Sleep had become a stranger.
Matt lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the castle settle around him. The walls creaked. The wind whispered through the corridors. Somewhere above him, Stanley was sleeping—or pretending to sleep, like Matt.
He couldn't stop thinking about the dinner. The way Stanley had spoken about the Harkma so casually, so openly, as if he had forgotten where he was. The way Arne had watched him, his gray eyes sharp and calculating.
Something is happening, Matt thought again. Something he didn't understand.
He threw off the covers and got up.
The castle was dark at this hour—not the darkness of absence, but the darkness of intention. The servants had banked the fires. The guards had retreated to their posts. The only light came from the moon, streaming through the high windows in pale, silver columns.
