She had called herself a ghost, before. Now she imagined she was one, believed it as fiercely as she could, sought out the space between the stones, between her cells – she walked through walls and unopened doors. Insensible to both eyes and ears, with a shield around her thoughts to keep out inquiring minds, she wandered through Arthur’s rooms. In his study she found correspondence from Aurans, shipping inventories, castle schematics. The latter she unrolled, examined, and finally copied with a snap, the duplicate hovering over the original like an astral projection. She thought of rolling and folding and shaping, concealed the diagrams in a heavy ring, stamped it with the king’s seal, slipped it on her finger. The documents were all replaced exactly as she had found them.
She left without a trace.
In the War Room she found an oracle. A few graying men were gathered round a beautifully drawn map of Shaman, moving wooden ships through its seas, commenting on the locations of pirates. Before them the whole of Arthur’s fleet roamed in painted miniature. Croe opened her mind to perfect recall, listened to them talk and watched them, finally, leave. She replicated this map, too, and whispered to it that it’s mate was here, that it would forever bear the shadows of those ships. The map rolled up into a golden ring, with a sea-blue stone that would dazzle, in the light.
She disturbed nothing, in the War Room.
But the castle was vast. There was only so much she could learn, by wandering. There was only so much time. Her noiseless steps flowed through the empty drawing room of an absent princess, the cluttered bedroom of a child-god, the bathroom of a young Baron, filled with steam. She stopped. The retreating form of Mordred caught her eye, stark white and blue. She followed him, curious, steps behind him, like a shadow. She read the same words, stepped back to make room when he withdrew from the book. The Prince held more interest for her than the naked baron, charming as he was; her eyes travelled over the remainder of the page. She wondered, absently, if the boy knew anything of Italy, other than what he had read in books.
A white hand arrested her attention; the book snapped shut. Croe followed the boy into his study, taking in the opulence with mingled respect and disgust. Spoiled child, she thought, examining the rows and rows of titles on his shelves, bound in precious leather and stamped in gilt. She returned to stand before him at his desk, following his progress upside-down, then glancing by chance at the stack beside him.
Another inventory. But this one was far more interesting than the last. She smiled.
A sharp knock sounded at his door.
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