Sooli did not want to talk to the ghost of the Margravine. She did not trust anyone who had once ruled the Stronghold. And she particularly did not trust someone whose name had been a curse word among the Saaf people for as long as she could remember.

What’s more, talking to the boy ghost who had taken the message had felt dangerous. It had felt as if the Grafine’s soot-black path was wrapping itself more tightly around Sooli’s hands, and pulling her down.

She whispered to the chicken, in her own language, ‘O great Bayam of Long Ago, do not let death take me, not like this. I am not afraid of dying,’ which was almost true, ‘but I do not want my ghost to be tied to the Grafine’s path for eternity. I do not want to stay inside these walls, like a slave. Please, o great Bayam.’

The cat gave a warning hiss. Sooli looked up – and there was the ghost of the Margravine.

She was as hard and straight as the sword she wore by her side. Her hair was tightly bound. A string of bear claws hung around her neck. But she was not looking at Sooli. She was watching Otte, with an unreadable expression on her face. One of her hands twitched, as if she wanted to reach out but would not.

‘Otte’s mother,’ whispered Sooli, in the voice that must be used when talking to ghosts.

The Margravine swung around, drawing her sword in the same motion. ‘Who are you?’ she demanded. ‘Why are you with my son? What do you want?’

It was even harder talking to this ghost than to the last one. If my hands were visible, they would be black, thought Sooli. Not the warm, sweet black of Saaf, but the cold black of death.

Aloud, she said, ‘I want to destroy the Harshman.’

The ghost’s eyes blazed. ‘He killed me,’ she snarled. ‘Now he tries to kill my son.’

‘We want to stop him,’ said Sooli. ‘But we do not know how. We think there is a book somewhere, hidden by the Grafine who raised him from the dead—’

The question came hard and fast. ‘Which grafine?’

Sooli closed her eyes for a breath, then opened them and said, in a more or less normal voice, ‘Which grafine was it?’

‘Grafine von Eisen,’ said Otte. He quickly added, ‘Is she here? My mother?’

‘I am here,’ said the ghost of the Margravine. And this time, she did reach out, and touched her son’s hair, though Otte didn’t seem to feel it.

Then she turned back to Sooli. ‘Grafine von Eisen? She raised this monster from the dead? You are sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then I will find the book,’ promised the ghost.

And with that, she faded through the stone wall and was gone.

The first Duckling knew of the ghost’s return was when Sooli scrambled to her feet, saying, ‘She wants us to go with her.’

‘Where?’ asked Otte. He scanned the cramped space, as if he might be able to see his mother’s ghost if only he tried hard enough.

‘Up,’ said Sooli. ‘That is all she can tell me. Up and up and up.’

‘Isn’t she afraid of the Harshman?’ asked Pummel.

‘No, she is full of rage,’ whispered Sooli. ‘It is like talking to a bonfire.’

They crept out of their hiding place and along the passages, with the Margravine’s ghost leading the way. Duckling looked through a window and was surprised to find that the sky outside the Keep was dark. It was nighttime.

But the Harshman’s slaves – the ones completely bound to his will – did not sleep. The children skittered from hiding place to hiding place, trying to avoid them. Their faces, glimpsed through the gaps of doors or from behind tapestries, were haggard and thin, but their eyes shone with the same mad gleam as the Harshman’s eyes, and they spoke with his voice.

‘Find … The … Heir. Find … The … Heir.’

The staircases were the most dangerous part of their journey. The ghost took them up the lesser-used ones, but they still had some narrow escapes. Sooli held the chicken under her arm. The cat stalked ahead, and warned them when the ghost did not. Every passage was bone cold; their breath hung in front of them; their bare hands ached for warmth.

At last they came to a narrow, hidden staircase, and began to climb. ‘I did not know this was here,’ whispered Otte.

Sooli looked over her shoulder. ‘Neither did the Margravine. She says she only discovered it after her death.’

The room at the top of the stairs was small, with a single unglazed window. There was a table in the middle of the room – and on that table was a pile of ashes.

‘But where’s the book?’ asked Pummel, looking around in bewilderment.

Sooli repeated his question to the ghost. Then she shook her head and said it again, as if she didn’t like the answer.

Something in Duckling’s chest tightened. She pointed to the ashes. ‘Is that it?’ she asked, hoping that the answer would be no.

Sooli nodded, then spoke quickly and furiously to the ghost. The light of hope in her eyes died. Her shoulders sagged.

‘The Margravine does not see the ashes,’ she whispered. ‘She sees only the ghost of the book. She thinks she has found it for us. She does not understand our disappointment.’