Isobel crouched, careful not to let her shadow catch in the torchlight or fall across the colored pane. At an angle, she peeked through the opening.
She saw the source of the fluttering at once. At the opposite end of the room, a wide casement window stood open. Large purple curtains snapped and stirred in the breeze. Outside this window, a tangled outline of naked black tree limbs scratched at a churning backdrop of ominous gray-purple clouds. Inside the room itself, centered in a pool of yellow light, she could just make out the corner of a plush purple velvet chair.
And the edge of one black boot.
She shifted, repositioning herself. No matter what angle she tried, though, all she could make out were the curtains, the purple carpet, the yellow light, and the boot.
She thought about calling out, but what if it was just another trick? Another illusion? And if it wasn’t Varen in that chair, then it had to be one of the Nocs . . . or something worse.
Isobel raised a cautious hand. She wiggled a finger into the hole and waited. With the curtains’ next heavy round of flapping, she tugged at the glass. An entire fist-size, diamond-shaped chink broke free from its black-web template, leaving a much larger hole than she’d intended.
She cringed silently and slid back an inch, hoping no one inside had witnessed the chink’s removal. Even at a distance, though, she could now see the room in much greater detail.
Bookshelves stuffed with dust-caked tomes lined the walls, and she was reminded at once of Nobit’s Nook. On a nearby table sat an old-fashioned oil lamp. Dimly lit, it was a partial source of the overlay of yellow light. The other contributor was the bed of fading embers glowing low within the enormous fireplace in front of the purple chair.
Isobel’s gaze returned at once to that chair, to the hand that rested on the velvet-covered armrest. A familiar silver ring glinted on a finger belonging to the even more familiar hand. Her eyes traveled up the green jacket sleeve. His head down, Varen sat staring at the purple carpet in front of him, his black hair drawn around his face. Startled at the sight of him, Isobel dropped the slice of purple glass. It tink ed against the stone floor.
Varen’s head jerked in the direction of the sound. Isobel opened her mouth but stopped just short of calling out to him when the caw of a bird split the silence of the room. Varen’s gaze shot forward again, and in that same instant, a quick black thing raced across the room, casting its ghostlike shadow over the fluttering curtains, the floor, the walls, and the rows of bookshelves.
The creature sailed from its high perch into view. Large wings beat against the swirling air as it landed on the back of Varen’s chair. Stepping from foot to foot, the bird tucked in its wings. Hunched, it glared through the gloom with beady, coal black eyes.
Isobel ducked low beneath the window ledge. She held her breath in silence and waited.
“What was that noise?” croaked a hoarse voice.
“My imagination,” Varen replied, his own voice smooth and dry in comparison, his tone acidic.
“You can’t play tricks on me,” returned the bird.
To this, Varen remained silent. Isobel huddled close against the wall, both hands clamped over her mouth. She shut her eyes, listening hard.
This time a new sound, muffled and distant, assaulted her ears. It had come from an entirely different direction. Someone shouting—screaming. It was a sound of pure terror, and it slashed through her mind like a lance.
“Ah,” the bird said with a coughing rasp that might have been a laugh. “Our friend again. It’s been over an hour now and he’s still at it.”
Another tortured yell echoed through the passageway around her. It was followed by the faraway sound of banging.
“Stop it. Let him go. Send him back,” Varen murmured.
“Oh, really. Does it bother you that much to hear?” The voice morphed as it spoke, growing deeper, shedding its gravelly tone for a more caustic sound. “Come now,” it said, “I would have thought that after everything, you would enjoy it a little. Besides, it was your idea.”
“You did it, not me.”
“Yes, of course I did. But not until you thought it.”
Easing to one side, her back pressed to the wall, Isobel peeked through the hole again. In the chair, Varen sat nearly folded over, his face buried in his hands, while Pinfeathers’s tall form paced in a wide circle around him. His thin shadow, cast from the yellow glow, fell long over Varen.
Isobel looked up to find an added source of the light. It shone brightly from behind the orb-eyed bust of an ancient Greek warrior, which stared sightlessly down from its place above a set of ornately carved double doors.
