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it, and before he knew it had crossed the circle and was holding the flower in his hand. It felt like a trophy. He then moved back and left across the circle, towards another of the stone creatures. It now seemed effortless: he just thought of shifting in a certain direction, and it happened. His heart was racing.

The motions he made with his wings were so subtle he wasn’t even sure what he was doing. He deliberately tried moving to the right and felt himself begin to fall, only just catching himself in time. No: too much thought. He had to relax, let his wings carry him effortlessly. The trick, he discovered, was not to try , but rather just let it happen. Slowly, he banked right and upwards, turning again to bring himself into the centre of the circle. Now higher this time; he ignored the physical motions of his wings and made a tight circle over the tower roof, then up, even higher, to the point where falling would injure him badly. With each new manoeuvre, his confidence grew.

He had it. He could fly.

Dill soared, laughing. He left the gargoyles and the broken arches far below and flew over wedges of pitched slate and chimneys, and out beyond the Rookery Spire. Deepgate stretched before him, soft with morning mist. He sucked in a deep lungful of sweet air, circled the spire, then flew back to gaze triumphantly down at the familiar ivy-tower. The gargoyles now looked tiny, earthbound and ugly, staring out with their fixed grimaces, oblivious to the angel above them.

And then he realized the trapdoor was rattling. Someone was trying to get out onto the roof.

A moment of panic nearly sent him plummeting, but he recovered and managed to control his descent. Dill landed safely, if not particularly elegantly. When he knocked the wooden beam away and pulled open the trapdoor, he was out of breath and shaking.

Rachel stepped out into the sunlight and eyed him suspiciously. “What have you been up to?” she said. Her gaze travelled the length of his scuffed clothing.

“Nothing.”

“Why couldn’t I open that trapdoor?”

He blushed, cheeks and eyes. “I was…exercising.”

She focused on the scuffs on Dill’s breeches. “Exercising?” There was a hint of a smile on her lips. “My brother used to say the same thing.”

Dill felt his eyes bloom pink. He turned and brushed some dust off his clothing. “Where have you been?” he asked. “I haven’t seen you anywhere in the temple for ages.”

“I’ve been busy. All this trouble with Devon has left the military in chaos. No one knows which ship is to be refuelled where, which payload is bound for which deck. The warships and regulars in the garrisons have been recalled. There’s even talk of reinstating the reservists.”

“What trouble with Devon?”

She regarded him strangely. “Does no one tell you anything?”

Dill shook his head. He tried to look indifferent, but the last of his elation quickly dissolved into chagrin. “No, I suppose not.”

So Rachel told Dill about the Poisoner’s disappearance and the explosion which had killed the temple guards sent to search his apartment. Now a citywide manhunt was under way. Dill listened with a mixture of wonder and growing shame. The city was not preparing for an attack. The Church hadn’t turned its back on him by failing to involve him. And yet he had broken temple law by learning to fly.

“He was making angelwine,” Rachel explained.

“Like the—”

“Exactly. The Soft Men. A bunch of extra husks turn up, the Church sends temple guards out to speak to Devon, and boom ! Six armoured crispies and no sign of the Poisoner.”

“Has the Church—?”

“Yes, Sypes had to make a statement. If the Spine possessed enough emotion to get antsy, they’d be crawling over every chain in Deepgate by now. Angelwine!” She shook her head. “There’s even talk of digging up the Soft Men and asking them what we can expect.”

“Why would—?”

“He’s dying, and dying men get desperate.”

Dill frowned. “Why won’t you—?”

“Let you finish a sentence?” She paused. “I don’t know. Sorry. Go ahead, I won’t interrupt again.”

Dill couldn’t think of anything else to say.

16

Manhunt

In the days that followed, the hunt for Devon showed no sign of abating. Every morning Dill made a circuit of his balcony and watched the airships patrolling low over Deepgate. The city sky buzzed with them. At night, their aether searchlights probed the darkest corners under the waxing moon, while Dill huddled in his cell among his candles and his snails and hoped that,