There was something else hanging from the ceiling, like a gigantic vampire bat. A still thing, folded in on itself, quiet and malevolent and patiently waiting. It had witnessed the story. It had hung there for weeks. It had been there all along, and they had not noticed it.

A plotter.

A planner.

A thing with wings.

“What issss that?” hissed Tiffinstorm, drawing her wand, as sharp as any thorn.

Wish and Xar and the sprites and the snowcats and the wolves turned their own heads upward to follow Tiffinstorm’s pointing finger. The werewolf stiffened, sniffed the air as he smelled something wicked, and raised his shaggy head reluctantly.

“Hissssssssss…” hissed the sprites, bright as fire. How could they not have smelled that smell before? That stink, that reek, that corpselike stench…

Because whatever-it-was had been frozen until that very moment.

Bodkin had been staring up at the thing for a while now, and he was so scared he could barely get the words out.

“That,” said Bodkin, “is the Kingwitch. We need to get out of here NOW.”