The stair was to the north of the middle ship of the four. Concealed by both magic and artifice, it seemed to be little more than a particularly wet patch of the damp limestone that formed the sinkhole wall, but you could walk right through it, for it was really an open door with steps winding up behind.

They decided to take these steps the next morning, after another day of rest. Sabriel was eager to move on, for she felt that her father’s peril could only be increasing, but she was realistic enough to assess her own need for recovery time. Touchstone, too, probably needed a rest, she thought. She’d tried to coax more information out of him while they’d searched for the steps, but he was clearly reluctant to even open his mouth, and when he did, Sabriel found his humble apologies ever more irritating. After the door was found she gave up altogether, and sat in the grass near the spring, reading her father’s books on Charter Magic. The Book of the Dead stayed wrapped in oilskin. Even then, she felt its presence, brooding in her pack . . .

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