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“Tara Iverson,” Ashby says, loud enough for the whole room. “Heir of Desmond Hale. On the twenty-second of June, you took up the provisional office of Oathkeeper of this house under the treaty and the terms of his will. Since that night, this house has opened twenty-eight times, including tonight.” She looks at the green ledger Lenart is holding open. “You have fulfilled every required attendance and ward obligation through last night. Tonight, you complete the final one.”

Twenty-eight. I didn’t count.

“Are you willing to take the office?”

“Yes,” I say.

“Then go down.”

Only three of us go. Ashby, because the council has to witness it. Lenart, because he’s the managing owner and he carries the ledger. And me. The room under the bar won’t hold more than that without somebody’s horns in the light fixture.

The other three stay at the top of the narrow stairs. Merek’s in the doorway, Tav behind him with his head bent, William behind them both. I can hear the crowd on the other side of the bar, quiet, waiting, the way a room gets before last call.

The brick room is the same as always. Low ceiling. Tav’s new bulb. The stone in the middle, waist-high and pale gray.

Lenart opens the ledger on the shelf by the door. Ashby stands across the stone from me.

“Right hand,” Lenart says quietly. The same thing he said the first night.

“I know.”

I put my palm flat on the stone.

Ashby speaks first, and I answer her the way Lenart taught me, the way it’s written in the front of the 1875 ledger in Dez’s office.

“Who keeps this door?”

“I keep it.”

“What is sworn under this roof?”

“I hold it.”

“What is broken under this roof?”

“I answer it.”

“Who comes in under the treaty?”

“I guard them,” I say. “Every one, as long as this stone is mine.”

“Is it yours?”

My throat’s tight. “Yes.”

Midnight.

The carvings light under my hand, silver, and the warmth comes up into my palm, steady, the way it has every night. Then it keeps going. It goes past my wrist this time. I can feel it running up the inside of my arm, cool and bright, and when I look down, there are lines coming up through my skin. Fine silver lines, the same shapes that are carved into the sides of the stone, curling around my wrist and running up my forearm almost to the elbow. My left arm too, though my left hand isn’t touching anything.

Somewhere overhead, the old beams creak.

Then the light under my palm fades.

The lines on my arms don’t.

I hold my arms out and look at them. They’re silver even in the plain yellow light, and when I turn my wrists over, they catch it and shine. They don’t hurt.

“Sign,” Lenart says. His voice isn’t steady, which I’ve almost never heard.