“But there is an instrument in the attic,” said Lallit. “In the same chest your book came from, there is a mandora…or a gallichon…of five strings, such as my uncle plays. Though it is perhaps too large and heavy for Mister Fitz.”

Sir Hereward thought of several occasions when Mister Fitz had shown his true strength. He remembered those spindly wooden puppet arms inside Mister Fitz’s thin coat, the cuffs sliding back as he lifted the Arch-Priest of Larruk-Agre above his bulbous head and threw him into the mouth of the volcano; or the time when Fitz had beheaded a slave gladiator below the arena pits of Yarken. The look of surprise on the fellow’s face had matched Sir Hereward’s own expression, for Mister Fitz had been standing on the gladiator’s head at the time, and had pulled the tip of the man’s own blade back…

“I can fetch it down,” said Lallit, interrupting his reminiscences. “Sister Gobbe would set a fair price, I’m sure.”

“Very well,” said Hereward. “A fine mandora might be the very thing. If it is not too much trouble, I would like to see it. When is Sister Gobbe returning?”

“Oh, I will fetch it for you now,” said Lallit. “Sister Gobbe won’t be back for hours yet.”

“My thanks,” said Sir Hereward. “But how will you hand it to me, if we must not share our breath?”

“Oh, I can hold my breath for ages,” said Lallit innocently. She demonstrated, taking a deep breath that thrust out her chest. Sir Hereward watched in admiration, tempered by his annoyance at Mister Fitz. It was uncharacteristic of the puppet to preemptively meddle in Hereward’s amorous affairs, and it galled no less to know it was almost certainly for a good reason.

Lallit held her breath for quite some time, before suddenly exhaling, turning her head so her breath went up the stairs. She smiled and followed it up to the attic. A minute later, Hereward heard her footsteps as she looked around, the oak-planked floor of the attic being the ceiling of his room.