was dressed in a lounging jacket and soft silk pants, more like a gentleman enjoying an evening at home than a Spiritualist whose land was being Enslaved, and he met her glare with an indulgent smile.
“Now,” he said, “don’t look like that. You should be happy I didn’t just catch you in stone and cart you back to Zarin. I’d be well within my rights, considering the trouble you’ve caused.”
“I don’t think you’ll have any rights once the Court hears about this,” she said. “Having a drink in your tower while your lands are crushed beneath the boot of Enslavement? Have you given up even the pretense of being a responsible Spiritualist, Hern?”
“That is a delicate political situation,” Hern said. “Not that you’d understand anything about those, seeing how, yet again, you’ve barged in and upset a stable and delicate system to satisfy what?” He sneered at her across his glass. “Some childish need for revenge? Or do you just enjoy helping Monpress upset kingdoms?”
Below the edge of the stairwell, out of Hern’s line of sight, Miranda clenched her bucket of water. “Enough lies, Hern,” she said. “Hide here all you want, but I’m taking my spirits back, and then I’m going to put a stop to this. If you won’t do your duty to your lands, I will.”
She took a step toward the box containing her rings, but she stopped at the familiar whoosh of flame. Hern was standing now, his outstretched hand wreathed in blue fire.
“You forget yourself, Miranda,” he said, grinning from ear to ear. “You are in my tower, on my land. You are powerless, spiritless, and trapped. You are in no position to be making demands.”
The flames licked at his fingers in long, threatening waves. It was just what Miranda had been waiting for. In one sweeping motion, she flung the bucket at him. Hern barely had time to understand what had happened before the bucket, and the wave of water flying out of it, struck him straight across the chest. The flames on his hands sputtered out and Hern yelped, leaping back and toppling his heavy chair as he did so.
It was only a momentary interruption, but it was enough. From the second