Lyra Moonwhisper walked the last mile with one hand pressed flat against the book chained to her hip. The chain was her grandmother's work. The spell inside was not. She had read three lines of it in a barn outside Vellin and set the hayloft on fire without a candle. She had read four lines in a root cellar and lost the taste of salt for a week. The tome wanted a room no one could hear through, and she had run out of rooms. The tower rose ahead in slow spirals, its peak buried in black cloud. Lightning cracked along the stone without touching it. The swamp at its base steamed. Sorcerers came here when the villages below stopped being safe for them, and Lyra had stopped being safe three towns ago, the morning a butcher's boy repeated a word he had heard through her wall and his mother crossed herself and reached for a knife. She pushed the door. It opened without a hand. Inside stood a skeleton in tattered black robes, upright behind a stone desk. It was reading. A quill hung above an open scroll, waiting. The skeleton did not startle at her entrance. It finished its line, set one finger of bone against the parchment, and lifted its skull. "Name." The voice came from nowhere in the ribs. Lyra's hand tightened on the book. She could turn around. She could try another cellar, another barn, another town where no one had heard of her yet. She thought about the butcher's wife and the knife. "Lyra Moonwhisper." The quill dipped itself and began to write. It moved in careful loops, forming each letter of her name in ink that gleamed wet and then dull. The skeleton watched the quill, not her. When the last stroke closed, the parchment sighed and lay flat. The wall behind the desk pulled apart. Stone slid on stone without sound. A staircase opened in the gap, wide enough for three, and climbed until the steps thinned to a point she could not follow with her eyes. The skeleton returned to its scroll. Lyra stepped past the desk. The chain at her waist clinked once against the book, and the sound did not echo. She understood, then, what kind of building would swallow a sound like that. She could speak any line of the spell inside these walls and no butcher's boy would hear a syllable of it. She set her foot on the first stair. Her name was on the scroll now. Whatever else the tower was, it knew her, and it had opened. She began to climb.