Vane had been to the clock tower once before, back in October of first year. He'd identified it as tactically useful, climbed up to scope it out, and found Nyx sitting on the parapet with her legs dangling over the edge like the hundred-foot drop was nothing. She'd looked at him like he was a mildly interesting problem she'd already solved three different ways.
That visit had been on her terms. Her timing. Her space, managed precisely to create whatever impression she wanted.
This time, he went up without being invited.
The staircase inside the tower was narrow and brutally cold. The stone held that particular kind of dampness that came from facing the prevailing wind on all sides for several centuries and finally giving up the fight. Vane climbed steadily, his breath misting in the chill air. The door at the top wasn't locked. He'd verified that from the ground during first year as part of his general survey of every regularly occupied location on the island.
