Pummel always woke up before dawn, because that was milking time. He couldn’t see the sunrise, not from so deep inside the Strong-hold, but he could imagine it.

He imagined the farm too, and the cows ambling towards the milking shed with their warm flanks and sweet grassy breath, and a wave of homesickness swept over him.

‘Are you awake, Frow Cat?’ he whispered.

The lone candle had gone out sometime in the night, but a quiet answer came from near the door. ‘Awaaaake.’

‘I wish I could talk to Ma,’ whispered Pummel. ‘But I’m glad she’s not here. I’m glad she’s safe on the farm, a long way away from the Harshman.’

He stretched his arms, then stiffened. A warm breeze had stroked his face as it passed.

Duckling mumbled something in her sleep, then she was wide awake too, and whispering, ‘Did you find it?’

Pummel couldn’t hear the answer. But he heard Duckling’s quiet groan of disappointment.

He fumbled for the tinderbox that sat on the tall-backed chair beside the bed. It took him several tries to light a new candle, and by the time it was done, Otte and Sooli were sitting up, blinking and yawning. Sooli’s hands were still invisible, and when she realised it, a thin sheen of sweat sprang up on her forehead. The chicken burbled quietly, but did not leave her lap.

‘No luck,’ said Duckling. ‘My breeze went all over and couldn’t find anything that looked like the right book.’ She rubbed her eyes. ‘Maybe the Grafine hid it too well. Or maybe the breeze just didn’t recognise it. That’s the trouble, we don’t know what it looks like.’

The cat leaped up onto the bed. She yawned, so that her sharp teeth showed, glanced at Sooli’s invisible hands and said, ‘Meeee.’

‘You what?’ asked Duckling.

‘Seeeearch.’

‘For the Grafine’s book?’

The cat blinked agreement.

‘How will you know if you find the right one?’ asked Otte.

The cat sniffed, as if to show what a ridiculous question that was. ‘Go noooow,’ she said.

‘We’ll have to move from here,’ said Pummel. ‘Will you be able to find us?’

Another sniff. Another ridiculous question.

Duckling hopped off the bed and opened the door a crack to make sure no one was lurking nearby. The cat strolled through, her tail high.

It was hard to go back to a cramped little rathole after the comfort of the Grafine’s bedchamber. But Pummel knew it was necessary. Anyone might throw open the door of the bedchamber and discover them there.

This rathole was about the same size as the one in the Bear Tower. It was on the third floor of the Keep behind a heavy tapestry, and it stank of mould and mice droppings.

While they waited for the cat, Otte showed them the scraps of paper that the ninth Margrave had left tucked into a slot in the wall. They were covered in feverish writing, and all of them spoke of one plot or another.

‘Graf von Bere is trying to kill me. But I will kill him first.’

‘Grafine von Finkel is experimenting with poisons. Watch her carefully.’

‘Graf von Junker talks to himself constantly. Is he deranged? Drunk? Or trying to lull my suspicions?’

But the scraps could not keep them entertained for long, and there was nothing else to do but worry. So it was a relief to creep out occasionally, to visit the privy, or to find food. Or just to escape from that awful space for a little while.

Not that the rest of the Keep was much of an escape. The Harshman had more of the grafs and grafines searching for the children now. Some of them did it willingly; some had been forced. And some were glassy-eyed, and didn’t seem to have any thoughts of their own.

From what Pummel could gather – pressing himself behind a door as a string of nobles raged past him – the Harshman didn’t think about food, and didn’t expect anyone else to think about it either. Some people managed to snatch a piece of dried sausage or a slice of cheese as they passed through the kitchens. Those whose minds the Harshman controlled couldn’t even do that.

Only the eager ones, who followed the Harshman like whipped dogs, ate enough. And they ate and ate, knowing that the food was running out, and soon there would be none.

Once again, Pummel was glad of Duckling’s upbringing. Late that night, she sneaked out to the kitchens and came back with a crust of stale bread and three wrinkled carrots, as well as a handful of grain for the chicken. The four white mice went out too, and found tiny scraps of food that they dropped into Otte’s hands.

It wasn’t a feast, but it was better than nothing.

Sooli hardly moved, except to go to the privy. The rest of the time she sat with the chicken on her lap and her gaze far away. Sometimes she startled for no apparent reason. Sometimes she shivered. When she tried to feed herself with her invisible hands, the bread turned to ashes.

So Duckling and Pummel sat next to her to keep her warm, and fed her with bits of bread that they broke off and slipped into her mouth.

At last, when the next dawn had come and gone, and Pummel was growing so restless that he was ready to search for the Grafine’s book himself, regardless of the danger, the cat came back.

She was limping, and her right ear was scorched, but she would say nothing about what had happened to her. All she would talk about was the book, and the news she brought was not good.

‘Caaan’t fiiind,’ she said. Then she set to work licking her sore paw, and would tell them nothing more.

Pummel’s mind was blank with dismay. He had been so sure that the cat would find the Grafine’s book. She seemed to be attracted to any sort of witchery, and although she was not nearly as quick as Duckling’s breeze, there was something unflinching about her.

‘So what do we do now?’ he asked, not really expecting an answer.

Duckling shook her head, as if she was completely out of ideas. Otte shrugged helplessly.

But Sooli spoke for the first time in hours. ‘The ghosts,’ she whispered.