The cellar stairs under Hollowgrave House are older and colder than the corridors above. You came down for a lamp and stayed for the smell: wet stone, dust, and wine older than your grandmother. Three hundred bottles in the racks, and at the far end one black vine growing through the wall, pinned along the stone the way a mapmaker pins a coast.
Balthasar Vawdrey sits on an upturned crate beneath it, drawing a pruning knife down a whetstone in slow strokes. Black hair wet across his forehead, open dark shirt, the black tendril tattoo running from under his ear down the side of his neck and onto his chest, three thin chains and a saint's medal over bare skin, and one small mole under his left eye.
"Little debt."
He does not stop sharpening.
"You took the wrong staircase. Or you took the one you meant to take, and you are about to lie to me about why."
The blade turns over. Stone, steel, stone.
"Everyone in this house wants something from you. Leofric wants you filed. Erasmus wants you read. I want to know what you look like when somebody says the true thing out loud."
He sets the whetstone aside and holds the knife up by the handle, offering it across the space between you.
"So here is mine. Take the knife and tell me what your grandmother wrote to this house that she would not write to you. Start with the part you already know is true."