Dis. Her right hand clenched against the burning chill of her ring.
Dahlia, whom Isyllt had collected from the Briar Patch, pressed a hand over her mouth and turned grey.
“Can you stand it?” Isyllt asked, breathing shallowly. Opening her mouth was a mistake. She had probably smelled worse at some point, but she couldn’t remember when.
The girl shot her a glance of pure vitriol. “This is why no one likes necromancers.”
“One of many reasons. Come on.”
Fifteen bodies lay on slabs in the vaulted chamber, swollen, mottled flesh illuminated with the brutal efficiency of witchlight. The oldest was at the limit of its preservation spells, no more than a day from deliquescence. The freshest was still damp. The river cared for no one’s vanity, but from the ribbons tangled in the corpse’s long ash-brown hair, Isyllt imagined the bloated, peeling shape on the table had once been a pretty girl. The body of a small bronze-black crab clung to the hair above one ear like a ghastly fascinator. The tiny necrophages clustered on the bars of the corpse-gates, where food was plentiful. More than one of the corpses here had likely been eaten hollow before the Vigils pulled it out.
Several of the bodies Isyllt was able to dismiss quickly. Two had traces of white foam in their mouths and nostrils, evidence that they’d been alive when they went into the water. The third had been stabbed multiple times in the chest and stomach-angry, vicious wounds, but not meant to exsanguinate. Swelling stretched the gashes, baring layers of skin and flesh and white-marbled fat. The macerated skin had begun to slough from the corpse’s hands. The oldest was so far gone that even Isyllt wasn’t willing to inspect it closely.
Of the remainders, four bore slit throats, and three of those carried telltale traces of cinnamon. Isyllt wondered if she would ever enjoy pastries or spiced tea again.
Three women dead since Forsythia, and saints only knew how many others they hadn’t found.
They left the Sepulcher by the afternoon bells, as the light began to thicken and slant.
“We can search for more tomorrow.” Isyllt said, scrubbing a hand over her face. She regretted it as soon as she did-the smell of corpses clung to her. Dahlia and Khelsea were still ashen, and she doubted she looked any better; no one suggested food.
The bells began to ring only a moment after she spoke. Not the stately melody of the hour, but a wild and enthusiastic tintinnabulation. All down the street people paused mid-stride, stuck their heads out of shop doors, turned to their neighbors for confirmation. Isyllt knew they wouldn’t be doing much investigating tomorrow: The army was coming home.
A young man burst from a doorway and bolted down the sidewalk, nearly trampling them. Isyllt swore as she tugged Dahlia out of the way. The rough plaster wall gouged her shoulder blades, and paper crinkled and tore. The parchment fluttered free when she moved and Isyllt caught it absently. An advertisement for the latest opera, or whatever had been the latest a decad ago; the paper was warped with moisture, the ink faded and smeared.
“Looks like I’ll be containing crowds tomorrow,” Khelsea said with a grimace. “Maybe I’ll claim another ear infection. What will you do?”
“I don’t know.” The paper crumpled in her fist. “More importantly, what will
An idea welled in the back of her mind, and her frown eased. She opened her fingers and smoothed the flier.
“Expensive perfumes are meant to be worn,” she said slowly, tumbling the idea end over end. “Especially ones from the most fashionable perfumery in the city. This witch of ours may hide her face, but she also buys scent and has dresses fitted. Where can a veiled woman go and attract the right sort of attention?”
She dangled the paper in front of the others’ faces and watched their eyes widen.
Khelsea argued, but it was Ciaran whom Isyllt asked to accompany her. Being seen with a Vigil wasn’t the sort of attention she wanted tonight-not to mention the opera would be wasted on someone deaf in one ear.
He arrived at her door at Evensong, resplendent in black velvet and crimson silk, his hair loose and shining over his shoulders. Finer clothes than she’d thought he owned, but what Ciaran didn’t have he always knew how to acquire. Not a perfect complement to her dove grey and opals, but hardly an eyesore.
“I didn’t think you liked the opera,” he said, leaning against the doorway while she pinned up her hair. Her shoulder was still mottled yellow and green, but at least the weather let her wear a scarf.
“I don’t, particularly, but this is business.” She much preferred spoken theater, or even the musicals that flourished in the demimonde orpheums. Hours of constant song wore on her.
Ciaran sighed. “Of course it is. You couldn’t simply want to go out for the joy of it.”
She almost made a joke about the joy of expense accounts and bit her tongue. Her hand tightened on a hair stick and she took a deep breath. A crease formed between her reflection’s eyebrows. She still looked tired and wan, and hadn’t the skill with cosmetics to hide it. No powder could conceal the stark shadows below her collarbones-flesh she could ill afford to lose had melted away while she was bedridden. The iridescent fire of the opals at her throat and ears cheered her, though, and no one expected a necromancer to be plump and rosy with health. She forced a smile, held it in place till it fit, then pulled the black silk covering over the mirror and turned to find her gloves.
“What’s playing tonight, anyway?”
Ciaran gave a sigh for her ignorance. “
“Damn. I prefer the Kharybdea.”
“Of course you do. It’s one of the reasons I’m so fond of you.” He crossed the room to stand behind her, dropping a light kiss just below her ear. “Is that a new perfume?”
The Orpheum Tharymis rose above the rooftops of Lyre, its marble columns and domes gilded by hundreds of lanterns. Musicians and dancers chased each other through elaborate friezes, and owl-winged gargoyles brooded dramatically over the doorways; golden light glazed the rain-damp street below. Vendors thronged the pavement beneath the broad steps, offering flowers and refreshments and forged programs for cheaper than one could find inside. Ribbons of scent twisted with the breeze-wine and cider, garlic and sugar and bruising blossoms.
The Tharymis was the oldest and grandest orpheum in the city, though many would argue that the Magdalen-or the Garden’s Rhodon-had the better productions. Had it been an opening night, even Isyllt’s diamond wouldn’t have been enough to secure tickets. As it was, most of the other attendees looked through her and Ciaran without the aid of an obfuscation charm.
Witchlights blazed in crystal chandeliers overhead, gleaming on brass and marble and polished wood, burnished the blue velvet seats and curtains. The tiny bowls that lined the aisles were witchlit as well. Beeswax candles burned in wall sconces-easier to light and douse, and less likely to catch someone’s cloak or skirts alight.
Isyllt had managed mediocre seats on the ground floor-good enough if one truly wanted to watch the performance, but beneath the notice of the balconies and private boxes. She sent Ciaran for refreshments and tried to watch the Severos box without getting a crick in her neck. Eventually a page rapped at the door with drinks for two, but of the occupants she saw nothing but a pale hand emerging to take the tray. If Varis was there, perhaps his mysterious companion was as well.
Ciaran returned with wine as the witchlights began to pulse and dim. The cacophony of a hundred conversations faded to a gentle susurrus, and finally died as the first notes drifted from the orchestra pit.
The midnight-blue curtains opened, revealing the stage dressed as a city street and the chorus gowned in old-fashioned demimonde finery. They introduced the heroine Astrophel, a poor lacemaker who loved beyond her reach, and the object of her affection, the witch Satis, who lived in her dusty tower with only ghosts and one jealous servant, nursing her magic and grief for a long-lost love. Astrophel was played as always by the season’s up-and-coming soprano, a girl the program identified as Anika Sirota. A Rosian name, and she had the milk-and- roses complexion and shining golden hair to match. Satis was a role for aging contraltos, when they weren’t cast as mad queens or vengeful mothers. Isyllt had seen Zahara Nois in a dozen roles over the years-a tall, rawboned woman whose white-streaked auburn mane was visible from the highest seats. The audience shivered whenever she sang one of Satis’s mad arias.
Isyllt finished her wine long before Astrophel charmed her way past Satis’s doorstep for the first time. Her
