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cocked wing in time to see the shadow’s reflection in the copper. That of a man, but warped in the rounded wing of the falcon, upside-down and smudged.
    I step toward the window for a better look. The mirror’s glass crunches under my boots, but all I care about is the village below. When I reach the window, I pull Caldor aside and peek down for myself.
    The blacksmith is still at work, despite the chaos. I frown at the late hour, the furnace still hot. In the same spot where Azur’s aerohawk landed six months past, he lifts his mask from his face, but the gas lanterns in the street are too dim to make out any features. He doesn’t seem bothered by the cold in only a white tunic and brown trousers, typical serf wear.
    I look closer. He goes behind the workstation and pulls up the door to the cellar, stepping down.
    And then a realization hits me, and I curse my lack of foresight these past few months and my habit of leaving the swinging stone door open .
    The catacombs. Oh, how Merlin would scold if he knew. It never occurred to me that the blacksmith would come across the stone door on its axis to the world beneath Camelot. I don’t know which is worse: someone prodding at my alchemic work or someone in a realm with magic still lingering there.
    I don’t give it a second thought: I run down the stairs for the cellar. My feet land squarely in front of the stonewall leading to the catacombs. It’s wide open, chilling my blood and cautioning me about the possibility of forthcoming danger. As I peer down, I watch the fiery dance of a lantern move about with each step the blacksmith takes. I clench my fists to gather courage and set my hand to the steps’ wall to follow him.
    My footsteps are soundless because of the inferno dancing on the pyre. But then I must pause as the blacksmith’s words silence the flames in exactly the same accent Merlin would employ. “ Ahzikabah. ”
    I gasp. The blacksmith knows how to ask of the demigods safe passage into the catacombs. Impossible … unless he’s followed me before.
    He presses onward, and so do I. The doors open, revealing the pitch-blackness of the fireless room. When he walks inside, the flames from his lantern jump for the wall, illuminating the entire space until they reach the heavy, iron furnace across from the door.
    The blacksmith reaches the center of the catacombs and turns, his silhouette distinguished against the rubble of broken cobblestone and gemstones torn free by Victor’s iron claws. I pause at the door, hidden by darkness. The blacksmith is perhaps twice my age, tall and burly. His hair is pitch black, and he runs his fingers through the back in a manner I find remarkably familiar. He studies the room and continues on to the other side.
    He stops past the furnace, pressing his palm against the wall, and glances up, muttering. The wall shudders and unhinges from the labyrinth of pipes and metalwork. Through a long, humming creak, they move backward into an empty space.
    I thought I knew these catacombs well, but there’s so much more that Merlin never told me—unless he didn’t know about this passageway himself.
    My eyes follow the moving wall to the ceiling, where once there was the gemstone mosaic of a dragon that is now no longer whole, but an assembling of sparkling amethysts that survived Victor’s blow. There’s a sharp break where the ceiling ends, and where a long roller chain with rotating sprockets reveals itself. I glance at the blacksmith in time to see him disappear through the break in the wall, the white of his shirt the only indication he’d escaped. Then the walls churn to close the gap.
    I certainly won’t be left behind. I close my dress into my fists to lift the hem and run. The stone pulls forward and the sprockets rotate faster. The break is pitch black but the orange glow of the blacksmith’s lantern lets me see a path. The wall’s reassembling speeds up. My feet move faster.
    Goodness, what am I doing? I might be