“Rise,” Lowridge again proclaimed. “You are in the presence of the Master of the Domain, His Serene Highness Titus the Seventh.”

Haywood blinked again, rose unsteadily to his feet, and bowed. Only to lose his balance and stumble sideways into the wall. Fairfax was very still in Titus’s hand, but her claws dug into his palm, and her heart hammered beneath the warm down of her chest.

Titus asked for Haywood’s name, age, and occupation. Haywood answered obediently, a hint of hoarseness to his voice.

“How have you spent your time since your arrival at the Inquisitory?”

“I was hit with a paralysis curse before I was brought here and recovered only this morning. Since then I have been answering questions.”

“Do you know why you are being held here?”

Haywood glanced at Baslan. “The Inquisitor is interested in the whereabouts of my ward.”

“Certain parties in the know told me that your ward is nowhere to be found.”

Was it Titus’s imagination or did Haywood relax almost imperceptibly? His shoulders did not seem as tightly hunched. “I was unconscious, sire, and did not witness her escape.”

“What was the means of her escape, exactly?”

“A pair of linked trunk portals that can be used only once, going only one way.”

“Going where?”

“I do not know, sire.”

“How do you know the other trunk is not buried at the bottom of the ocean?”

Haywood gripped his hands together. “I trust it is not. It is my understanding that it leads to safety, not calamity.”

It had very nearly led to calamity.

Titus made an exasperated sound. “Not very productive to question you, is it?”

“There are many things I cannot recall, sire.”

“This much memory erasure would cause undesirable side effects. You seem not to suffer from them. Did you entrust your memories to a memory keeper then?”

Haywood jolted only slightly. The Inquisitor must have already asked him the same question. “It would appear so, sire, though I cannot recall who, or when.”

“But you know why.”

“To keep my ward safe.”

“I had no idea Atlantis was in need of a great elemental mage, and I should know these things. How did you know?”

“Someone told me. But I can’t remember who.”

There was frustration in Haywood’s voice, but also relief. The sacrifice of his memories had not been in vain: he could not betray anyone in his ignorance.

“Was it her parents who told you?”

“I cannot recall,” said Haywood.

“Are you her father?”

Fairfax jerked at his question.

“I am not, but I love her like one. Someone please tell her to stay away and not ever come near the Inquisitory. I’m sorry I couldn’t keep her safe. I—”

The wall turned opaque. “Your Highness,” Baslan said smoothly. “We must not keep Her Excellency waiting.”

The prince held her tight, as if afraid she might do something stupid.

She wouldn’t, not after all the sacrifices Master Haywood had made. And certainly not after his most recent pleas from inside the cell.

But for the first time she regretted that she was not yet a great elemental mage. She would tear the Inquisitory from its foundations and crush its walls into powder.

The prince stroked the feathers of her head and back. She wished he would put her back into his overrobe. She wanted to crawl someplace warm and dark and not come out for a very long time.

She was barely aware that they’d stopped again. The captain of the prince’s guards once more proclaimed the presence of their sovereign.

“Who are you?” the prince asked.

“Rosemary Needles, sire,” answered a trembling voice.

Iolanthe nearly jumped out of the prince’s hand. Mrs. Needles?

It was indeed kind, pink-cheeked Mrs. Needles, her face pressed against the transparent wall, a face at once frightened and hopeful.

“Why are you here?”

“I cleaned and cooked for Master Haywood and Miss Seabourne. But I’m only a day maid. I’ve never lived in their house, and I don’t know any of their secrets!”

The prince glanced at Baslan. “Clutching at straws?”

“Straws sometimes lead to other straws,” said the Atlantean.

“Please, sire, please,” cried Mrs. Needles. “My daughter is about to have a baby. I don’t want to die without seeing my grandchild. And I don’t want to spend the rest of my life in this place!”

Iolanthe turned cold. What had the prince said? Friendship is untenable for people in our position. Either we suffer for it, or our friends suffer for it.

And Mrs. Needles wasn’t even a friend, only a woman unfortunate enough to need the money cooking and cleaning for the schoolmaster would bring.

Mrs. Needles fell to her knees. “Please, sire, please help me get out of here.”

“I will see what I can do,” said the prince.

Tears gushed down Mrs. Needles’s face. “Thank you, Your Highness. Thank you! May Fortune shield and protect you wherever you go!”

The wall turned opaque; they began the long climb up. Iolanthe trembled all the way to the surface.

“Is there time to admire the Fire of Atlantis?” asked Titus, as they reemerged into the courtyard.

“I’m afraid not, Your Highness,” said Baslan. “Her Excellency is already waiting.”

Precisely what Titus did not want to hear.

They crossed the courtyard. Before the heavy doors of the Inquisition Chamber, Lowridge and the guards were allowed to go no farther. Only Titus was conducted inside the enormous, barely lit hall—mind mages performed best in shadowy places.

The Inquisitor awaited, her pale face almost glowing, as if her skin were phosphorescent. From fifty feet away, he sensed her anticipation. A predator ready to strike; a hunter who had at last closed in on her quarry.

Cold skittered down his spine. It seemed the Inquisitor was determined to produce her finest work tonight.

As he approached her, she indicated the desk and two chairs beside her, the only pieces of furniture in the cavernous space. The two chairs were on opposite sides of the desk, one chair low and plain, the other high and elaborate. Either Titus chose the chair denoting greater status, and gave the Inquisitor yet another reason to bring him down a peg, or he submitted to the reality of the situation, selected the lesser chair, and endured the interview being looked down upon by the Inquisitor.

His solution was to step onto the lesser chair and perch on its back. Fortunately, the top of the back was flat. Had it had a few finials, like the dining chairs in which Mrs. Dawlish and Mrs. Hancock sat, he would have had to settle for sitting on the armrest, which would not give nearly the same jaunty, careless impression.

The Inquisitor frowned. Titus had ceded her the greater chair, but now he had the advantage of height.

She sat down and placed her hands, laced together, on top of the desk.

He drew a deep breath. And so it begins.

“Now, Your Highness, what have you been doing with Iolanthe Seabourne?”

He had prepared for this exact question, but still it jolted, as if he had gripped a live wire. “You mean the missing elemental mage you are looking for?”

“Last time we met, you did not believe she was an elemental mage.”

“Lady Callista told me Atlantis is seeking her with all its might,” Titus said with as much breeziness as he could muster. “She even encouraged me to look for her, since the girl is, after all, a subject of mine.”

The Inquisitor ignored his insinuation. “You were at the village of Little-Grind-on-Woe immediately after the lightning. After your visit, you changed your plans and left for England half a day earlier than originally scheduled. And when you arrived there, instead of heading directly to your school, you went to London, to a hotel where you maintained a suite of rooms as Mr. Alistair McComb, from which place you departed just as abruptly. Care to explain your movements, Your Highness?”