had decided to remain outdoors.
“Any idea what?”
Gertriss shook her head in an emphatic no. “As soon as she knew I saw her, she just…took over.” The second dinner bell rang out, and I heard footfalls and voices throughout the House.
I stopped, faced Gertriss.
“All right. We’ve got something in the forest. Something strange, something that may be dangerous. Neither of us goes out there alone. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“Now it’s time for dinner. And questions. So I need you to forget about what just happened, until we have time to think about it later. Can you do that?”
She nodded, managed a weak grin.
“Good girl.”
We followed the hall and the noise. The dining room wasn’t hard to find.
The big oak double-doors, which were worked with carved dragons, were open. The aromas of fresh hot bread and roasting beef poured from between them, along with a blast of noon-day heat.
The dining room at Werewilk probably seated sixty with room to spare. As it was, maybe a dozen seats were empty, and they were the ones closest to the monstrous fire roaring in the cavernous fireplace that dominated the north end of the room.
I was mopping sweat before I’d taken a dozen steps.
Chapter Eight
“Welcome to House Werewilk, Mr. Markhat, Miss Gertriss,” said Lady Werewilk. She was again wearing black-black trousers, black waistcoat, black gloves-but tonight’s ensemble was more mannish than provocative. At her words, the entire assemblage stood, and a more miserable lot of sweaty-faced dinner guests I have never seen.
I recognized a few faces, of course. Marlo and Gefner, Scatter and Lank. Emma and Ella, looking wilted from the heat. I assumed the grizzled, stooped old man next to Lady Werewilk was Singh, and the vacant-eyed man who had to be prodded into standing by a poke in his ribs was Milton, Lady Werewilk’s War-broken brother.
“We thank you for your hospitality,” I said. Lady Werewilk made a small nod, and the gathered sank into their seats. I watched Singh lower Milton into his chair with gentle pressure on both his shoulders. Only when he was seated did Lady Werewilk take her own seat.
The enormous table was laden with a feast. Meats sizzled and smoked. Bowls of fresh-cooked vegetables simmered and steamed. Flagons of lovely golden beer sparkled in the candlelight. Markhats sweated profusely and sought out empty chairs.
We’d been placed at the head of the table opposite Lady Werewilk. That put the raging inferno close at her back, though she remained miraculously unfazed by the heat it poured forth. Napkins started mopping at faces, though, as we lesser beings began to slowly succumb to the heat. I had to bite back the helpful observation that food was customarily cooked in various ovens before the meal was served, not atop the table as people ate.
I took in the faces, the expressions, the postures. Most exchanged what-the-hell looks and mopped sweat. A few looked down or away. Milton’s gaze fell on his empty plate and remained there, unmoving.
“This is Mr. Markhat,” said Lady Werewilk, above the crackle and roar of the fire. “The finder from town. You will answer, honestly and without regard to my presence, any question he puts to any of you. Failure to answer, or to answer truthfully, will see you removed at once from my House. Is that clear?”
A chorus of “Yes ma’ams” sounded in reply.
Lady Werewilk nodded. “Good. I would be remiss if I failed to remind you all of the curse laid upon this hearth by my great-great-great grandfather Lint, which describes a variety of unpleasant demises that will pursue anyone who speaks a lie while basking in the warmth of his fire.” She smiled. “And as I see you are basking, we may begin. You may dine as we speak.”
Forty-five forks clattered on forty-five plates. Mine was not among them.
“We’ll start by going around the room,” I said, over the din. “Say your name, how long you’ve been here and what you do here. I’ll start. Markhat. I’m a finder. Been here three hours.”
I nodded at Gertriss. She introduced herself, and then the fun began.
I won’t bore you with the repetitions of forty-five names, except to say that Skin the beekeeper spoke in such low tones his every word had to be repeated aloud by Marlo, and Milton Werewilk would only speak his own name when prompted by Singh the butler in the same coaxing tones one might use with a shy child.
The rundown revealed the same names and times that Lady Werewilk had provided back in Rannit. I wasn’t expecting anything different. I just wanted to put names to faces. And to pick up any oddities the speakers might present.
I got a couple of those before I speared my first slice of crisp red apple.
The second of the artists to speak was a buxom, dark-haired beauty named Serris Eaves. Serris was maybe seventeen. She managed to state that she was a painter of the school of Wiltic impressionism, and that she’d been at Werewilk for a year. Then she choked up and had to fight off a bout of crying. Her unhappiness would have been obvious even if her voice hadn’t betrayed her. She’d made efforts to conceal her distress, but her eye-liner was running and her nose was red. She kept making both worse by dabbing at her eyes and nose with her dinner napkin.
Gertriss shot me a look. Weexil’s lady love?
I nodded in response. We’d see.
Milton Werewilk was the other oddity. He was a small man. Pale. Well-groomed and well dressed, unlike the Broken you can find collapsed in any ditch in Rannit. But what he shared with those men were the eyes.
Vacant. Oh, his eyes were fixed on something-a bowl of mashed potatoes, a bottle of wine-but he wasn’t really seeing it. His eyes just happened to be fixed there, while his mind was somewhere else.
I wondered where. I saw swords upraised. The huldra let me smell smoke, and I decided I probably knew.
He had Lady Werewilk’s dark hair and delicate features, but none of her animation. Singh fed him with a spoon. He chewed, but only as long as Singh mumbled to him.
I turned away.
“All right,” I said, as the last artist pronounced his name around a mouthful of green beans. “We all know each other. You all know why I’m here. So here’s my first question-where is Weexil Treegar?”
Serris Eaves broke out bawling. The pair of male artists flanking her laid hands on each shoulder and glared at each other while making soothing noises at Serris. I chuckled at the folly of youth.
Heads shook. Faces fell down, fixed on their plates.
I sighed.
“I know Weexil left early this morning,” I said. “I know his belongings were rather carelessly left in a cook stove fire. What I don’t know is who this Weexil was or what might have caused him to suddenly leave such lovely company and strike out for parts unknown. So someone tell me. Who was Weexil?”
The eager young painter seated on Serris’s right was the first to chime in, earning him a glare from the young man on her left.
“Weexil Treegar was a poser,” he said. “A poser and a cad.”
Serris burst into full-on hysterics.
“So he wasn’t an artist.”
My eager young man, who had introduced himself as Nordred Vasom, had a lot to learn about women.
“Weexil was a tradesman.” He sneered. “He fetched us things from town. Paints, canvases, brushes.”
Serris whirled on him, eyes flashing.
“He’s more than that,” she said, her voice ragged and quavering. “He has the soul of an artist. His songs…”
“His songs were stolen,” said the would-be suitor on her left. I glanced at Gertriss, who mouthed his name
