Page 63 of Nights of Blood and Magic

“The daemon. The relic. You’re right that idleness is death.”

The words hung like smoke.

Idonea took a step back, but her spine found the edge of the table. Her breath trembled between them.

He wasn’t as loyal as she’d believed.

She didn't know yet what to do with that.

Chapter 17

Idonea woke before the dawn when the cottage was very still. Lysander had gone to Alcaeus's house overnight, she thought; the door was barred, and the air was cold.

She thought about the basement.

Lysander had shown her the workshop. He had said the passage led to her father's house and was latched with a key. He hadn't said what else was below; what was on the other side of the workshop's walls; whether the floor she'd stood on was as solid as it looked. He had carried the lamp and she'd followed. She wanted to go back without him.

The rug was heavy, and the hatch was heavier. She lifted it as quietly as the iron would let her. The cold breath of the passage came up. She went down with no lamp; she didn't want a light to be visible at the top of the stairs if Lysander returned early. The dark was complete as she trailed her hand along the wall.

At the bottom, she stopped. The workshop was as he'd left it. She didn't approach the long tables, instead creeping along the wall. The hatch at the far end was, as far as she could tell by feel, latched and locked. She tested it with her shoulder. It held.

She put her hand flat against the wall opposite the door. Stone, then a join, then more stone. She edged along, finding no panel her hands could read, no latch, no second door. If the workshop hid anything from her, it was not on this wall.

Idonea didn't yet have the tools or the time to search properly, but she'd been down, and she'd checked. She would come back when she'd a longer hour and a steadier nerve.

She climbed up, replacing the rug and then the table. The cottage looked exactly as it had when she'd risen. She washed her face, fastened her cloak, and stood in the centre of the room, waiting for the day to begin.

Grey clouds sprawled low across the horizon, heavy with unshed snow, faintly lit by the grey haze that passed for daylight this far north. The chill sank into Idonea’s bones as she stepped outside, breath drifting in the air. Above, the silhouette of Lance perched upon the roof, his yellow eyes catching hers.

Still there. Still alive.

Lysander walked behind her, his footfalls steady, measured.

Alcaeus’ house loomed, its sharp angles swallowed in the gloom. The door creaked open on command, and the warmth inside hollow.

Alcaeus sat in the same armchair as last time. “Idonea,” he said.

She remained standing, arms crossed. “We’re losing time on the relic.”