I slip quietly into a darkened alleyway, the hood of my cloak pulled well over my face. I wince as the contents of Cressida's satchel jangle loudly and draw into the shadows of the alley to avoid curious stares. A guilty reaction. I cursed myself for looking so suspicious: anyone who had nothing to be ashamed of would've just carried on walking. Still, I suppose it doesn't matter much; there's hardly anyone here. All the same I dart into a narrow space between the walls of two buildings to check that what I carry is still safe.

The mirror is no longer there. I carry it in my belt, although I don't know why. I'm in the place I always wanted to be right now, and the mirror has no use except to remind me of the terrible things I did in the field. On the other hand, the only reason I wanted to get to Orbis was to find a way to control my magic, and my hands are still numb with dejected nothingness.

There's no light to make the contents sparkle, but I run my fingers over the sharp corners of jewels and the smooth, cold surface of gold coins. The feel makes me shudder with shame. What lies in my satchel used to belong to the villagers living here. People who did nothing wrong, who will reach into their pockets to buy a meal for their families, only to find nothing. Maybe children will go hungry tonight because of me. Maybe the necklace I just stole is a priceless family heirloom, or the last remaining trace of a long-dead relative. But I can't seem to help it. Every time guilt dares to rise inside me, it is overcome with a spiteful wave of anger and bitterness and I find myself slipping my hands into pockets and bags, stealing items I don't need and don't care about. Not one person sees me, or even gets remotely suspicious. Even without magic, I'm a very good thief.

That's not something I'm proud of, by the way.

The strap digs into my shoulder, heavy with the weight of loot. I've been at it for hours now, and still it's not enough for me. There's a small curdle of hate inside me turning every moral instinct I have left inside me to dust. I'm almost beyond caring.

Noon has faded to memory, and the sun is hanging low in the sky, its last weak rays bleeding over the sky. Soon there'll be nothing left but darkness. Before I can stop myself, I wonder what Iris and Cressida are doing. If Iris has mastered teleportation, they must've found the healing flower ages ago. Together.

Don't think about it.

I become aware that the sounds of footsteps in the alleyway has faded almost to silence. I peer around the edge of the wall to see that the street is deserted except for one person: a hunched figure dressed completely in black, hood pulled low over his face. He has his back to me, but judging by his bent back, he must be quite elderly. Flung over one of his shoulders is a bugling sack, the contents clinking together. Whatever they are, they must be pretty valuable. Guilt creeps over my heart once more, but it's quickly extinguished. I don't care, I don't care.

I creep soundlessly behind him and pull out my knife. Reaching forwards, I cut a large slit in the bottom of his sack and prepare myself to catch whatever comes out.

But it seems my luck has run out.

The man swings around to stare at me. Something slips out of the rip in the sack and smashes onto the floor. I glance at it and blink. It's a glass jar containing some strange type of herb. I look back at the man and meet his eyes, which glare at me, black and tunnel-like. His hair is coarse, grey and dank, hanging around his chin like loose threads. His face is lined, but he has an air of surprising steeliness. He lowers the sack to the ground and straightens up, not as bent and weak as I'd first imagined. I hold out my knife threateningly, trying to keep my hand from shaking.

"Step back," I say, glad to hear my voice cold and composed. "Hand over the sack and say nothing about this to anyone, and you can leave with your life."

The ruthless words come so easily to my lips. So easily it terrifies me. I'm slipping back into my dark past, becoming the person I used to be once more. The realisation scares me even more than the thought of being attacked, and my grip on the knife hilt loosens. I don't let my face lose its rigidity though, keeping it in its harsh mask of intimidation.

He looks at me with his cold eyes that remind me of damp caves. And then, an equally cold smile spreads across his sharp face. He reaches into his sack and pulls out another jar, this one filled with strange grey powder. He unscrews the lid, and I raise my dagger, more in self-defence than anything else, but before I can stop him he empties some onto his palm and blows it into my face.

Darkness dances across my vision. My head starts to spin. I feel my consciousness sliding through my fingers. And then I'm falling into blackness.

Someone is moaning.

That's the first thing I'm fully aware of. A low groan of pain, echoing around pitifully. Then I raise my head, blink my eyes open, and I realise the moaning- the weak, vulnerable sound- is coming from me. My cheeks are damp with tears, and my head is filled with memories of blue light and screaming. I must have been having nightmares. I swallow, halfway between embarrassment and grief, and try to reach up my hand to wipe my face.

It doesn't move.

The feeling starts to come back to my body, and I realise that my wrists are bound tightly behind my back, my shoulder blades pressing into a cold stone wall. I start struggling weakly, looking around for something, anything, to aid my escape, but wherever I am is in pitch darkness.

Until an unexpected burst of red light penetrates the darkness.

"Well, I thought you'd never wake up. You've been unconscious for more than twelve hours!"

I blink at the sudden glow, but my eyes adjust quickly. I'm sitting in some sort of cellar, a large stone room filled with crates and boxes. Two people are standing at the bottom of a spiralling iron staircase. One is the man that knocked me unconscious, gazing at me with a kind of savage satisfaction. Another is a tall, striking-looking woman. Her features are carved sharp and cruel, twisted into a smile. A sparkling black cloak sweeps around her, and her raven-coloured, grey-streaked hair is piled on top of her head. At first, I think that the light she carries is a lantern, filling the room with light, but it's actually a bright red flame blazing on the palm of her hand. I look into her eyes, and fear jolts through me. They're a deep scarlet colour.

The stories Iris told me fill my head. I stare at her. "You... You're Iris's mother."

The woman laughs, a sound like the cracking of a whip. "Iris? Is that what she calls herself? How precious." She moves forward, watching me closely. "But, of course, I knew you were a friend of hers already. Did you come here with her?"

I open my mouth to deny it, but from within the folds of her cloak she draws... The mirror. There's no point lying now. Of course, the witch recognised the mirror as soon as she saw it. And if her daughter went missing on the same night as the mirror... It's more than likely she would've taken it.

"Where is she?" she hisses at me, moving closer.

My eyes move to the flame on her palm. "I thought you'd lost your power," I say to her. "Anyway, why do you need Iris if you have it back?"

The witch sighs. "It isn't back. It's only been recently reawakened, thanks to Magus here, and his herbs. But the effects won't last long. Maybe not even until the end of the day."

"How did you get here? You didn't have the mirror any more!"

"I had some help," she smiles chillingly at Magus. "He's a very powerful sorcerer. We've known each other for a very long time, and as soon as he saw my daughter in this realm, he summoned me here. He has the most powerful magic of any sorcerer I've ever known."

My heart lurches. "Iris? You met Iris?"

The man speaks for the first time, his voice rasping as though it needs oiling. "The eyes were unmistakable. She came to my shop just yesterday with a friend, looking for something of extreme interest to me."

"Why would it be of any interest to you?" I ask him, my voice shaking.

"He's an apothecary," the witch cuts in. "He wants to make money with it. A plant that can cure an incurable illness? The horologium mortem illness is quite common here in Orbis, and the plant that can cure it is very little-known, surprisingly for a land so deep in magic. The plant could make his fortune."

I blink. Even if the two of them are working together, I highly doubt that Magus is doing it without payment. But his payment is nothing but money? Just money? A sorcerer powerful enough to summon someone from another realm, which as far as I knew was impossible, and his motive is money?

My eyes dart to his long sleeves, pulled over his wrists.

"Pull up your sleeve."

He stares at me momentarily, then smirks. "Very clever. I never thought you'd guess that."

Slowly, he pulls up his left sleeve, exposing his forearm, and I recoil.

Burning on his forearm is a red mark, shaped like a twelve-point star, blackening around the edges.