fingers tightened around her empty cup when they sang their first duet. Sirota’s voice rang with passion, with pain and longing beyond an ingenue’s years. When the two women sank into an embrace behind a scrim and the curtain fell for intermission, applause shook the orpheum to its bones.
Isyllt kept an eye on the Severos box during the break, and saw Varis come and go. She didn’t follow, but drank more wine and let the din of the crowd wash over her. Sirota was the darling of the season, she quickly learned-the daughter of refugees, lifted from the slums by her talent. Isyllt heard a few snide remarks about her origins, but most of the audience seemed smitten with the girl, and thought her story operatic in itself.
Isyllt didn’t appreciate Thiercelis’s opera as much as Kharybdea’s spoken theater, but
Since it was a tragedy, Astrophel’s steadfast devotion might defeat mortal jealousy, but couldn’t overcome the hungry dead. The servant locked her in Satis’s tower overnight while the sorceress was away, and the ghosts did their work. When Satis returned at dawn, she found Astrophel half dead and more than half mad from the attentions of the specters. Thinking Satis another ghost, she threw herself out of the tower to escape. After the lovers’ final duet-for which the production spared no expense for pig’s blood-Satis stalked through her house dripping blood, murdering her servant and destroying the ghosts before finally drinking lye and dying alone in her tower, surrounded by crumbling dry flowers. Because it was theater she sang to the end, and Nois’s raw, broken voice sent chills through everyone who heard it. Isyllt found herself clutching her throat; Ciaran didn’t laugh-his face was slick with tears.
When the curtain fell on the final flower-strewn stage, the house was silent for a long sniffling moment before the applause rose in a tidal roar. Isyllt stood for the ovation, ignoring glares as she slipped down the aisle and up the stairs before the crowd began to pour toward the doors. Those with boxes tended to wait for the press to die, but she wanted to be sure to catch Varis before he disappeared.
Wine still warmed her blood as she climbed the shell-curved side stair. The downward rush of people caught her before she reached the third story, and she clung tight to the banister as she fought her way up.
Her timing was immaculate; the door to the box opened as she drew near and Varis Severos emerged, as eye-catching as ever. Tonight his coat was a green so dark it was almost black, the high-collared shirt beneath searing verdigris. Gems glittered along the curve of one ear, carnelian and amethyst and brilliant citrine; his rings glittered too, bright with power.
“Lord Varis,” she called before she could think better of it, and dipped a shallow curtsy when he turned. She knew him well enough from the Arcanost to strike up conversation, but they were hardly peers. In addition to the gulf in age and wealth, he was a vocal opponent of vinculation, and her magic relied on it.
One eyebrow rose. “Lady Iskaldur.” His smile was polite and distant, but his eyes were sharp beneath painted lids. He smelled of lime and lilac, citron and musk. “Imagine seeing you here.”
He and Kiril had been lovers once; she hardly ever thought of it, but now the idea made her blush. Was that why Kiril was protecting him now? Was that-
“Did you enjoy the performance?” Varis continued. His pale eyes narrowed and she knew he marked her reaction.
“I did. Though their tenor is still only adequate, I’m afraid.” Which was perhaps unfair-most singers were only adequate compared to Sirota and Nois, and the character Marius and his infatuation with Astrophel were meant to pale in comparison.
His response died as the door opened behind him; Isyllt’s pulse spiked in her throat.
The woman who emerged wore plum velvet, the sort of dress that would cost a civil servant a month’s salary. Silver and jet glittered on her hem and cuffs, and spangled the black silk gauze of her veils. Beneath the gauze her black hair was piled high, a few locks uncoiling over her shoulders.
She laid a gloved hand on Varis’s arm, cocking her head inquisitively. She didn’t need a face to draw eyes from all over the room-her stance and figure and exquisite taste did that perfectly well. Her perfume was even richer and more conflagrant in person.
“Varis?” The woman’s voice was low and pleasant and otherwise unremarkable, but it still sent a chill down Isyllt’s neck. “Who is your friend?”
“This is Isyllt Iskaldur, a member of the Arcanost. You’ll forgive me, Lady, if I don’t introduce my companion.”
Isyllt held out a hand. “A pleasure all the same.”
The woman took her hand so smoothly the hesitation barely showed. The briefest brush of fingers and the contact ended, leaving Isyllt with a lingering whisper of magic and the taste of cinnamon on her tongue. Her stomach tightened with the memory of corpses.
“Likewise,” the woman said, and Isyllt heard her smile. “Kiril has spoken of you.”
It was meant to goad and Isyllt knew it. That didn’t keep her spine from stiffening or her smile from sharpening. Varis’s eyes narrowed and he tucked the woman’s hand more firmly against his arm. “We should go, darling. If you’ll excuse us…”
“Of course.” She stepped aside with a sweep of skirts. “A pleasure to see you again, Lord Varis,” she said as they stepped past. “And you, Margravine.”
She hadn’t meant to say it, not really, but too many dead bodies crowded behind her eyes. The woman’s velvet-clad shoulders squared as the dart struck home and Varis nearly stumbled on the deep carpet, and though Isyllt knew it was a foolish risk to antagonize them, the rush of exultation more than paid for it.
Neither Varis nor Phaedra responded, only continued down the stairs with their perfect grace intact. As they reached the final landing Phaedra’s veiled head turned, and Isyllt felt her regard like the weight of a hand. She had just made enemies of two powerful sorcerers-one with a penchant for slitting throats, and another who could ruin her career with a few well-placed words. At least, she thought as her stomach contracted, now she
“What did you do?” Ciaran asked when she returned to his side.
“Something stupid.”
“Have you heard anything?” Isyllt asked Ciaran as they left the orpheum. Claiming a carriage from the mob in front of the theater would require more violence than she was willing to bother with, so they turned down a side street to avoid the press.
“About murders and disappearances and blood mages?” His hand twitched at his side, a warding gesture. “Someone is always going missing in Elysia. I’m not sure yet which might be connected to your case. There’s something else, though. About the vrykoloi.”
He paused, glancing into the dark mouth of an alley as they passed it. “Speaking of which-”
Her ring chilled and she spun, cursing heavy skirts and the lack of her knife as she shoved Ciaran behind her. A shadow moved in the alley. She hadn’t expected an attack this soon-
“No!” Ciaran grabbed her arm as her ring began to spark. An instant later the shadow resolved into a familiar shape. Isyllt swore as she lowered her hand, her pulse sharp and painful with unspent energy.
“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” Azarne said, pausing on the edge of the light. Her eyes flashed red and gold. “But I thought we should speak. I’ve learned things about the graverobbers. About Spider.”
Isyllt nodded; his name was no surprise. “Yes, we should talk. But”-she didn’t glance over her shoulder, only because she knew it was useless-“Spider has been following me lately. I can’t guarantee you won’t be seen in my company.”
Azarne’s tiny mouth curled in a sneer. “I’m not afraid of him.”
Isyllt turned to Ciaran. “What about you?”
“I’ve survived being your friend for this long. I hardly see the point in stopping now.”
Her hand tightened on his arm before she let go. “All right,” she said to Azarne. “Meet me at my apartment and we’ll talk.”
Isyllt stirred the fire and took her hair down while they waited for Azarne, and put the kettle on. She wanted
