"Not this one," was all Oren said before turning away and making for the stairs again. Vica hung back, staring at the misshapen lump huddling in the corner of the belfry. She could see the wispy fringes of a long, scraggly, gray-and-white streaked beard peeping out from under the tattered and oversized black cloak. He was an older man, but still agile enough to make it up nearly a hundred steps on his own. Or maybe someone had brought him here. Then had they left him? Would they return?
And what was this unnerving sense of hollowness radiating from the heap?
"Sir?" she asked cautiously, but before she could take a step close to the quivering lump, she felt Oren's slender fingers on her shoulder, cautioning her. "Why is he here?" she whispered over her shoulder, but instead of an answer,
