My immediate urge was to sprint in the opposite direction and find someone qualified to deal with hostile under-bed creatures. Fortunately, common sense elbowed panic aside just in time.

  Right. Let’s apply logic.

  There wasn’t nearly enough space under the bed for anything enormous. A cat, maybe. A dog, possibly, at worst. Although, considering this place, who knew what passed for a pet in Tarnograd? They could be bloodthirsty. Or come with some other unpleasant surprise.

  “Here, kitty,” I called cautiously, maintaining a safe and entirely dignified distance.

  The answering growl was louder. Sharper. Definitely not domestic.

  I shivered involuntarily. For all I knew, Tarnograd cats might not even be cats. It could be something far more toothy and should come with a user manual.

  Still, another thought pushed its way through the fear: what if it was just hungry?

  I looked around quickly. The window was tightly shut. The door had been locked before I arrived. The poor thing might have been trapped here for days. Who knew how long it had been without food or water?

  “All right,” I muttered, as though negotiating with a disgruntled tenant, “let’s try hospitality.”

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  The ancient tap in the corner sink looked as though it might detach from reality if touched, but when I turned it, blessedly normal water appeared. I filled a mug and set it carefully on the floor, retreating like someone defusing a bomb.

  “There you go,” I said. “Hydration first.”

  Another growl followed — less confident this time. No movement.

  Fine. Let it sulk. If it was hungry, it would emerge eventually. Preferably while I was not in the room.

  Which reminded me — I was also hungry.

  With all the running around today, I had entirely skipped both lunch and dinner. My stomach, ever dramatic, chose that moment to issue a formal complaint by an embarrassingly loud growl. I only just realised that I hadn’t eaten anything since breakfast in the infirmary.

  I might as well bring back food for both of us. Assuming neither of us ate the other first.

  I locked the room, cast one last suspicious glance at the bed, and headed off in search of civilisation.

  Going down the spiral staircase felt infinitely better than climbing it. With the curse gone and my legs restored to their original, non-architectural configuration, descending felt almost pleasant.

  I was even beginning to understand the layout of this absurdly large gothic castle.

  I knew where the academic wing was — definitely not going there right now. The dungeons were also a firm no. I had learned that lesson thoroughly.

  I was currently in the residential wing. Logically, the dining hall had to be somewhere nearby. The only problem was that this place seemed designed by someone who hated signage.

  I turned another shadowy corner, lit only by the occasional wall lamps, and wondered how students survived without maps.

  The library had been easy — simply follow the migration pattern of exhausted-looking people carrying stacks of books.

  But the dining hall?

  Follow the scent? I inhaled. Nothing.

  Of course, in a castle full of necromancers, even the food apparently refuses to advertise its presence.