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“Leads to a basement,” he said.

“Does this basement go anywhere?” she asked, curious to know if Lysander knew where it led.

“Links to your father’s. But it is latched with a key." He paused. "He gave the key to me last spring."

The hatch opened with a groan. Cold, stale air bled up from the dark below, a stench of damp metal reached her nostrils.

Idonea paused at the edge of the stairs, peering into the gullet of the house, down into that breathless dark.

He extended his right hand behind him without looking. She hesitated.

Her pride said no. Her curiosity said yes. Her heart beat too loud.

She placed her fingers in his. His grip was firm, grounding, and infuriatingly warm.

The stairs were steep, carved in thick beams that groaned with every step. She kept her free hand braced against the stone wall, dampness slick against her palm. Halfway down, Lysander lit another wall sconce, then another.

The passage opened into a low-ceilinged room, ribbed with arching wooden supports that had blackened with time. Shadows danced across the walls. The floor was stone, stained in patches Idonea couldn’t quite place—ink, or oil, or something darker.

Three long metal tables stood in the centre, cluttered with twisted copper coils, cogs, glinting wires, strips of leather, and chains of silver.

She looked up, and he stared at her. “What is all this?”

Lysander didn’t answer immediately. He walked towards one of the tables, trailing his fingers over the array. “My workshop,” he said. “Where I work when the Order isn’t watching.”

She followed. “And what do you make?”

His gaze flicked to her, then back to the coils and chains. “I’ve been working on daemon traps.”

Her eyes snapped to him. “You can’t trap one. A daemon must be banished, not chained. You’d invite the Nexis through the cracks.”

He sighed. “Not everyone can banish them, witchling. Not everyone has your blood. The Order needs other means.”

“The Order,” she said, letting the name curdle on her tongue. “They play at control with things they can’t understand.”

She moved to the table beside his, running her fingertips across a delicate row of etched rings. “You also have these.”

Silence hung between them again as he stepped closer.

“You wear no silver.” Lysander picked up one ring and held it out to her.

She took the offered ring, admiring its fine nature before slipping it on a finger. Lysander’s eyes tracked every movement.

She turned, sweeping her gaze across the tables again. “If they find this—”

“They won’t.” He stepped even closer until his warmth pressed against her like a second skin. “Unless you tell them.”

Her pulse faltered, then steadied. She turned her head just enough to meet his eyes. “And the key? You said this goes to Alcaeus’ house.”

“In my possession.”

Her pulse fluttered. “And?”

“Maybe there’ll be a use for it,” he murmured. “I’ve bled for the order. Killed for them. But—”

He stopped himself, looking away. Gritted his jaw.

“But?” she pressed.