Harry frowned. “If you want to know, you’ll have to give me something. I’m not a tour guide.”
I took a breath. Thought about it. Then I opened my box and pulled out the glass vial. “How about an object of power?”
I tilted the vial and let the gold flecks sparkle in the sconces’ light.
Harry hid a greedy slipshot grin and feigned disinterest. “Maybe. Looks cheap. What’s it do?”
“Don’t know. It’s a Bard thing.”
Harry weighed this news. It was a gamble. It was an object of power, but its power was unknown. Slipshots liked to know the value of things. The more valuable it was, the more they wanted it. However, value was subjective. It was based entirely on how much someone else wanted a thing. He considered my expression. He knew I wanted the box, which meant I also wanted the things inside it.
He nodded at the vial. “Deal. Give it to me.”
I clasped the vial in my fist. “Tell me first.”
“No. Give it to me first.”
I raised an eyebrow. Did he think I was a baby slipshot born yesterday?
“Fine. You knock three times and say, ‘Good night, sleep tight, don’t let the bed bugs bite.’”
“Really?”
“I don’t make the rules—I just abide by them.”
I laughed. “Yeah, right.”
He stepped back into the room and held out his hand. “Deal’s done.”
I shook my head. “I’m testing it first.”
By the gleam in Harry’s eyes, I knew he’d tried to pull one over on me.
He grinned as I knocked on the stone floor.
“Good night, sleep tight, don’t let the bed bugs bite.”
The bed didn’t shake, and the stone didn’t move.
“Nice try. What’s the real key?”
Harry gave me his “it was worth a shot” look. He’d almost traded something for nothing.
“Knock three times and say, ‘Good night, sleep tight, time for me to give a fright.’”
I tried again, and as soon as the words were out of my mouth, the stone beneath the bed dissolved and became a black void. I let out a shocked laugh.
“Can I go anywhere?”
“Dunno. It’s easy to get lost down there. The bottom of one bed looks just like the bottom of another, and some of them are locked.”
“How’d you know this was the asylum?”
“The figments. Their legs are dangling from the ceiling. Some of them are tied to the underside of the beds. Sick place. Sick Wards. Friggin’ conjurers.” He shuddered. “Are we done?”
“How do you lock your bed?”
He puffed out his cheeks and stared at the vial.
