“You know who I am.” “Florian,” Liska realizes. “The Leszy’s…” “Lover, apprentice, professional pain in the behind,” the ghost—Florian—offers. “And that lovely skeleton, the one to your left, is mine.” Ice fills Liska’s veins. She whirls around, counting the corpses. “Six,” she says. She looks at Florian, begging him to deny it, but he only inclines his head. “One for every century the Leszy has been warden.” “But the Leszy is seven hundred—” She breaks off, understanding suddenly how foolish she has been. Seven centuries, yet six corpses. Because Liska is meant to be the seventh.
