I looked at her, my face hard. “You’re doing it.”

She blinked at me. “What? But what I did . . . I don’t even—”

“I? I? Mouse just took a bullet for you, Miss Carpenter,” I said, my words precise. “He wasn’t thinking of himself when he did it. He was putting his life at risk to protect you. If you want to remain my apprentice, you will stop saying sentences that begin with ‘I’ and repay his courage by easing his pain.”

Her face went white. “Harry . . .”

I ignored her and moved around to kneel by Mouse’s head, holding him down gently, stroking my hands over his thick fur.

My apprentice looked from me to Murphy, her expression uncertain. Sergeant Murphy stared back at her with calm cop eyes, and Molly averted her gaze hurriedly. She looked from her own hands to Mouse, and started crying.

Then she got up, went to the kitchen sink, and put a pot of water on the stove to boil. She washed her hands carefully, all the way to the elbow. Then she came back with the water, took a deep breath, and settled down beside the wounded dog, taking up the instruments.

She cut and shaved the area around the injury first, making Mouse flinch and quiver several times. I saw her cringe at each pained movement from the dog. But her hands stayed steady. She had to widen the tear in the dog’s flesh with the scalpel. Mouse actually cried out when the knife cut him, and she closed her eyes tight for a long count of three before she went back to work. She slid the pliers into the shallow injury and pulled out the bullet. It was a tiny thing, smaller than the nail on the end of my pinky, a distorted, oblong bit of shiny metal. Mouse groaned as she tugged it free.

She cleaned the site of the wound again, using the boiled water and disinfectant. Mouse flinched and cried out when she did so—the most agonized sound I had ever heard him make.

“I’m sorry,” Molly said, blinking tears out of the way. “I’m sorry.”

The injury was big enough to need a trio of stitches. Molly did them as swiftly as she possibly could, drawing more shudders of pain from Mouse. Then she cleaned the site again and covered it with a small pad that she cut to the proper size, affixing it to the bare-shaved skin around the injury with medical tape.

“There,” she said quietly. She leaned down and buried her face in the thick ruff of fur around Mouse’s throat. “There. You’ll be all right.”

Mouse moved very gingerly, moving his head to nudge against her hand. His tail thumped several times on the floor.

“Murph,” I said. “Give us a minute?”

“Sure,” she said quietly. “I need to make a call anyway.” She nodded to me and walked quietly to the apartment door—pointedly pausing to close the door from the living room to my small bedroom, shutting Morgan out of the conversation.

I sat with Mouse, stroking his head gently. “Okay,” I said to Molly. “What happened?”

She sat up and looked at me. She looked like she wanted to throw up. Her nose was running, now.

“I . . . it occurred to me, Harry, that . . . well, if the traitor wanted to really set the Council at one another’s throats, the best way to do it would be to force one of them to do something unforgiveable. Like, maybe force Morgan to kill Wizard LaFortier.”

“Gee,” I said. “That never once occurred to me, though I am older and wiser than you and have been doing this for most of your life, whereas you’ve been in the business for just under four years.”

She flushed. “Yes. Well. Then I thought that the best way to use that sort of influence wouldn’t be to use it on Morgan,” she said. “But on the people who would be after him.”

I lifted my eyebrows. “Okay,” I said. “At this point, I have to ask you if you know how difficult it is to manipulate the mind and will of anyone of significant age. Most wizards who are eighty or a hundred years old are generally considered more or less immune to that kind of gross manipulation.”

“I didn’t know that,” Molly said humbly. “But . . . what I’m talking about wouldn’t be a severe alteration to anyone. It wouldn’t be obvious,” she said. “You wouldn’t make someone turn into a raving lunatic and murderer. I mean, that’s sort of noticeable. Instead, you make sure that you just . . . sort of nudge the people who are chasing after Morgan into being a little bit more like you want them to be.”

I narrowed my eyes. It was an interesting line of thought. “Such as?”

“Well . . .” she said. “If someone is naturally quick to anger and prone to fighting, you highlight that part of their personality. You give it more importance than it would have without intervention. If someone is prone to maneuvering politically to take advantage of a situation, you bring that to the forefront of their personality. If someone is nursing a grudge, you shine a spotlight on it in their thoughts, their emotions, to get them to act on it.”

I thought about that one for a second.

“It’s how I’d do it,” Molly said quietly, lowering her eyes.

I looked at the young woman I’d been teaching. When I saw Molly, I always saw her smile, her sense of humor, her youth, and her joy. She was the daughter of a close friend. I knew her family and was often a guest in their home. I saw my apprentice, the effort she put into learning, her frustrations, and her triumphs.

I had never, until that very moment, thought of her as someone who might one day be a very, very scary individual.

I found myself smiling bitterly.

Who was I to throw stones?

“Maybe,” I said finally. “It would be one hell of a difficult thing to prove.”

She nodded. “But if it was going to be used, there’s one person who would without doubt be a target.”

I glanced at Luccio. Her mouth was open slightly as she slept. She was drooling a little. It was ridiculous and adorable.

“Yeah,” Molly said. “But she would never have let me look. You know she wouldn’t have.”

“For good reason,” I said.

Molly’s jaw tensed up for a second. “I know.”

“So you thought you’d look while everyone was unconscious,” I said. “When you wouldn’t get caught.”

She shrugged her shoulders.

“You told yourself that you were doing the right thing,” I said. “Just a peek, in and out.”

She closed her eyes. “I was . . . Harry, what if she isn’t being honest with you? What if all this time, she’s been getting close to you because she doesn’t trust you. What if she’s just like Morgan—only a lot better at hiding it?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said.

“No?” She met my eyes. “Whose apprentice was he, Harry? Who taught him to be the way he is? Who did he idolize so much that he modeled himself after her?”

I just sat there for a second.

Molly pressed the issue. “Do you honestly think that she never knew how Morgan treated you?”

I took a deep breath. Then I said, “Yeah. I think that.”

She shook her head. “You know better.”

“No,” I said. “I don’t.”

“You should,” she said fiercely. “I couldn’t take the chance that she would let you go down with Morgan. I had to know.”

I stared at her for a minute. Then I said, in a very quiet voice, “I always know when I’m being tempted to do something very, very wrong. I start sentences with phrases like, ‘I would never, ever do this—but.’ Or ‘I know this is wrong but.’ It’s the but that tips you off.”

“Harry,” Molly began.

“You broke one of the Laws of Magic, Molly. Willfully. Even though you knew it could cost you your life. Even though you knew that it could also cost mine.” I shook my head and looked away from her. “Hell’s bells, kid. I choose to trust Anastasia Luccio because that’s what people do. You don’t ever get to know for sure what someone thinks of you. What they really feel inside.”

“But I could—”

“No,” I said gently. “Even psychomancy doesn’t give you everything. We aren’t meant to know what’s going on in there. That’s what talking is for. That’s what trust is for.”