Lord Anghau stepped inside first. With a snap of his fingers, the room lit up, the camed glass lamps lining the room suddenly bursting with the glow of hundreds of small suns. “Apologies for the mess,” Lord Anghau said, “And the dust. I’ve been meaning to organize this place for years, but I hate gloomy spaces, and this one has always reminded me too much of my father.”

“That’s quite alright,” Henry said. He peered down one of the rows, squinting to try to see the end, but there was none in sight.

Lord Anghau watched with a faint smile. “Shall we look for Mr. Hathaway’s file?”

Henry nodded, followed Lord Anghau down rows of cabinets until they found one with a drawer marked HAT. The drawer caught when Lord Anghau tried to open it, a file toward the back jutting out at an awkward angle. Lord Anghau pulled that one out first, and turned the problematic file over. “Well, what do you know! Arthur Hathaway. This may be the end of your mystery, Mr. Bell. If Hathaway did have a death deal with us, I can contact your local police and have Ms. Evans released.”

Henry breathed a sigh of relief.

“My, someone shoved this in here in a hurry,” Lord Anghau said, straightening the file out.

“Who has access to this room?” Henry asked.

“In theory, it’s supposed to only be myself and the negotiators. The wards are meant to keep anyone else out.”

“How did I get in?”

Lord Anghau grinned and winked. “You’re with me.”

Ignoring the wink, Henry asked. “You said ‘in theory.’ What about in practice?”

“That’s the problem. My father granted permission to anyone he liked, and I haven’t gotten around to revoking it yet.” When Lord Anghau opened Hathaway’s file, his face lit up with curiosity. “Oh, a repeat customer! It’s no wonder his name sounded familiar — here’s a contract from me, back when I was still a negotiator.” He skimmed it briefly before handing it to Henry. “Research funding in exchange for a sentimental family heirloom.”

Henry glanced over the contract, noticing the item description. “What did you do with a comb?”

Lord Anghau shrugged. “I might’ve saved it, I might’ve sold it. I don’t remember; the thrill is in getting them to give it to you. After that, it’s just an antique.” He glanced over the next contract. “This negotiator is no longer with us. Funds for ‘courtship’ in exchange for five years of part time accounting work for the House.”

Together, they read through the other contracts on file, certainly none of them large enough to be worth the price of Arthur Hathaway’s life. A work promotion, more funding, healthy conception.

“That’s it?” Henry asked, when they reached the last contract.

“I’m afraid so,” Lord Anghau said with a frown.

“But he— he was killed by some sort of sídhe dog and he just happened to have a connection with the Uí Anghau? That doesn’t make any sense.”

“I hate to say it, but I agree,” Lord Anghau said. When he went to return the file to the cabinet, Henry stopped him.

“Wait,” he said. He reached between the folders for “Hataru” and “Hatter” and pulled out another contract, one bent at the corner from a hasty placement between the folders. He straightened the bend and read through it, Lord Anghau reading over his shoulder. It was a contract between Arthur Hathaway and Lord Anghau, dated nearly ten years ago to the day. The contract was longer than the others by several pages, but the exchange was outlined in bold lettering on the front page: a fortune large enough to buy Camberley Hall in exchange for Hathaway’s life.

Henry frowned down at the paper. This was what he had come here looking for. With this, he could free Saoirse, and it’s not as if it would get Lord Anghau in any trouble, either. Henry’s job was done.

But something wasn’t right. He knew it even before he heard Lord Anghau’s gasp, before the sídhe turned to him, eyes wide, and said, “I remember the name of every life I’ve taken, Henry. I swear to you, Arthur Hathaway wasn’t one of them.”

“I believe you,” Henry said. He held the contract up to the light, examining it more closely. “To be honest, I had my doubts about your involvement until now, but this contract is a fake.”

“How do you know?” Lord Anghau asked, quiet.

Henry rubbed his thumb along the signatures — they smudged, leaving ink on his thumb. “Whoever made this made it today. There’s also the paper weight: the last contract chronologically was from only three months before — which breaks your six-month rule, by the way — but the paper on that one was thicker, the color creamier. This is more like the intake form you gave me today. There’s also the fact that the Hathaways have only lived in Camberley Hall for four years.”

“Always so clever, Henry,” Lord Anghau said, soft in a way Henry wasn’t expecting.

He cleared his throat, self-conscious, and set the new contract beside one of the old ones. He pointed out the signatures. Lord Anghau’s looked identical in both, illegible except for the fact that his first name apparently began with a T. Hathaway’s, on the other hand, had notable differences. He tapped on the new contract. “In your professional experience, who could have written this? Would it have to have been one of the negotiators?”

Lord Anghau read through the contract closely. “Yes, I think so. Most of this is form language, but the parts that aren’t are well written. But to what end? To dismiss an investigation? If they killed Hathaway without a valid contract in place, they’d be on the hook for murder, but this would get any police who came by asking questions to drop it.” Lord Anghau frowned. “But did they really think I wouldn’t find it and realize it was fake?”

“I don’t think that’s it,” Henry said. “I don’t think you’re asking the right question, either. The real question is: did they think you would find it in time.”

“In time for what?” Lord Anghau asked.

“Are there any negotiators who might have a grudge against you?” Henry asked instead of answering.

Lord Anghau laughed. “All of them. They resent my power and my position. They resent that I’m stronger than all of them combined. There’s one, Cian, who was supposed to inherit the house after my father…retired. Another, Eoghan, lost several profitable deals after I implemented my rules and never quite forgave me for it. They’re the most likely.”

“I see. And where were you Friday?” Henry asked. At Lord Anghau’s frown, he clarified, “Hopefully it won’t be necessary, but this will be easier if you can provide an alibi.”

“I stopped by the office in the morning, but had to go home before too long. In the evening, I was at a dinner party until late. At least a dozen people can attest to that.”

“How late is ‘late’?”

“The party ended at midnight. When did Hathaway die?”

“At approximately one o’clock in the morning.”

Lord Anghau shrugged. “Either way, I didn’t have Etta with me. I left her with Brona for the party — which Brona can attest to — and didn’t pick her up until morning. Now: find the contract in time for what, Henry?”

Henry pursed his lips. “I’ve kept some vital information from you, I’m afraid. There’s another reason I know this contract is a fake: I knew from the start that Arthur Hathaway never bargained away his own life. He was never the intended target of Friday night’s attack — I think he only got in the way of it.”

“Who was the real target?” Lord Anghau asked.

“Hathaway’s three-month-old daughter, Ioanna.”

Lord Anghau stilled. As he processed this information, his expression darkened — as did the room around them, the lamps fluttering like flames in the wind, the shadows below them dancing across the marble. Even Henry, who had no magic to speak of, felt the way it radiated off Lord Anghau. “How do you know?” the sídhe asked coldly.

To his credit, Henry managed to keep his voice steady in his reply. “The murder took place in the nursery. The police believe that was because of a charm my client, Ms. Evans, left in the room, but I believe that the killer — the hound — was there for Ioanna. Leading up to his death, Hathaway developed severe paranoia, all of it sídhe-related and beginning shortly before Ioanna’s birth. He hired private security for the grounds, fired the sídhe nursemaid, moved the nursery closer to the bedroom and installed iron bars across the nursery windows. He wasn’t religious, but he had the girl baptized. I think Arthur Hathaway contracted away the life of his daughter, only to regret it once the girl was born.”

Lord Anghau listened to all of this intently, his gaze resting on the fake contract. Finally, he asked, “Do you know why the Uí Anghau’s reputation is as bad as it is, Mr. Bell?”

Henry shook his head.

“In the early days, when Tomaltach Anghau was still Lord of the House, it used to be that you could trade your offspring — current or future — as an extension of yourself. The reason for this is as you’ve already guessed: there’s a great deal of potential in children, which means a great deal of power for the one who made the contract. I would never allow such a contract to be made under my roof.”

Henry watched Lord Anghau with wide eyes. He was like a different man, now, one that lived up to his reputation. Henry could see this man making a deal with death, could see him making vicious deals and sending his hound out to kill; he understood, now, what the receptionist meant about not wanting to cross him.

“Someone must have made it without your knowing,” he theorized. “When the hound went for Ioanna, Hathaway tried to stop it, firing three shots before it retaliated in self-defense. Whoever was commanding the hound knew that the death might, eventually, lead to the cú sídhe, that they had made a mess and there was no legal contract protecting them, and so they made this,” he said, gesturing at the fake.

“But something about this still doesn’t add up,” Lord Anghau said. “Why make the contract in my name? If one of my negotiators did this, why not sign their own name? It’s not as if they’d face any consequences for the kill, either.”

“Now you’re asking the right questions. It’s true that they wouldn’t face any consequences for Arthur Hathaway’s death,” Henry said pointedly. “I’ve avoided your question twice, now, Lord Anghau. In time for what, you had asked. You yourself said that sídhe don’t easily let go of something they’ve been promised.”

Lord Anghau’s eyes widened. “They’re going back for the girl.”

“And tonight is their last night to move between the worlds freely, without having to leave a Customs trail.”

“How do we find the negotiator responsible before tonight?”

“We don’t.”

“We don’t? But Hathaway’s daughter—”

“We don’t need to narrow it down because we’re going to set a trap. Are you free this evening?”

Lord Anghau grinned. “For you, I can be.”

This time, Henry returned his grin. “Then, with your assistance, I’m certain no harm will come to Ioanna.” He checked his watch, then pulled the old slip of paper with Helena’s address out of his coat pocket and passed it to Lord Anghau. “Meet me at this address in the other city at eight o’clock. Come without Etta — leave her with Brona again for the evening, if you must.”

Lord Anghau turned the paper over in his hand. “As you wish. Are you leaving, then, Mr. Bell?”

“Yes,” Henry said. “I have work to do before tonight.”

Lord Anghau sighed, disappointed, but said, “At least allow me to escort you back to the lobby.”