The iron leg-band tapped three times more against the cold glass of the upper study casement, a sharp, metallic summons that vibrated through the leaded cames. In the quiet taproom below, the four figures at the bar counter went rigid.
Jon Hale took the horn lantern from the counter and led the way up the narrow back stairs, his boots making no sound on the worn oak treads. Sister Oda followed with her rosary clutched in her frail fingers, while Lady Signe Lorr gathered her dark blue skirts, her face set in the pale, rigid mask of an imperial jurist about to receive a capital sentence.
The upper study was freezing cold. The small hearth had not been lit since the flume rupture at midnight, and river fog clung to the exterior of the leaded panes like gray grease. On the sill outside, its feathers ruffled against the damp wind, perched a massive royal dispatch raven—a bird twice the size of Nell’s tame rook, its beak heavy, dark, and hooked like a cobbler’s knife, its black eye reflecting the yellow lantern light with cold, unblinking malice.
Clamped around the bird’s left leg was an inch-long cylinder of beaten copper, sealed with a blob of hard, crimson beeswax that bore the raised imprint of the three crowns of the Ministry of Relics.
