Archer shrugged. “That may be true. But they’ve also rescued a good number of would-be victims from the king’s gallows, apparently. The night his friends burst into the house, it was because they’d managed to save one of their informants from being interrogated by the king. They smuggled him out of Rifthold before dawn broke the next day.”

Did Chaol know about this? Given how he’d reacted to killing Cain, she didn’t think torturing and hanging traitors were a part of his duties—or were even mentioned to him. Or Dorian, for that matter.

But if Chaol wasn’t in charge of interrogating possible traitors, then who was? Was this person the source who had given the king his latest list of traitors to the crown? Oh, there were too many things to consider, too many secrets and tangled webs.

Celaena asked, “Do you think you can get me into Davis’s office right now? I want to look around.”

Archer smirked. “My darling, why do you think I brought you over here?” He smoothly led her to a nearby side door—a servants’ entrance. No one noticed as they slipped through, and if they had, Archer’s hands roaming over her bodice, her arms, her shoulders, her neck, would suggest that they were going through the door for some privacy.

A seductive smile on his face, Archer tugged her down the small hallway, then up the stairs, always taking care to keep his hands moving on her lest anyone see them. But all the servants were preoccupied, and the upstairs hall was clear and quiet, its wood-paneled walls and red carpeting immaculate. The paintings here—several from artists she recognized—were worth a small fortune. Archer moved with a stealth that probably came from years of slipping in and out of bedrooms. He led her to a set of locked double doors.

Before she could pull one of Philippa’s pins from her hair to unlock it, a pick appeared in Archer’s hand. He gave her a conspirator’s grin. A heartbeat after that, the office door swung open, revealing a room lined with bookshelves over an ornate blue carpet, with potted ferns scattered throughout. A large desk sat in the center, two armchairs before it, and a chaise sprawled near a darkened fireplace. Celaena paused in the doorway, pressing on her bodice just to feel the slender dagger tucked inside. She brushed her legs together, checking the two daggers strapped to her thighs.

“I should go downstairs,” Archer said, glancing at the hallway behind them. The sounds of a waltz floated up from the ballroom. “Try to be quick.”

She raised an eyebrow, even though the mask covered her features. “Are you telling me how to do my job?”

He leaned in, brushing his lips against her neck. “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he said onto her skin. Then he turned and was gone.

Celaena quickly shut the door, then strode to the windows at the other side of the room and closed the curtains. The dim light shining beneath the door was enough to see by as she moved to the ironwood desk and lit a candle. The evening papers, a stack of response cards from tonight’s masque, a personal expenses ledger …

Normal. Completely normal. She searched the rest of the desk, rifling through the drawers and knocking on every surface to check for trick compartments. When that yielded nothing, she walked to one of the bookcases, tapping the books to see whether any were hollowed out. She was about to turn away when a title caught her eye.

A book with a single Wyrdmark written on the spine in bloodred ink.

She pulled it out and rushed to the desk, setting down the candle as she opened the book.

It was full of Wyrdmarks—every page covered with them, and with words in a language she didn’t recognize. Nehemia had said it was secret knowledge—that the Wyrdmarks were so old they’d been forgotten for centuries. Titles like this had been burned with the rest of the books on magic. She had found one in the palace library—The Walking Dead—but that had been a fluke. The art of using the Wyrdmarks was lost; only Nehemia’s family knew how to properly use their power. But here, in her hands … She flipped through the book.

Someone had written a sentence on the inside of the back cover, and Celaena brought the candle closer as she peered at what had been scribbled.

It was a riddle—or some strange turn of phrase:

It is only with the eye that one can see rightly.

But what in hell did it mean? And what was Davis, some half-corrupt businessman, doing with a book on Wyrdmarks, of all things? If he was trying to interfere with the king’s plans … For the sake of Erilea, she prayed the king had never even heard of Wyrdmarks.

She memorized the riddle. She would write it down when she returned to the castle—maybe ask Nehemia if she knew what it meant. Or if she’d heard of Davis. Archer might have given her vital information, but he obviously didn’t know everything.

Fortunes had been broken upon the loss of magic; people who had made their living for years by harnessing its power were suddenly left with nothing. It seemed natural for them to seek out another source of power, even though the king had outlawed it. But what—

Footsteps sounded down the hall. Celaena swiftly put the book back on the shelf, then looked to the window. Her dress was too big, and the window too small and high, for her to easily make it out that way. And with no other exit …

The lock in the double doors clicked.

Celaena leaned against the desk, whipping out her handkerchief, bowing her shoulders, and starting a miserable sniffle-sob as Davis entered his study.

The short, solid man paused at the sight of her, the smile that had been on his face fading. Thankfully, he was alone. She popped up, doing her best to look embarrassed. “Oh!” she said, dabbing at her eyes with her kerchief through the holes in her mask. “Oh, I’m sorry, I—I needed a place to be alone for a moment and they s-s-said I could come in here.”

Davis’s eyes narrowed, then shifted to the key in the lock. “How did you get in?” A smooth, slippery voice, dripping with calculation—and a hint of fear.

She let out a shuddering sniffle. “The housekeeper.” Hopefully, the poor woman wouldn’t be flayed alive after this. Celaena hitched her voice, stumbling and rushing through the words. “My-my betrothed l-l-left m-me.”

Honestly, she sometimes wondered if there was something a bit wrong with her for being able to cry so easily.

Davis took her in again, his lip curling—not out of sympathy, she realized, but from disgust at this silly, weepy woman sniffling about her fiancé. As if it would be a colossal waste of his precious time to comfort a person in pain.

The thought of Archer having to serve these people who looked at him like he was a toy to be used until he was broken … She focused on her breathing. She just had to get out of here without raising Davis’s suspicions. One word to the guards down the hall, and she’d be in more trouble than she wanted—and might possibly drag Archer down with her.

She let out another shudder-sniffle.

“There is a ladies’ powder room on the first floor,” Davis said, stepping toward her—to escort her out. Perfect.

As he approached he pulled off the bird mask he wore, revealing a face that had probably been handsome in its youth. Age and too much drinking had pummeled it into saggy cheeks, thinning straw-blond hair, and a dull complexion. Capillaries had burst on the tip of his nose, staining it a purplish-red that offset his watery gray eyes.

He stopped close enough to touch her and held out a hand. She dabbed at her eyes one more time, then slipped her handkerchief back into her dress pocket. “Thank you,” she whispered, looking at the floor as she took his hand. “I—I am sorry for intruding.”

She heard his sudden intake of breath before she caught the flash of metal.

She had him disabled and on the floor in a heartbeat—but not fast enough to avoid the sting of Davis’s dagger slicing into her forearm. The yards of fabric that made up her dress were cumbersome as she pinned him to the carpet, a thin line of blood welling up and trickling down her bare arm.

“No one has the keys to this study,” Davis hissed, despite his prone position. Brave, or foolish? “Not even my housekeeper.”

Celaena shifted her hand, going for the points in his neck that would render him unconscious. If she could hide her forearm, then she could still slip out of here unnoticed.

“What were you looking for?” Davis demanded, his breath reeking of wine as he wriggled against her hold. She didn’t bother to answer, and he surged up, trying to dislodge her. She slammed her weight into him, lifting her hand to deliver the blow.

Then he chuckled softly. “Don’t you want to know what was on that blade?”

She could have ripped his face off with her fingernails for the silken smile he gave her. In a smooth, swift movement, she snatched up his dagger and sniffed.

She’d never forget that musky smell, not in a thousand lifetimes: gloriella, a mild poison that caused hours of paralysis. It had been used the night she was captured to knock her down, to make her helpless to fight back as she was handed over to the king’s men and thrown into the royal dungeons.

Davis’s smile turned triumphant. “Just enough to knock you out until my guards arrive—and bring you to a more private location.” Where she’d be tortured, he didn’t need to add.

Bastard.

How much had she been exposed to? The cut was shallow and short. But she knew the gloriella was already racing through her, just as it had on the days after she’d lain beside Sam’s broken corpse, smelling the musky smoke still clinging to him. She had to go. Now.

She shifted her free hand to knock him out, but her fingers felt brittle, disconnected; and despite being short, he was strong. Someone must have trained him, because in a too-fast movement he grabbed her wrists, twisting her to the ground. She slammed into the carpet so hard the air was knocked from her lungs, her head spun, and she lost her grip on the dagger. The gloriella was acting fast—too fast. She had to get out.

A bolt of panic went through her, pure and undiluted. Her confounded dress got in the way, but she focused what little control remained on bringing up her legs and kicking—so hard he let go for a moment.

“Bitch!” He lunged for her again, but she’d already grabbed his poisoned dagger. A heartbeat later, he was clutching his neck as his blood sprayed on her, on her dress, on her hands.

He collapsed to the side, grasping at his throat as though he could hold it together, keep his life’s blood from spewing. He was making a familiar gurgling noise, but Celaena didn’t give him the mercy of ending it as she staggered to her feet. No, she didn’t even give him a parting glance as she took the dagger and ripped the skirts of her gown up to her knees. A moment after that she was at his office window, studying the guards and parked carriages below, each thought fuzzier than the last as she climbed onto the ledge.

She didn’t know how she made it, or how long it took, but suddenly she was on the ground and sprinting toward the open front gate.

The guards or footmen or servants started shouting. She was running—running as fast as she could, losing control of her body with each heartbeat that pumped the gloriella through her.

They were in the wealthy part of the city—near the Royal Theater—and she scanned the skyline, searching, searching for the glass castle. There! The glowing towers had never seemed more beautiful, more welcoming. She had to get back.