Greg stayed late at his desk the next day, trying to take care of some paperwork. Even Grooch had long since gone home, but Greg couldn’t quite make himself get up and leave. It wasn’t even that the work he was doing was particularly important or urgent—he was just cleaning up, taking care of some minor issues that he had meant to get to. David really couldn’t wait to get out of his current job, so tomorrow, Lane was to take over the running of the department for him.

She would probably be better at the job than David was. Especially when it came to the palace politics. And then there would be less for him to do, and less room for him to shine.

It was a stupid thing to be bothered by. He should be glad that Lane was taking over, that it wasn’t Nathan, or some stranger who might not even care about the werewolves.

But it had been nice to feel needed, and to be in his element for once. He wanted to at least present a clean desk tomorrow.

The gas lamps flickered overhead, and the small office was very quiet except for the scratch of his quill on the paper and the soft guttering of the candelabra on the table. The door to the main office stood open, and sometimes, he heard the bookshelves creak as they settled. Comfortable sounds, in Greg’s ears. Indoor sounds.

Less comfortable was the sudden scratching of something in the lock to the hallway.

Greg nearly jumped out of his chair, splattering ink all over his papers. He clamped his teeth together over a shout. It might just be David, looking to take him home. Was there another protest in the city?

But the scratching continued, as if whoever was out there didn’t have the right key. So Greg pushed back his chair as softly as he could and stalked over to the wall, turning the valve that shut off the gas flow to the lamps. Then he hurried back to the table to quench the candles.

Just as he heard the lock click, Greg managed to pinch the last flame from his candelabra, searing his fingers as he did. He sucked at his thumb and forefinger, moving over to the door and leaning against the wall right next to the connecting door.

He could tell by the sounds of the steps that it wasn’t David. Some kind of soft slippers that only swished over the ground, not the heavier trudge of boots. Grooch wore shoes like that, but the figure that entered the room was too heavy-set to be the secretary. The stranger held a candle, but their face was shadowed by the hood of their cloak. Their slightly pudgy shape made Greg think it was a man, but there was no way to be sure.

The only thing certain was that they weren’t supposed to be here.

And what was he supposed to do now?

Whoever the stranger was, they clearly weren’t expecting anyone to still be in the office. All Greg could sense on them was a little bit of silver—possibly a small blade, but more likely a few coins, or perhaps some jewellery. So if it came to a fight, all they had to truly hurt him was the tiny candle flame, which was much more likely to flicker out than set his clothes on fire.

But did he want a fight?

Greg decided to wait as the figure went about the room. They were eerily certain of their steps, turning on the gas and lighting the lamps with their candle quickly before moving to Grooch’s desk. With practised movements, they went through the calendar and files. They had a little notebook of their own, and Greg could hear the scratch of a pencil as they copied down entries before returning everything to the state they had found it in.

Whoever this was, Greg had a strong feeling that this wasn’t their first late-night visit.

The intruder repeated the same procedure at David’s table, going through all the correspondence that had arrived today and returning it exactly to its place. Then they searched the drawers, focusing on the topmost one. Greg happened to know that David kept the wax for his seals there. Not the seals themselves, though, not since that last issue. It seemed to frustrate the nightly visitor, which meant they probably hadn’t been sent by Duke George Louis to spy on David.

No, this was someone hostile.

Greg made a decision, sneaking past the open door while the spy was focused on returning the table to its original state. He hid behind the door as well as possible. Just as he pulled his foot in, the spy grabbed his candle holder and walked over, to repeat the procedure on Greg’s own desk. The stranger didn’t bother turning on the gas light, squinting as he tried to read the budget allocation Greg had just spilled his ink over.

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Apparently, it had been enough time for the ink to dry—or the spy didn’t see it glisten in the low light. They did stop when they noticed the open ink glass. Their head rose, and the hood briefly revealed a man’s face. An unfamiliar one, though. The stranger looked around the room, frowning, and Greg stood as far behind the door as he could, holding his breath.

The stranger stood for so long, Greg felt his heart beating harder and harder. But then the other man just shrugged and carefully arranged the quill and stopper for the ink glass as they had been. A good eye for detail, Greg thought. If not exactly great situational awareness. Or night vision.

The spy moved to the last table. Check papers, take notes, put everything back as it was. And then, as quietly as he had come in, the man took his candle, checking the table surfaces to make sure it hadn’t left any droplets of molten wax behind, and turned off the gas in the main office. Then he stood at the door to the corridor for a long moment, listening, before pushing back the hood and turning into just another scribe going home late at night.

Greg took off his boots while he waited until he heard the key being pulled out of the lock from the outside, then he used his own key to open it again, as quietly as he could. In his socks, he tiptoed after the spy, hoping he would do him the favour of walking straight to the office of whoever had hired him.

But no. That would have been too easy.

The spy walked straight to the closest exit, leaving Greg to hurry to get back into his shoes. The guards glared at him and some reached for their weapons as he stumbled past them, but nobody attempted to stop him. Greg sniffed.

Greg considered the empty street. It rained, and there were no protestors on this narrow alley. Nobody was clamouring for his head. In fact, it was very quiet. So much so that he briefly wondered if it was safe to change his shape, to follow the stranger with his nose. That would have allowed him to keep his distance, and his thick fur would have given him better protection against the spring rain pouring down, too.

A week ago, he might have dared it. Before the whole mess at Deeshire. But now? Better not to risk running into the protestors.

He couldn’t let the guy get away, either, though. So he clumped through the puddles after him. It was a pain. He wasn’t a hunter. He especially wasn’t a manhunter. He needed to stick close so as not to lose sight of the man in the narrow alleys on the back of the palace, yet couldn’t risk drawing attention by staying too close.

Luckily, they had come out of the palace in the Artisans’ Quarters, where the many smaller and larger workshops serving the palace were located. Even at this late hour, there were hammers ringing and machines rattling, and people out on the street. It made Greg a little bit less conspicuous, as he tried his best to stroll nonchalantly after the spy. It also gave the stranger small groups of people to vanish in, and a million and one back street, side alley, and backyard to dart through.

The spy clearly didn’t care for the rain, either. He had thrown his collar up and was hurrying along, almost jogging. Sometimes, Greg thought he could hear him breathing hard in the night.

The stranger darted through the quarter, and then crossed one of the bigger streets leading away from the palace. The area on the other side was one of mixed repute. Greg knew that Mr. Higgins had some favourite haunts here, but the teacher had never taken him. Nathan, too, liked the casinos in the area.

Greg huffed in annoyance when a couple of girls stepped into his way to offer their services. He swung around them rather than trying to tell them he wasn’t interested. He was just barely fast enough to see the spy round another corner, and had to jog after the man.

Maybe he should have just risked a fight in the office.

He saw the spy turn into a throughway leading into a courtyard, and threw caution to the wind. He managed to follow him just fast enough to see him step up to a tavern. The sign above the door showed three dice and a red cup. Two burly men stood in front of the door, armed with big clubs. The spy pushed back his hood and talked to them briefly before he stepped aside.

Greg’s heart sank, but he took a second to catch his breath before he felt at this money pouch. Perhaps he could buy his way in?

The guards watched him as he walked up to the door. He didn’t know how to stroll, and nonchalant was the last thing he felt, so he didn’t bother trying. Young noble on his first unsolicited visit in the “bad parts” of town was much easier to play. At least he was dressed for that act.

“And what do you think you’re doing here,” one of the guards asked when Greg came to stand in front of them.

“I saw the sign,” Greg said. “This is a gambling hall, right? I want to play.”

“Got money?” the same man asked.

Greg nodded. He kept his eyes fixed on the speaker and reached into his money pouch, fishing out two gold coins without looking. It was rather easy for him: The silver coins were cold to the touch, and the copper coins were much smaller. But he hoped that to the guards, it would look like the bag was almost entirely filled with gold.

“Good enough?” he asked, offering a coin to each of them.

The doormen frowned and one of them bit into the coin, then spit on the ground.

“It’s good,” he told his companion. “Let him in.”

“Don’t get eaten, kid,” the other one warned him, but stepped aside.

Greg clenched his teeth together to stop a giggle from escaping him. If only they knew.

If they knew, they’d never let him inside. But who expected a werewolf to walk around with a bag full of money?