The laundry chute was a tight squeeze, even for a student. For a man with scorched palms and a sprained wrist, it was a special kind of hell. I slid down the metal tube, my boots braking against the sides, and landed in a pile of damp, frozen linens in the basement of the West Dorm.
The Ministry guards were busy boarding up the main doors. They weren't looking at the service exits yet.
I slipped out into the night. The air was a razor, cutting through my thin shirt. I didn't head for the gates. I headed for the fountain.
Merek was there.
The Inquisitor was standing in the center of the quad, his silver rod planted in the snow like a walking stick. He wasn't wearing his heavy leather coat anymore. He wore a simple black tunic, his arms crossed, watching the East Wing.
He didn't turn when I approached.
"The heat in the West Dorm is a curious thing," Merek said. "It has no pulse. No mana signature. It feels like... friction."
